In Red

Chapter One

The sun’s rays bounced off the Puget Sound, snuck underneath her sunglasses, and stabbed Annabeth Jefferds directly in the eye. She squinted and nearly ran into a pack of people taking a selfie in front of the ferris wheel. They were laughing. Smiling. Like they were trying to piss her off.

Because while they were having the time of their lives, she was dying. Her legs ached. Her chest was on fire. Fine strands of her hair were spider webs sticking to her sweaty neck. A glob of viscous snot bounced on the fleshy trampoline of her upper lip.

Running is good for your physical and mental health, they said.

“Liars,” she huffed. “C’mon endorphins. Anytime now.” The naturally-induced chemical high was the only perk of running. Well, that and the promise of a nap and a banana afterward. There were few things better than the endorphin-rich post-run nap/banana combo.

A group stopped right in front of her on the sidewalk. She stumbled, and ricocheted off of a trash can to regain her balance.

She should have known not to run in Central Waterfront today. For six months out of the year, the cold and clouds pushed down on the locals like heat and pressure on carbon. But every April, when the ground thawed, Seattle didn’t expel diamonds. Instead, hordes of zombies bubbled up from the depths to mob the waterfront hungry for clam chowder, cream cheese-covered hotdogs, and sunshine. Hence the mob by the piers and Pike Place Market today.

But not even the tourists could make her regret leaving good old Coward, South Carolina, where the only thing more suffocating than the humidity was the racism. If the gators didn’t get you, the mosquitoes would. She breathed in the brine of the Sound and relished the tangy smell of freedom.

Her feet slapped against the cement in methodical steps. Rhythmic. Right. Left. Right. Left. Nap. Banana. Nap. Banana.

The light on the crosswalk turned, forcing her to jog in place.

“Phone call from: unknown number,” her phone’s virtual assistant chirped in her headphones. “Answer it?”

A bolt of adrenaline shot from her stomach into her legs.

Stranger danger.

“No. Don’t answer.” She continued to jog in place.

You look like an idiot.

Left. Right. Nap. Banana.

A little boy with chocolate on his lips and cheeks stared at her from across the street. The boy’s pointer finger hooked around his mother’s pinky. An otter stuffy was tucked underneath his armpit.

Otters are known to be serial killers. And necrophiliacs.

“Shut up,” she panted. Left. Right. Left. Right. Her internal commentary had been mouthy all week.

In fact, in 2010, a group of veterinarians published an article noting nineteen different occasions of male otters attacking baby seals. Species from primates to pigeons partake in “forced copulation” or “sexual coercion.”

The light changed.

You could tell the kid about the otters. Knowledge is power and all that.

“Can’t,” she whispered-slash-panted then swallowed a particularly viscous loogie. “Scare the children,” she said, loudly, as the boy and his mother walked past her.

The boy’s mother narrowed her eyes at Annabeth and pulled her son closer. He tried to hide behind her thigh–as if Annabeth was the monster and the thing under his arm wasn’t.

Annabeth cleared a blob of phlegm from her throat and tapped her headphones. Her music volume rose, blocking out her heavy steps and rattling chest.

Right. Left. Banana. Nap. Endorphins. Peace. Solitude.

A girl in a red and black leather jacket rose to her tiptoes and stuck her tongue into her date’s mouth.

What insect can get sexually transmitted diseases?

“Ladybugs.”

Right. Left. Right.

A teen walked by wearing short shorts, a tank top, and a beanie that didn’t even cover her ears. Annabeth shivered. It was sunny, but it wasn’t shorts and tank top-weather.

What sea mammal was incorrectly reported to go through fashion trends? Bonus point: What was the latest “trend” to date?

“Orca. Wearing dead salmon as hats.” Her breaths came out in uneven guttural bursts.

No wonder that kid was scared of you.

“Phone call from: unknown number. Answer—” The cheery phone assistant chirped.

“No.”

Another mile down. Once she was done with the run she’d get to go to Thistle and Thorn and run trivia night. Her favorite day of the week.

She cut off onto Elliott Bay Trail. The tourists thinned out. The stench of fried food and car exhaust faded into plumes of earthy Alder pollen and weed smoke. Weeping Alaskan cedars provided the perfect perch for the local murder of crows. The trunks bent at an odd angle, as if melting back into the earth.

Waves from the bay on her left splashed on the rocky shore. Separated by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, train tracks ran parallel to her path to the right. Several linked crimson boxcars sat quietly in their gravel yard.

A flash of movement on the gravel along the train tracks caught Annabeth’s eye. Nothing. Maybe it was a reflection. A glint of sun off a stubborn puddle.

“ANNABETH!” Something screamed her name. High pitched and terrified.

Annabeth jumped, breaking her rhythm. Her toe caught on an uneven chunk of asphalt. She stumbled, feet stomping, chest leaning forward. Her arms windmilled.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall. Don’t fall.

“Falling!” The word caught in her throat and came out in a terrified grunt. She managed to get her feet under her in time. She stood, chest heaving and eyes wide.

“ANNABETH!”

Train wheels turned slowly in her periphery. She stopped her music in time to hear them protest against the rusty track.

“A train horn,” she wheezed. She wiped her shirt sleeve underneath her nose. It came away wet with snot. Sweat dripped off her chin.

Cute.

“Shut up.”

The train pulled out entirely as she tapped her headphones to start her music again. “Phone call from: unknown number. Answer it?” the perky digital assistant sang.

Annabeth swallowed the jolt of adrenaline running from her stomach up her throat. Exhaustion was making her jumpy. Exhaustion and hunger mixed with the stress of the run.

You’re tired. Go home, Annabeth.

“No. Don’t answer it.”

A trellis arch with Rose Garden engraved on the top stood to her left. A small patch of shrubbery separating the bike and pedestrian path, the Elliot Bay Trail Rose Garden was one of several random attractions along the route. Thick brambles of vines wrapped around the arch’s metal cylinders, climbing upwards. She walked through the arch. Low cut rose bushes lined either side of a short brick walkway.

Would feel like a tiny secret garden if you couldn’t see clear over the hedges.

The roses weren’t blooming—it was too early in the year—but the waxy leaves were a deep green that demanded Annabeth’s attention. She bent down, feeling the serrated edges. A chilly wind blew in off the bay. The sweat still coating her body was ice against her skin.

“Phone call from: unknown number. Answer it?”

They’re not going to stop calling.

Annabeth filled her lungs with fresh air—something she could never do in Coward thanks to the swampy humidity—and released slowly. Breathing exercises to help slow a rapid heart rate were the first thing her childhood therapist had taught her. It was one of the few lessons that stuck.

“Answer it?” the digital assistant asked again.

“Fine. Yeah. Whatever.” She stood and stretched her cramping legs.

“Is this Annabeth Jefferds?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

Shit. No one from Seattle had called her Annabeth in her ten years of living here. “It’s Anna.”

Wings flapped in Annabeth’s face, forcing her to duck. A crow landed on a nearby park bench. Its black feathers had a sheen to them in the sunlight, casting the purple of a deep bruise over the bird.

“Hello, Annabeth, how are you doing today?” The twang hung thick on the other end of the line now. All drawn out vowels and absent g’s.

Sounds like home. Most people would find it comforting.

Annabeth wasn’t most people.

“F—fine.” Annabeth’s conversational muscle memory took over while she stared at the crow. The bird watched Annabeth while it pecked at the peeling black paint on the wrought iron. Crows were everywhere in Coward—especially in the forest surrounding her childhood home, Hellebore. They always cawed at her like they were trying to tell her something. She never figured out what.

The corvid on the trail twitched its tiny black head left then right.It snapped its beak. A piece of black paint hung from it like dead skin.

Focus, Annabeth.

She tore her eyes away. “Wait. Who are you?” she said to the stranger on the phone.

“Nylah Brooks. I work for the Medical University of South Carolina. And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

Annabeth rolled her eyes. She did not miss the Southern expectation of exhausting niceties nor the immediate annoyance when she shirked said niceties.

“I’m calling because…” the woman continued when Annabeth didn’t apologize for her lack of Southern gentility.

The crow cawed. Annabeth glanced over her shoulder to see it hopping along the hedge beside her. Following her. Coincidence. Had to be. The corvid was a massive thing—definitely bigger than that kid’s otter stuffy. One talon gripped the shrub. A gnarled, scabby knob dangled where its other ankle should have been.

Birds don’t have ankles. They have tarsi.

Whatever.

What corvid can recognize faces and hold grudges for upwards of seventeen years?

“Crows,” Annabeth mumbled. The bird stared up at her, watching.

“…is your sister available?” the woman asked.

A brown mouse darted from the far hedge to the other. Annabeth eyed it, then the crow, with mild curiosity. After a childhood of growing up on a so-called “plantation,” she’d witnessed the circle of life far too many times to interfere. The crow’s head darted left and right, its attention torn between the meal and Annabeth.

“Look, I’m not interested in whatever you’re sell—” You’re not focusing, Annabeth. “Wait, did you say ‘my sister’?”

“Yes, and—”

“Is Bean okay?” she asked. Her little sister, Bean, had been working on her PhD at Cornell’s School of Botany, but decided to go home on a whim, in spite of her smarts. Bean had said, “I have some research I need to do there. Besides, it’s been too long since one of us visited Daddy.” Annabeth had been more than willing to let her take on that particularly arduous task.

“Did you say ‘Bean’?”

“Leigh.” Her younger sister’s birth name felt wrong on Annabeth’s lips. Bean had been Leigh’s first word. Weirdo. It had been her nickname ever since. “Is she okay?”

“She came in a few days ago for an out-patient procedure. I’m calling —”

“ ‘A procedure?’ What happened?” Annabeth scratched the side of her neck. Salt particles from her drying sweat dug into her skin. Annabeth and Bean typically talked everyday, but she hadn't heard from her in a week or so. Annabeth figured Bean was busy with school…

Typing on the other end of the line. “Leigh didn’t check the box to share medical information with you. She listed this number as a backup contact to get in touch with her.”

Worry percolated in Annabeth’s chest, forcing her heart to beat harder and her palms to get sweatier. She wiped her hands on her nylon running shorts. “Then why don’t you call her number?”

“We did. She didn’t answer.”

Weird. Bean was always on her phone or at least had it nearby.

Frustration mixed with worry. Annabeth’s stomach twisted. She stretched and massaged her neck—a useless attempt to release the building tension. Another chilly gust of wind blew a few of the leaves of the hedge and nearby rose bushes. A bud bobbed as if urging her on. She stared at it, focusing all of her attention on the conversation.

“At least tell me why she came in,” Annabeth said.

Established in 1996, what laws prevent sensitive medical information from being shared without a patient’s consent?

“HIPAA Laws prevent me from—” Nylah Brooks said.

“You called me, remember?” Annabeth’s voice came out louder than she’d intended. She took a breath and ground her teeth, fighting the urge to scream at the woman on the other line. “Are we talking a mole removal or open-heart surgery? Should I be buying a plane ticket right now? Can you at least tell me that?” She looked around and felt a little relief when she realized no one was there to eavesdrop on this particular conversation.

“No. I can’t.” There was an acidic edge to Nylah’s sweet southern tone.

Annabeth roiled. Red hot heat, completely unrelated to the run, bloomed up her neck. She tried to stay composed, steady. The rose bud seemed to be bigger now, but that couldn’t be possible. “When did she come in?”

“I can’t answer—”

“Did you prescribe any medication? Bean’s allergic to most opiates.”

Remember when she threw up for hours after getting her wisdom teeth pulled?

“Look, I’m just a part-time administrative assistant.” Nylah sighed. “I didn’t prescribe anything. My only job is to make sure she takes this surve—”

The crow squawked, and Annabeth swore this time it sounded like, “Save her!”

True or false: Members of the Corvid family can mimic human speech?

“Someone should have called me.”

The rose bud opened slightly. A black petal bulged out of the green bud casing. It’s called a calyx. The crow rustled the leaves of the hedge above her.

“Ma’am? Is Leigh with you or not?“ Nylah spoke slowly. Her tone, measured. Accent, thicker. Molasses in Annabeth’s ears—slow and bitter sweet.

In 1919, a holding tank of molasses burst open.

Annabeth was annoyed. Annoyed at the crow. Annoyed at Bean. Annoyed at Nylah fucking Brooks.

Two point three million gallons of molasses flooded Boston, killing twenty-one people.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing her inner commentary would leave her in peace for thirty-freaking-seconds. “Shut. Up.”

“Ma’am!” Nylah nearly shouted through the line. “Your tone is completely unnecessary!”

“No. You know what is unnecessary? This fucking phone call.” The base of the bloom was too wide. Too bulbous. Too pregnant. “If Bean is in Charleston, you should be calling my father, Halloran Jefferds. She’s staying in his house for Christ’s sake! You know what is unnecessary?”

“Ma’am.” The molasses was back.

Annabeth was having none of it. “Not telling me what’s wrong with my little sister. That’s unnecessary.” Her voice cracked.

Really going from zero to spiraling in no time flat, huh?

“Ma’am.”

Annabeth ignored Nylah, pulled her phone out of her running belt, and tapped a quick message.

To Bean: Hospital called and wanted to know if you’re pleased with your recent experience. They said you had a procedure. WTF is going on?

Annabeth checked Bean’s location—something they’d been sharing since the feature existed. Bean was at their father’s house. Or at least her phone was.

Bean is never without her phone. She’s there.

“Your father’s contact information isn’t listed in Leigh’s chart,” Nylah said. “It would be illegal for me to call him. Just like it would be illegal for me to share any medical information with you.”

Annabeth stared at her phone, waiting for the message she sent to Bean to be marked as read. “C’mon, c’mon,” she whispered over and over.

The tag underneath the text message didn’t switch from delivered to read. No bubble with three dots appeared. Nothing.

“Ma’am.”

A long, resigned sigh escaped Annabeth’s chest. “Look, Leigh’s not here. If I get a hold of her, I’ll tell her to call y’all—er, you all.”

“Great.” The word was a whip. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Jefferds.” The line clicked.

More sweat slid down Annabeth’s forehead and temples. She hated sweating almost as much as she hated snippy medical personnel.

She turned in time to see a long, fuzzy string fall from between two of the petals of the opening bloom. Annabeth pocketed her phone and knelt down in front of the flower. She carefully slid a finger underneath the string. The crow watched as she gently ran it between her thumb and pointer finger. Rubbery.

The rose spread open to its full extent. A mouse laid in the middle of the bloom. Its back legs were a mess of blood and exposed flesh. A small splinter of bone stuck out of its hip. The mouse’s front legs twitched and spasmed. Its tiny mouth hung open as if screaming. A chunk of furry pink meat clung to one of the rose’s ink black petals.

“How did it get up there?”

Must have climbed up when you weren’t looking. Wanted a soft place to die, maybe.

The sun shone on the rose. The petals closest to the stem glistened deep red. A thin line of crimson trailed down the stem, and dripped off of a bright red thorn.

They’re not thorns, they’re prickles.

The sickly sweet stench of rot hadn’t set in yet, but the air of death loomed around the thing, wafting toward Annabeth.

What massive plant is known to mimic the texture and smell of raw and rotting meat to help pollinate itself?

“Titan Arum,” she whispered.

Still kneeling, she scrunched her nose, and leaned away. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to look anywhere else. Something itched at the back of her brain. Something she’d locked away. Key long gone. Now the memory pounded on its prison door, demanding to be seen. Heard. Remembered. She closed her eyes. Red fingers knotted in brown hair. A coppery tang blending with thick heat, choking her. She can’t breathe. Can’t move. Her fingers tremble. A scream: “ANNABETH!”

A train horn pierced the silence. Annabeth yelped in surprise. Her eyes flew open as she fell from kneeling to sitting on the brick walkway. Her hands caught her before she could fall all the way back. Her breath came in heaving gulps. Her heart slammed against her chest. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. The memory once desperate to get out, quieted and faded back to the shadows of her mind as her heart rate slowed.

The crow, lording over her from the top of the hedge, snapped its beak at her.

Go home, Annabeth.

Her cramping leg muscles made getting off the ground painful and slow. She wiped her dirty palms along the torso of her shirt. A splayed pink paw hung from the tip of the crow’s beak. The bird tilted its head and downed the mouse. It flapped its broad iridescent wings and lifted from the shrub. “Save her!”

Go home.