The Darkest Joy by Marata Eros Page A

listlessly. When can I end this phone call?
    “There are similarities between these most recent murders and . . . those of your family members.”
    My chest tightens. I repeat the deep breathing method, disallowing the panic that’s a knot of cement in my chest to take over.
    I see the rain.
    The wet grass.
    The crime scene tape; the garish yellow floating ribbon a banner of death forever.
    My mother’s hand, slash marks like red stripes proof of her efforts to ward off death.
    “We need to warn you. You might require protection from our Anchorage division.”
    The constriction in my chest notches tighter. My breaths are starting to whistle.
    “Miss Starr. Please, don’t be . . . frightened. I’m just phoning to alert you that this is not the last of these tragedies and we’re treating it as a serial.”
    “A serial?” I ask faintly.
    “Absolutely. The VanZyle family was killed . . . and there’s one more that took place last month, near Portland.”
    “Oregon?”
    “Yes.”
    Oh my God . “So . . . is the other family . . . ?” I couldn’t say it.
    “Yes, all the families were related to pianists. We have a profiler working full-time on identifying who might be responsible for this.”
    “My family’s already gone, Agent Clearwater. This killer can’t hurt me more than he already has.” It’s the truest thing I’ve articulated since my family’s death.
    Silence.
    “That’s not true,” he says carefully.
    “What . . . ? Listen to me, Clearwater. This is worse than death.”
    “What is worse than death, Miss Starr?”
    “My life .” I enunciate the angry words that seethe between us like brackish water.
    Silence.
    Then, “Okay.” Clearwater sighs. I can just see him nervously tightening the band that holds that black hair of his, discreetly combed away from his face and neatly tied at his nape. The raw scar at his throat is a healing pink slash. It makes me feel like a trout gasping for air. Or a salmon , I think grabbing on to the thought with shaky humor.
    “I thought you went to Alaska to move forward?” Clearwater says as a flat statement.
    “I did, I am .” I say it like smooth candy, tastes great as you suck on it, but when it’s crushed crystals in your mouth you regret that brief taste. Moving forward won’t be without challenge , I think.
    “I’ll keep in contact. I just wanted to touch base and let you know that you’re not alone. And I will reach out if we feel the need to place protection.” He pauses, then continues, each word spoken deliberately, “You should contact Marianne VanZyle and Kenneth Thomas. You can help one another.”
    Kenneth Thomas. This monster is killing all the Juilliard finalists , I think and blurt before thinking, “It’s someone that wants in.”
    More silence. Then, “We’ve thought of that. In fact, it’s such a glaring coincidence it seems almost too pat.”
    I rummage around in my addled brain to figure it out. Oh yeah, too obvious , I translate.
    “If the killer wants to take out the competition, what better way to do it than by emotionally incapacitating us . . .” I whisper, angry that I’m afraid . . . and frightened by my anger that’s beginning to boil to the surface.
    My heart rate begins to speed. Suddenly, the noise of my environment rushes inside the bus, like a reverse vacuum of noise. I can hear the seagulls, the people, and the white noise of their murmurings. The sun pierces my windshield and splashes its heat against my skin. A layer of numbness peels away and I feel a dim purpose begin to ring like a bell. The Band-Aid I’ve put on myself is torn away in that moment in a painful, swift pull.
    I feel that stage of grief slip away, my sadness replaced by anger. Just like that, I embrace it like an old friend. That small part of me that wants to live swims up to the surface of my consciousness.
    The anger is like a call to arms. I’m present and alive, swimming freely in my own skin for the