Until We Burn_A Psychological Thriller Read online

  “And that’s the hardest part.” He nodded, solemn.

  She agreed, reaching up for his hand. “You’ll survive. You always have. Just… don’t do anything worse.”

  He wrapped his large fingers around her small ones and felt his body shudder, out of his control, as the tears continued to fall. “I wish you were still here.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, depression seeping through into her voice. “If… If I was… things wouldn’t be any better. It’s better for me, to be like this.”

  Cyrus forced his eyes up from the ground, fixating on the crumbling building in front of him. It was a good representation of his life, and especially the future.

  <><> III-I-I-III <><>

  “How come I’ve never seen you reading?” Will asked, leaning against the kitchen counter as he took a sip of water.

  He was almost finished with his lunch break, just waiting for that second wind to come through and carry him to the end of the work day. Cyrus sat at the table, a jar of peanut butter beside him and a half-eaten sandwich clutched in his hands.

  “What do you mean?” Cyrus raised an eyebrow. “Why should I read in front of you?”

  “Well, you just seem like a very… You seem to put a lot of thought into everything you do.” Will cleared his throat, shifting so that he was standing straighter. “And, you know, smart people like that usually read.”

  “I do read.” Cyrus took a bite and chewed slowly. “You just never see me. And I don’t read a ton. Just a chapter or two every night.”

  “But you seem so… I can’t think of the word.”

  “Brooding,” remarked Cyrus with a chuckle. “I don’t think that a person needs to -or even should- be all that much into books. I say, consume the arts, by all means, but don’t let the arts consume you. There’s an entire world outside of your books, screens, and headphones, and people your age tend to miss it. People of all ages.”

  Will frowned, studying him. Brooding… Definitely the right word to describe Cyrus. “What do you have against music and movies and books?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” Cyrus maintained eye contact. “It’s actually art that I detest. Like paintings.”

  “Paintings?”

  He nodded. “It distorts reality.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Cyrus shrugged, focusing on his meal. It was almost done now. As soon as the plate cleared, he would send Will on his way to work and their conversation would be over. “Let’s just say I don’t have the best experiences with art. Or artists.”

  “Why should you hate all art just because of a few people?”

  “Not a few people,” Cyrus corrected him. “One.”

  “Then why are you so bitter?”

  Cyrus stood up, snatching the plate off the table and setting it gently in the sink. He turned to Will, smirking. Slouching his head, Will bumbled to the back door and prepared himself mentally for three more hours of work.

  “Hey, Will?”

  He turned. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t stop asking questions, but be careful what you ask. Someday, you may find the answers, and you may not like them.”

  Chapter 6

  Friendly

  The police sirens woke him up. It was nighttime, very late, and all around him was pitch darkness. Brilliance from the street light outside rippled through his window, reaching almost to his bed. Cyrus sat up, the blankets falling off his shirtless body, his hair disheveled.

  A car passed in the distance, the red and blue lights flashing in the distance. Even this far away, the sirens were audible. Then they began to fade away. Cyrus laid down again, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

  Another car flew by in the distance, sirens screaming. He sat up and threw the covers off, stepping onto the warm carpet. Without a word or a thought, he strode across the room and stared out of the window.

  More sirens, a different kind, and then silence. There was nothing else to hear. It only took him a few moments to shrug on a shirt and shove his feet into sandals. Cyrus grabbed the keys from his bedside table and raced into the living room, not bothering to put more stable shoes on. He burst out the door, flew to his convertible, and was soon whipping down roads in that same direction. He had a feeling about the location.

  Five minutes later, he found the collection of police cars and ambulance vehicles. They were all clustered on the road, in the yard, some in the driveway. A small home was entertaining them, lit up by the various colors still flashing on and off. Everything was painted in a ghostly, blue-and-red shade, exactly as you’d expect. There were cops discussing, others wandering around the home, but the first responders from the hospital stood silently by their vans. They’d arrived much too late.

  “Hey!” one of the policemen yelled. “What are you doing here?”

  Cyrus had shut off his vehicle and started towards the house. He was a lost man, judging by the way he walked. His eyes were blank and his posture was downcast, so that he almost slipped past their sight. Almost.

  A cop came from the house, marching up to stand in front of him. Cyrus stopped, and stared down at his feet. The officer, a women, put a hand on his chest and shoved him back slightly.

  “Sir? What are you doing here? You can’t be here. This is an active-”

  He didn’t make eye contact, instead trying to peer over her shoulder. “They let women do this job now, huh?”

  “Wait a second…” the woman said. She narrowed her eyes. “I know you… I knew Ophelia… Your name is-”

  “Cyrus Streett. Let me in that house.”

  “Why?” the cop sniggered. “You’re nobody here. Just go home, let the real police do their work. We’ll figure things out.”

  “Just like with the fire?”

  The cop raised an eyebrow. She was normal height, with short, blonde hair and a smug expression. Her eyes were trained on his hip, perhaps looking for signs of a weapon. She eyed him distrustfully, a strained expression on her face, like she was still trying to figure out exactly who he was, why she remembered him so clearly.

  “I wasn’t on the force that long ago. None of us were. So whatever resentment you’re still holding onto, let it go, buddy. We looked at the case file, multiple times, and it’s impossible to solve it this many years-”

  “You’re not my therapist or something. Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Childish,” she scoffed. Lowering her eyebrows, the woman motioned for him to be taken away, as two larger policemen rushed over. “You’ll learn your lesson one way or another, Mr. Streett. You aren’t welcome here. Whoever you were before, you’re a stranger now.”

  The two, burly cops took hold of his shoulders and led him away from the home. Cyrus walked backwards, letting them half-drag him away from the scene. He kept his eyes on the front of the house, inspecting each bush, stone, and window.

  At last, he stepped back onto the road and turned around. The policemen stared as he left. Cyrus tried not to look at them, as he climbed into his car and drove back to the main road. He had as much information as he needed. He would be back.

  When Cyrus stepped foot inside his house, he immediately made a cup of coffee and went upstairs to his study. For hours, he stayed up there, waiting for the visit he knew would come. Now that he had the police’s interest, they would have to come see him. That would be his chance.

  The townspeople wouldn’t take well to this. He already know. A stranger shows up, not entirely forgotten and with a bad reputation, and not long after there’s a dead body? Suspicious, to say the least. That was understandable.

  They rang the doorbell that afternoon, nearly twelve hours after the meeting at the house. Cyrus eagerly descended the stairs, holding his same, thrice-filled now-empty coffee mug. He set it on the kitchen counter before answering the door, letting the officers into his home.

  “Mr. Streett, we just have-”

  “A few questions, right?” He nodded. “Sit down.”

  The two policemen, differ
ent from any he’d encountered at the crime scene, were both rail-thin and a head taller than himself. Cyrus had to glance upwards when standing, but as soon as they all three sat down he was on their level.

  “My name is Detective Yong,” the first one said. He was the taller of the two, and spoke with an American accent although his features were Asian. “This is my partner, Harold.”

  Harold nodded. He was older than Cyrus, maybe by ten years. His face was covered in a thin, slightly graying beard, and his eyes were cold. They were experienced, and indifferent.

  “I’ve seen quite a few things in my day,” he said, speaking first. “Mr. Streett, the fact that you moved to town only a few days before… last night’s events… well, it’s enough to make a man wonder.”

  “What exactly were last night’s events?” Cyrus asked. “I haven’t been told anything.”

  “And you still won’t.” Detective Yong stared at him intently. “We’re not saying we think you’re a suspect, by interviewing you. We’re just wondering-”

  “Don’t count yourself out,” Harold remarked, running a finger over his grizzled chin. “You’re at the top of my list.”

  Yong kept his eyes on Cyrus. “Tell me, Cyrus, what do you know about last night?”

  Good cop, bad cop. Idiots. Cyrus chuckled. “I know nothing. Literally nothing. So can you tell me what happened, or do I have to go back to that crime scene by myself? You aren’t gonna stop me from finding out, so tell me.”

  “You see, Mr. Streett…” Harold curled his lips. “Cyrus. You see, we don’t trust you. You’re new. You haven’t been in town long, and the sooner you leave the better.”

  “I don’t need you to like me. That’s not the point of this meeting,” Cyrus began. “I don’t even need you to work with me. I just need you to not get in my way.”

  “This meeting? This isn’t a meeting,” Harold growled.

  “Mr. Streett, we’re the ones that came to you… Not the other way around. Maybe if you had come to the station-”

  “You would’ve turned me away. With all do respect, Detective…” Cyrus glared with an angry smirk. “Shut up. Because I got you to come here. I got myself on your radar, so I’m the first person you would visit. And not just because I moved into town. I’m smart, you see. And you won’t be able to stop me from finding out what I want to know. So, again, tell me.”

  Nobody spoke for a moment. Cyrus glared at the two of them, as the policemen glanced towards one another.

  “The victim was tied.” Yong folded his hands together and turned to Cyrus, not showing any emotion. “It was a young woman, probably late 20’s. She was nailed to the floor with her arms spread out and her feet on top of each other.”

  “A cross?”

  Yong nodded. “Her left hand was cut off, and we couldn’t find it anywhere in the house. It seems like the killer took it. What killed her, though, was a single gunshot to the forehead. We found her on the ground, still tied, still nailed down. Rigor mortis had already set in, and we had to wheel her out in that same position.”

  “You happy now?” Harold snapped. “You’ve heard everything you need to. Now keep to yourself.”

  Cyrus rubbed his chin, keeping his eyes fixed on the carpet. “You have no suspects? No guess to who did this? I’m sure the woman had friends, family-”

  “She was in town to work with the newspaper. Nobody knows her family, or where she came from,” Yong stated, opening a small, ring-bound book and flipping through notes. “We don’t have many suspects now. There’s a theory… about a serial killer, because a-”

  “You, Mr. Streett, are the number one suspect.” Harold tapped his lanky fingers on the arm of the chair. “I think we’re done here, wouldn’t you say, Yong?”

  Detective Yong turned his gaze to his partner and nodded. In unison, they stood up and strolled to the door. “Stay in town,” they said together, before marching outside.

  There was a slam as the door shut, and Cyrus sat still for a minute. Once he heard the rumble of the police car pulling out into the road, he reached over and picked up his phone.

  Pastor Keener picked up on the second ring. “This is-”

  “Cyrus, here. Can I have access to the house where that lady was killed?”

  “What? I... Cyrus, you can’t be-”

  “I need in there,” Cyrus pleaded. “I need to do my job properly. Will you help me, or not?”

  “The people don’t trust you yet… They don’t like outsiders… They’re basically rioting as we speak. They want me to arrest you, not give you a longer leashe. Like I said, they don’t trust-”

  “They don’t trust me or you don’t?” Cyrus snapped. “Listen. I’ll tell you like I told the cops. I will find a way to investigate. With your support or without it. Whoever started that fire about 15 years ago, and whoever killed that lady now, will both come to justice.”

  “Justice is such a vague term… Why don’t we just-?”

  “I’m going to act now. Before it’s too late.” Cyrus hung up the phone and chucked it to the side, where it bounced off the cushioned chair and onto the floor.

  Standing up from the couch, he marched over to the window and stared out at the street. There were people bustling in their front yards, as usual, but everybody kept alert, throwing glances at his house from time to time. Each of them would make eye contact with their neighbor, nod at each other, then go back to work. They were staring straight in the direction of his front door.

  Cyrus clicked his tongue and turned around. He traced a hand over the walls, all the way to the stairs, and began to ascend.

  “Neighbors,” he mumbled. “Neighbors are the key.”

  Chapter 7

  Cyrus and the Girl

  *Years Ago*

  It was one of those dreary school days in early April, when it seemed to constantly be raining, windy, or freezing. The kind of day when you glanced outside at the storm swirling and said, hopefully, “April showers bring May flowers,” even though April wasn’t half over.

  Cyrus found himself in an empty hallway, an hour after school. He’d just served a detention for letting Adam cheat off him on their Spanish test. They both got out at four, but Adam had jogged over to the football field, where the team was having practice. Their school never played others, instead opting for a 7-on-7 intramural league with four teams. Adam was the quarterback and captain of the most talented one.

  As Cyrus slouched towards the main entrance, he saw a figure standing against the glass doors, staring outside. There was a shot of lightning overhead, sending the whole world into shock for a moment, and then the thunder shook the school. On the wall, a loose sheet of paper came untaped and flittered down to the ground, softly swooping.

  “Hey there,” Cyrus called out, approaching. He couldn’t tell who the person was, because of the thick hood pulled over their head and the way they wrapped their arms around themselves. They seemed like one blob of coats and jackets.

  “Cyrus?” She turned her head, staring into his eyes.

  Her beauty struck him dead for a moment, like it did every time. The way her makeup highlighted her eye color, and all the adults said she wore too much, but he loved it all the same. It made her appear pale, haunted, broken, and angelic. Her clothes were never skimpy. Quite the opposite, they were usually baggy and too large, but somehow managed to show off all her best features, exemplifying every curve and tempting his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked quietly.

  “Detention,” he answered with a slight grin. He reached a hand up to pat down the hair on his temple, feeling it stick out of place. “I let Adam copy my answers and Mrs. Campbell caught us.”

  “Shame.” She pulled her hood a little lower. “Didn’t he have a game today?”

  “Practice,” Cyrus corrected her. “And he made it in time. I don’t know why we have to learn Spanish anyways. I’ve never heard a single person in this town speak it, have you?”

  Ophelia shrugged, her eyes focus
ed outside somewhere.

  “What are you doing here so late, anyways?” he questioned.

  She bit her lip, avoiding his eyes. “Helping a teacher. My grades aren’t good, and-”

  “A teacher?”

  “Yeah. Like I was saying, my dad wants me to get my marks up. I’m… not the smartest.”

  “Is he coming to get you?” Cyrus asked.

  She shook her head. “He told me to walk, so I’m just waiting for the storm to pass.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to,” he said. “It’s supposed to be like this all night.”

  “I hate storms.” She sighed. “Especially the thunder. But the lightning is pretty, at least.”

  Cyrus hesitated, watching her shoulders rise and fall slightly with every breath. “Do you want me to drive you home? It’s close by, right?”

  She turned towards him, raising an eyebrow. “Yes. It is.”

  “I can just drop you off. It’s not out of my way at all.”

  “I guess so.” She reached a hand towards the door. “Beats walking, so there’s that.”

  “Here, you can take this.” He slung off his backpack and pulled out a dark, blue umbrella. He held it out, and she took it with an embarrassed grin.

  “You still use umbrellas?”

  “My mom says it’s better if I don’t come into the house all wet. She gets mad, so she lets me borrow this whenever it’s a 40 percent chance of rain or more.”

  She held it towards the ground and popped the lock, pushing up to expand the top fully.

  “You aren’t supposed to open those inside,” he mumbled.

  “Cyrus, it’ll be okay.” She held it up and grabbed his arm, pulling him under the cover. “Where’s your car at?”

  “It’s… um… left…” He tripped over his words, feeling the contact between her arm and his.

  “Are you okay, Cyrus?” she asked, with a touch of humor.

  “Yes. Um… there’s my car, by the light.”