In Red

Chapter One

The sun’s rays bounced off the water, 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. Having fun. It all felt very personal somehow.

Probably because she was dying. Her legs ached. Her chest was on fire. Fine strands of her hair felt like spider webs sticking to her sweaty neck, and she was pretty sure she had snot on her upper lip.

Running is good for your physical and mental health, they said. Running will help with your anxiety and depression, they said.

She should have known not to run here today. For six months out of the year, the cold and clouds pushed down on the locals like heat and pressure on carbon. Except, when the ground thawed, Seattle didn’t get diamonds. It got bastard zombies hungry for clam chowder, cream cheese-covered hotdogs, and sunshine. Hence the mob by the waterfront piers and Pike Place Market today.

It was all very unpleasant. Annabeth missed the dark days and long nights. Less people in the way. Less merciless sunshine.

A group stopped right in front of her on the sidewalk.

“Tourists,” she muttered.

“We live in Cap Hill, asshole,” they yelled as she ran past them.

You should mutter more quietly. Her running internal commentary had been particularly chatty these days.

“Fuck.” Pant. “Them.” Pant.

Her feet slapped against the asphalt in methodical steps. Rhythmic. One. Two. One. Two. Right. Left. Right. Left. The rhythm was supposed to be soothing. It wasn’t. She was supposed to enter some kind of flow state, but the only thing flowing was the loogie that kept sloshing from one cheek to the other. She was too out of breath to swallow it down and if she spit it out she’d probably hit a zombie, anyway.

Don’t anger the horde.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

She didn’t understand why she kept running. Seriously, she could actually die. Right here. Right now. Just fall over, dead. Lights out. Boom. Splat. Over.

Then stop running.

“Can’t fail…lazy.” She wheezed, and felt the eyes of strangers fall on her.

They’re probably going to talk about you later. ”Did you see that girl talking to herself while she was running by the waterfront today?” they’ll whisper. “What do you think she was on? Dunno. She looked so normal. You just never know about people.”

A little boy with chocolate on his lips and cheeks stared at her as she circumnavigated yet another clusterfuck. The boy’s pointer finger was hooked around his mother’s pinky. An otter stuffy was tucked underneath his armpit.

Otters are known to be serial killers. Necrophiliacs.

“Shut up,” she panted.

In fact, in 2010, a group of veterinarians published an article noting nineteen different occasions of male otters attacking baby seals. One such included an adult male otter raping a baby seal to literal death. It’s not just otters. Species from primates to pigeons partake in “forced copulation” or “sexual coercion.”

Annabeth shoved her tongue into meaty part of her cheek. “Can’t,” she whispered slash panted then swallowed. “Scare the children,” she said, too loud.

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

Nicely done, Anna.

She rolled her eyes and tapped her headphones. Her music volume rose, blocking out her heavy steps and rattling chest.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

Sweat slid into her eyes. Her skin sizzled underneath the sun’s rays. Should have worn sunscreen. After an entire childhood in Satan’s butthole, AKA Charleston, SC, she should have learned by now. She squeegeed the sweat away from her eyes with a finger and forced herself to focus on the crowd around her. Anything to take her mind off running.

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.”

Left. Right. Left.

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 is believed to go through fashion trends? Bonus point: What is the latest trend to date?

“Orca. Wearing dead salmon as hats.”

Her music volume decreased, allowing her to hear just how loud her gasping breaths actually were now.

No wonder the kid was scared of you.

“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. Her stride lengthened on instinct. “No.”

Some piece of shit company must have sold her contact information recently. She’d been getting calls from mystery numbers for two days now. Still, getting numbers from unknown callers set off her stranger-danger alarm bells all the same.

A laugh rang out behind her. The sound cut through her noise-cancelling headphones. Still riding her adrenaline rush, she jumped a little and glared at the culprit as he jogged past her.

Little white earbuds stuck out of his ears like fungal growths. “That’s so funny!” he said.

Here Annabeth was, literally —not literally— dying and this man had the audacity to not only pass her, but hold a perfectly normal conversation while doing it.

Asshole.

Another mile down. She cut off onto Elliott Bay Trail. The tourists thinned out. The stench of fried food and car exhaust faded into odiferous plumes of dog shit and weed smoke. Sporadic trees and industrial silos loomed instead of apartment buildings and tourist traps.

On her left, waves from the bay splashed on the rocky shore. Train tracks ran parallel to her path to the right. Separated by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, several linked crimson cars sat quietly in their gravel yard. The occasional Alaskan cedar provided the perfect perch for the local murder of crows. The trees’ long drooping branches reached for the ground. The trunks bent at odd angles. Dr. Seuss trees, Bean had called them last time she’d visited. Annabeth thought they looked more like old men, withering, melting back into the earth.

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

She kept going. Making sure to stay on the path. More movement in the corner of her eye. She looked again. Okay, it was definitely something this time.

She squinted, trying to get a better look.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Annabeth faced forward just in time to dart around earbuds guy from earlier.

He shook his head as he jogged past, muttering, “Fucking tourists.”

He might want to mutter more quietly, too.

Annabeth concentrated on her steps again. One. Two. One. Two. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Another flash.

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

Anna 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 words caught in her throat. Finally, her feet caught up with the rest of her body. She stood, chest heaving and eyes wide.

“ANNABETH!”

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

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

Two miles to go.

Just go home. What do the kids say these day? The juju here is weird.

She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “That’s not what the kids say. Fuck, I’m old.”

The train pulled out entirely as she tapped her headphones to start her music again. A tangle of vines stood in the middle of the track. Vines don’t stand.

“It’s just a trellis.” She turned her music up.

Black and purple roses ran along the vine like velvety soft bruises.

Who puts a trellis in the middle of a train yard?

“Not my circus. Not my monkey.”

The vine twitched. No, that wasn’t possible. Vines didn’t twitch. They just sit there. It twitched again, an agitated muscle.

“Phone call from: unknown number. Answer it?” the perky digital assistant sang directly into her ears.

Annabeth swallowed the jolt of adrenaline that ran from her stomach up her throat. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No.”

You’re tired. Go home, Anna.

Exhaustion, that had to be what was making her so jumpy. Exhaustion and hunger mixed with the stress of the run.

Has to be. Just eat a banana when you get home. Take a nap. You’ll be fine.

Annabeth checked her watch. “No time for a nap.”

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

They’re not going to stop calling, Anna. Answer it. Get it over with. Just tell them to take you off their list. They have to, legally, I think.

Annabeth filled her lungs with fresh air and released slowly. Breathing exercises to help slow a rapid heart rate were the first thing her childhood therapist taught her. It was one of the few lessons that stuck.

“Answer it?” the digital assistant asked again.

“Fine. Yes. Whatever.”

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

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

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, making the bird look almost purple like a deep bruise. The crow watched Annabeth while it pecked at the peeling black paint on the wrought iron. Its tiny black head twitched left then right.

“Annabeth, my name is Nurse Nylah Brooks. I work at the Medical University of South Carolina…”

The crow cawed. Annabeth glanced over her shoulder to see it hopping along the path behind her. Following her. Coincidence. Had to be.

A feather grazed her cheek, and for a moment she thought about the vines twitching on the trellis. She walked faster. The crow landed on the trail, blocking it. It was a massive thing—definitely bigger than that kid’s otter stuffy. One talon tapped on the asphalt. The other leg, she noticed, dangled. It was missing a foot.

The crow didn’t budge as she walked toward it.

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

“Crows,” Annabeth hissed. Her familiar practice of distractions by way of trivia massaged the tension from her shoulders and chest.

“I’m calling because your sister…”

Annabeth could hear the twang on the other end of the line now—drawn out vowels and absent g’s. Confirmation then that her southern roots could still reach her. Most people would find such a reminder comforting.

I guess you’re not most people.

“…sister had a procedure and…”

Annabeth checked her watch. “Look, I’m not interested in whatever you’re sell— Wait, did you say sister?” She stopped right in front of the crow. It stared up at her, watching.

“Is Bean okay?” She’d just talked to her little sister two days ago. Bean had been working on her dissertation at Cornell—she’d inherited their mother’s intelligence, Annabeth wasn’t so lucky. In spite of her smarts, last time they talked Bean had told Annabeth that she’d decided to go home on a whim. She wasn’t supposed to get there until later tonight. She had seemed fine.“I have some research I need to do there. Besides, it has been too long since one of us visited Daddy.”

Annabeth had been more than willing to let Bean take on that particularly arduous task.

“I’m sorry, it sounded like you said ‘Bean’,” the nurse said.

“Leigh,” Annabeth said. Her younger sister’s birth name felt foreign on her lips. Bean had been Leigh’s first word—the weirdo—and it had been her nickname ever since. “Is she okay?”

“She came in a few days ago for a procedure and I’m calling to make sure her meds are—”

Another runner jogged by, blonde ponytail bobbing in time with her steps. Annabeth stepped back into the grass to let her pass. The crow followed suit.

“I’m sorry. Did you say ‘a procedure?’ Can you give me some more specifics.”

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

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

“Are we talking a mole removal or open-heart surgery? Should I be buying a plane ticket right now? Can you tell me that?”

Do you really want to go back home to your father and that house?

So many memories. So much pain.

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

“I just talked to Bean—er, Leigh—the other day. She seemed fine.”

“I just need to know if she’s had a reaction to her meds—“

“What kind of meds are we talking?” she asked. “Antibiotics?” Annabeth looked down at the crow. Still standing there, staring. It was too attentive. Too close. She tried to step away. It followed “Antipsychotics…?”

It was just exhaustion. A banana will fix it.

Annabeth rubbed the waxy leaf of a strawberry tree between her fingers, trying to get her nervous energy out somewhere. Seagulls screamed from over the bay.

“Ma’am, I can’t tell you—“ The nurse took a deep breath. “I’m just calling to make sure she’s not allergic to this new medication. But it sounds like you haven’t heard from her.”

The crow cawed at her again, and she swore this time it sounded like, “Save her!”

The leaf snapped off the branch as another surge of panic cut through her.

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

Fair point.

“Annabeth—“

The scream echoed in her ears, tearing into her brain.

“Annabeth, can you please confirm that Leigh is healing and taking her meds?” The nurse sounded annoyed.

That made two of them. Bean should have told Annabeth that she’d been home longer, and she should have told Annabeth that she was going to have a procedure. Bean lied. Or it was an emergency and no one called her to share the news. Either option wasn’t good. Which meant this nurse should tell her what the fuck is going on.

The crow cawed again. “Save her!”

“Ma’am?” the nurse said.

Fiery anger and cold waves of anxiety battled within her, giving her goosebumps. Something was wrong. “Jesus fuck, just tell me what’s going on!”

Silence.

“Ma’am.” The nurse spoke slowly. Her tone, measured. Accent, thicker. Sweeter. Molasses in Annabeth’s ears.

In 1919, a holding tank of molasses burst open.

“There is absolutely no reason for you to raise your voice,” the nurse said.

“I know,” Annabeth mumbled to herself.

“Then you should also know that using the lord’s name in vein will not get—“

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

“Shut. Up.”

“Ma’am!” Nurse Brooks could hardly contain her voice. “That tone is completely unnecessary!”

Ooh, she’s pissed now.

“No. You know what is unnecessary?” Annabeth asked. “This fucking phone call. If Bean—er, Leigh—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?

Annabeth had lived in a state of panic since her mother died. Annabeth was only five years old. She could still smell her daycare teacher, Miss Gregory’s, perfume. Could see the sleep gunk in the corner of her watery eyes. Could hear the hiss of her dry skin as she nervously massaged her palms.

“There’s been an accident,” she’d said.

After that, most of Annabeth’s childhood had been spent waiting for more accidents. More horrific news. Anxiety hijacked her life. It took years of therapy and several fights with her father—who had his own, more isolated, way of dealing with grief—to learn how to cope with the loss of her mother. Ultimately, the only thing that had finally worked was leaving the south. Now she realized, all it took was one phone call. One phone call and once again she was trapped, kidnapped, by her own nervous system. One phone call to undo everything she’d been working on for most of her life. Once again she was that little five year old girl, waiting for another accident.

“Ma’am.”

Bean is fine. It’s just a misunderstanding. Text her. You’ll see.

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

To Bean:

Hospital just called and wanted to know how you’re taking to your new meds. I didn’t even know you were there yet. They said you had a procedure, Bean. WTF is going on?

“Ma’am?” nurse Brooks asked. “Are you still there?”

Annabeth took a breath. “Yeah, I’m here.” The words rode her exhale and took her adrenaline along for the ride. She was on edge. The nurse’s sticky sweet twang stripped her nerves down to erratic sparks of frustration and angst.

“Your father isn’t listed on Leigh’s paper,” Nurse Brooks said. “It would be illegal for me to call him.”

Annabeth stared at her phone, waiting for the message she sent to Bean to be marked as read. Her little sister was always freakishly on top of her texts. She would almost always respond within minutes.

“C’mon,” Annabeth urged under her breath.

“Annabeth,” the nurse says.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

The tag underneath the text message didn’t switch from delivered to read. No bubble with three dots appeared. Nothing. Worry crawled up Annabeth’s arms and legs and threatened to close around her throat. She needed to move. Needed to get off the phone. Needed to know what the fuck was actually going on.

“Annabeth, are you still there?” Nurse Brooks wasn’t going to have any answers.

This was a waste of Annabeth’s time. “Look, I appreciate the call. If I get a hold of Leigh—“Bean”—I’ll tell her to call you.”

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

Annabeth ground her teeth as more sweat slid down her forehead and temples. She hated sweating. She hated snippy nurses.

The crow hopped on its one foot and flapped its broad iridescent wings. “Save her!”

She was starting to hate crows, too.