The Pictures She Drew
Below is an excerpt of my fifth novel, The Pictures She Drew.
There were certain things she could never forget.
Thunderstorms were one of those things. The series of blasts—equivalent to an anvil falling down a flight of stairs—and the resonating fork of lightning that ignited the cowering earth, drove chills right to her core.
It never mattered where she was. The yellowing sky, the harsh winds, it was always the same. She could remember sifting through unorganized piles of her thoughts, walking down the curvy, long road leading to her house, feet dragging through the array of fallen leaves. Her sneakers would crunch and crinkle above the dried leaves as she lingered underneath the cement-colored clouds, the storm’s winds yanking at her hair. As the first few drops of rain ran down her face like tears, the faraway boom of thunder gripped her gut. The lightning flash that followed reflected in her eyes.
With hot, summer nights on the shores of New England came nighttime storms—blackening clouds consuming the world, gnarled tree branches grasping at the rain.
Melanie Reynolds leaned against the wall of the Shallow Creek Mall’s parking pavilion and dropped her bag onto the sidewalk. The distant murmurs of engines and exhausts rumbled as the last of the cars rolled out of the lot. She waved to her co-workers safely restrained in their cars, windows and windshield wipers braving against the storm.
“No. No,” she shook her head with a laugh as a red sedan with nicks and scrapes along the driver’s side door slowed. The window lowered, revealing a red-haired girl, coils of thick hair falling down her shoulders. The girl tilted her head to the right and opened her mouth, but Melanie was faster. “Heather, no. I’m fine. My ride’s coming.”
“But Mel!” she exclaimed exasperatedly through the thumping of raindrops. “It’s pouring out!”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nate’s on his way.”
Heather squinted her eyes uncertainly, but at Melanie’s reassuring smile, she sighed. “Okay, girl, see you tomorrow.”
“See you!” she called as Heather pulled out onto the cobblestone drive, the streetlights reflecting against the curbside puddles in silver pools.
Pulling flyaway strands of hair behind her ear, she scuffed her black dress shoes along the cracked ground. The putrid sky hung above her.
She glanced up as the wind whistled through the narrow alleys of the mall, home to the county’s oldest ice cream parlor, her place of employment since her high school graduation. The window shoppers had long since dissipated and the parking lot occupied just a few cars under the flickering street light. Trees silhouetted against the sickly sky, the breath of the approaching storm floating along the whipping wind.
It crashed against her face, reddening her cheeks.
She sighed and checked her wrist watch, feeling guilty for her impatience. Nate had warned her that he’d be late. She squinted at the darkened entrance of the parking lot, her stomach dropping slightly at the absence of approaching headlights.
“I should have taken Heather up on her offer to stay with me,” Melanie muttered into her chilled hands, recognizing how she hated to be alone. Cold prickled her skin, leaving her arms and face tight and frigid. She curled her arms tightly around her abdomen and squeezed.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. She had loved thunder storms as a child, could remember the fascination she felt at the mysteries of a fork of lightning and the echo of a clap of thunder. She would sit curled up in her father’s armchair next to the window, a mug of hot chocolate teetering on the windowsill as rain trickled down the glass. The flicker of candlelight would dance across the faces of her family as the storm progressed through the night, the house silent save for the old battery radio on the floor.
She shivered, swallowing the familiar lump in her throat that always followed memories of her parents.
Melanie pulled at her ponytail, her brown hair highlighted with a natural red tint she had acquired from her mother.
The green apron she was obligated to wear for her waitressing job at Cynthia’s Parlor sat folded across her lap. She anxiously pulled at its strings. “Where is Nate?” she muttered through gritted teeth. The image of a pale, slightly freckled-faced man emerged to the top of her memories. She thought of black hair gently brushing against his ears and over his forehead, acting almost like a built-in sun visor during the hotter months. Melanie’s brow furrowed as she studied the harsh sky, musing that he would need that hair as an umbrella tonight.
Rain continued to fall in heavy shards from the sky.
“Shoot, Nate,” she murmured, peeling off her coat and draping it over her head. She caught the thin, grey sleeves and tightened them under her neck.
From the second level above, a car’s breaks shrieked.
Melanie turned. The stairwell leading to the upper level was lit through the gloom, the car’s light reflecting off the graffiti speckled walls.
Headlights, foggy and distorted, emerged through the night, lighting the smog a translucent grey. A horn blared through the storm, causing Melanie’s body to jump forward as shouts erupted on the second floor parking level. Her coat slipped onto her lap, and as she waited with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow for more, she ignored the strong thumping of raindrops against her head. She blinked, eyelashes heavy with thick droplets of rain. She stood up, quickly snatching the apron before it fell to the wet ground. With a fleeting glance toward the road, the sparsely placed streetlights highlighting the rain shooting diagonally onto the silver cement, it was clear Nate had not yet arrived.
Angry voices emerged through the storm. A car idled on the next level; the headlights remained.
“What the…” she murmured, her curiosity peaking at the phantom-like fog billowing down the stairwell. She slowly crossed the lot, stuffing her apron into her gold, bohemian-styled pocketbook. She started up the staircase, suddenly conscious of the groan each metal step made against her weight. With her eyes fixed curiously on the second level landing, she lightly climbed, cautious as she went.
The loud crack of thunder struck the stormy night.
As her eyes peaked over the second floor ground, she paused. The lot was empty, just a few vacant cars straggling along the border. But she found herself drawn to the center of the lot, where a black sedan was haphazardly parked across a row of spaces, the engine idling. Its headlights smeared across the thick air.
Two men stood, squared off at each other. One, an older man with a full head of white hair and a thick build, was slowly backing away, his palms outstretched, eyeing his companion cautiously.
The second man was younger, taller, with dark blonde hair bordering a pale face. A long, jagged scar on his left hand etched from the base of his middle finger and curved all the way to his wrist. Melanie wouldn’t have noticed, except in that hand, he held a gun.
“I hate you,” the younger man hissed, his voice a sharp whistle against the wind. Frozen by the sight before her, and in plain view of the two men should they happen to glance her way, Melanie knew she had just two options. One, even though it was easiest, held the most danger. She could remain in her squatting position in front of the stairwell, stricken dumb by her clamoring heart, growing weak with her shaking limbs. Instead, Melanie chose option two, to hide, pushing herself closer to the scene, slinking behind a cement pillar.
The wind carried the low voices past her ears.
“There’s no need to do this.”
“There is. There very much is.”
Gripping the pillar, she poked her head out from the side. The calm, smooth face of the man grasped at her insides, like her guts were a wet washcloth and his expressionless mug was wringing her out.
“Listen,” the older man choked, his head shaking, his skin beneath his chin flapping like a turkey’s wattle.
His response was received in the sharp click of a safety unlatching.
“No!” The older man took a violent lurch back and slammed into the hood of his car. The volume of his voice only magnified the tremor of fear.
“This can’t possibly be a surprise.”
“What do you want? Why are you doing this? I’ll do anything—”
The gunshot came at the same time as the rumble of thunder. A fork of lightning sparked against the sky, followed by the hissing and cracking of a nearby tree.
And then just a whisper. “See you in Hell.”
Melanie gasped, a short, sudden intake of breath that gripped at the inside of her chest. She saw the man drop the gun into his sweatshirt’s pocket and step under the faint stream of light, but it was as though seeing it through someone else’s eyes. Sandy hair, alike in both its color and in its coarse texture, damp from the trickling of raindrops, stuck in limp clusters to the sides of his face. His cheeks flushed, his eyes widening as adrenaline soared through his veins, as he watched the old man’s struggling, failing plight.
The stairwell was a few feet behind. She made to run toward it, but stopped herself when she realized the splash her feet would make over the puddles.
As she frantically decided what to do, trying desperately not to look at the older man’s body marinating in a pool of his own blood, the younger man’s eyes found her.
The sharp attack of his stare unsteadied her as she quickly ducked, a terrified squeak escaping her lips.
For a moment, she thought he would let her go. Just a secret between strangers, a nightmare underneath a thunderstorm.
But then the man’s eyes shot through hers, his hand diving into his sweatshirt’s pocket. Through the gleam of the headlights, she saw his knuckles whiten as his grip intensified against the cold metal, his steady hold pointing right at her, his index finger pulling hard on the trigger.
Bang!
Melanie’s body lurched backward at the sudden explosion, her legs slipping out from under her as she dodged the path of the bullet. Her mouth released the slightest hint of a gasp, her head bursting in agonizing pain as her arm cracked like a series of fireworks.
The shocked grimace mangling the man’s young face…the fork of lightning…a scurry of footsteps…and Melanie fell…
Her limp body hit the concrete.
She did not awaken.
There were certain things she could never forget.
Thunderstorms were one of those things. The series of blasts—equivalent to an anvil falling down a flight of stairs—and the resonating fork of lightning that ignited the cowering earth, drove chills right to her core.
It never mattered where she was. The yellowing sky, the harsh winds, it was always the same. She could remember sifting through unorganized piles of her thoughts, walking down the curvy, long road leading to her house, feet dragging through the array of fallen leaves. Her sneakers would crunch and crinkle above the dried leaves as she lingered underneath the cement-colored clouds, the storm’s winds yanking at her hair. As the first few drops of rain ran down her face like tears, the faraway boom of thunder gripped her gut. The lightning flash that followed reflected in her eyes.
With hot, summer nights on the shores of New England came nighttime storms—blackening clouds consuming the world, gnarled tree branches grasping at the rain.
Melanie Reynolds leaned against the wall of the Shallow Creek Mall’s parking pavilion and dropped her bag onto the sidewalk. The distant murmurs of engines and exhausts rumbled as the last of the cars rolled out of the lot. She waved to her co-workers safely restrained in their cars, windows and windshield wipers braving against the storm.
“No. No,” she shook her head with a laugh as a red sedan with nicks and scrapes along the driver’s side door slowed. The window lowered, revealing a red-haired girl, coils of thick hair falling down her shoulders. The girl tilted her head to the right and opened her mouth, but Melanie was faster. “Heather, no. I’m fine. My ride’s coming.”
“But Mel!” she exclaimed exasperatedly through the thumping of raindrops. “It’s pouring out!”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nate’s on his way.”
Heather squinted her eyes uncertainly, but at Melanie’s reassuring smile, she sighed. “Okay, girl, see you tomorrow.”
“See you!” she called as Heather pulled out onto the cobblestone drive, the streetlights reflecting against the curbside puddles in silver pools.
Pulling flyaway strands of hair behind her ear, she scuffed her black dress shoes along the cracked ground. The putrid sky hung above her.
She glanced up as the wind whistled through the narrow alleys of the mall, home to the county’s oldest ice cream parlor, her place of employment since her high school graduation. The window shoppers had long since dissipated and the parking lot occupied just a few cars under the flickering street light. Trees silhouetted against the sickly sky, the breath of the approaching storm floating along the whipping wind.
It crashed against her face, reddening her cheeks.
She sighed and checked her wrist watch, feeling guilty for her impatience. Nate had warned her that he’d be late. She squinted at the darkened entrance of the parking lot, her stomach dropping slightly at the absence of approaching headlights.
“I should have taken Heather up on her offer to stay with me,” Melanie muttered into her chilled hands, recognizing how she hated to be alone. Cold prickled her skin, leaving her arms and face tight and frigid. She curled her arms tightly around her abdomen and squeezed.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. She had loved thunder storms as a child, could remember the fascination she felt at the mysteries of a fork of lightning and the echo of a clap of thunder. She would sit curled up in her father’s armchair next to the window, a mug of hot chocolate teetering on the windowsill as rain trickled down the glass. The flicker of candlelight would dance across the faces of her family as the storm progressed through the night, the house silent save for the old battery radio on the floor.
She shivered, swallowing the familiar lump in her throat that always followed memories of her parents.
Melanie pulled at her ponytail, her brown hair highlighted with a natural red tint she had acquired from her mother.
The green apron she was obligated to wear for her waitressing job at Cynthia’s Parlor sat folded across her lap. She anxiously pulled at its strings. “Where is Nate?” she muttered through gritted teeth. The image of a pale, slightly freckled-faced man emerged to the top of her memories. She thought of black hair gently brushing against his ears and over his forehead, acting almost like a built-in sun visor during the hotter months. Melanie’s brow furrowed as she studied the harsh sky, musing that he would need that hair as an umbrella tonight.
Rain continued to fall in heavy shards from the sky.
“Shoot, Nate,” she murmured, peeling off her coat and draping it over her head. She caught the thin, grey sleeves and tightened them under her neck.
From the second level above, a car’s breaks shrieked.
Melanie turned. The stairwell leading to the upper level was lit through the gloom, the car’s light reflecting off the graffiti speckled walls.
Headlights, foggy and distorted, emerged through the night, lighting the smog a translucent grey. A horn blared through the storm, causing Melanie’s body to jump forward as shouts erupted on the second floor parking level. Her coat slipped onto her lap, and as she waited with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow for more, she ignored the strong thumping of raindrops against her head. She blinked, eyelashes heavy with thick droplets of rain. She stood up, quickly snatching the apron before it fell to the wet ground. With a fleeting glance toward the road, the sparsely placed streetlights highlighting the rain shooting diagonally onto the silver cement, it was clear Nate had not yet arrived.
Angry voices emerged through the storm. A car idled on the next level; the headlights remained.
“What the…” she murmured, her curiosity peaking at the phantom-like fog billowing down the stairwell. She slowly crossed the lot, stuffing her apron into her gold, bohemian-styled pocketbook. She started up the staircase, suddenly conscious of the groan each metal step made against her weight. With her eyes fixed curiously on the second level landing, she lightly climbed, cautious as she went.
The loud crack of thunder struck the stormy night.
As her eyes peaked over the second floor ground, she paused. The lot was empty, just a few vacant cars straggling along the border. But she found herself drawn to the center of the lot, where a black sedan was haphazardly parked across a row of spaces, the engine idling. Its headlights smeared across the thick air.
Two men stood, squared off at each other. One, an older man with a full head of white hair and a thick build, was slowly backing away, his palms outstretched, eyeing his companion cautiously.
The second man was younger, taller, with dark blonde hair bordering a pale face. A long, jagged scar on his left hand etched from the base of his middle finger and curved all the way to his wrist. Melanie wouldn’t have noticed, except in that hand, he held a gun.
“I hate you,” the younger man hissed, his voice a sharp whistle against the wind. Frozen by the sight before her, and in plain view of the two men should they happen to glance her way, Melanie knew she had just two options. One, even though it was easiest, held the most danger. She could remain in her squatting position in front of the stairwell, stricken dumb by her clamoring heart, growing weak with her shaking limbs. Instead, Melanie chose option two, to hide, pushing herself closer to the scene, slinking behind a cement pillar.
The wind carried the low voices past her ears.
“There’s no need to do this.”
“There is. There very much is.”
Gripping the pillar, she poked her head out from the side. The calm, smooth face of the man grasped at her insides, like her guts were a wet washcloth and his expressionless mug was wringing her out.
“Listen,” the older man choked, his head shaking, his skin beneath his chin flapping like a turkey’s wattle.
His response was received in the sharp click of a safety unlatching.
“No!” The older man took a violent lurch back and slammed into the hood of his car. The volume of his voice only magnified the tremor of fear.
“This can’t possibly be a surprise.”
“What do you want? Why are you doing this? I’ll do anything—”
The gunshot came at the same time as the rumble of thunder. A fork of lightning sparked against the sky, followed by the hissing and cracking of a nearby tree.
And then just a whisper. “See you in Hell.”
Melanie gasped, a short, sudden intake of breath that gripped at the inside of her chest. She saw the man drop the gun into his sweatshirt’s pocket and step under the faint stream of light, but it was as though seeing it through someone else’s eyes. Sandy hair, alike in both its color and in its coarse texture, damp from the trickling of raindrops, stuck in limp clusters to the sides of his face. His cheeks flushed, his eyes widening as adrenaline soared through his veins, as he watched the old man’s struggling, failing plight.
The stairwell was a few feet behind. She made to run toward it, but stopped herself when she realized the splash her feet would make over the puddles.
As she frantically decided what to do, trying desperately not to look at the older man’s body marinating in a pool of his own blood, the younger man’s eyes found her.
The sharp attack of his stare unsteadied her as she quickly ducked, a terrified squeak escaping her lips.
For a moment, she thought he would let her go. Just a secret between strangers, a nightmare underneath a thunderstorm.
But then the man’s eyes shot through hers, his hand diving into his sweatshirt’s pocket. Through the gleam of the headlights, she saw his knuckles whiten as his grip intensified against the cold metal, his steady hold pointing right at her, his index finger pulling hard on the trigger.
Bang!
Melanie’s body lurched backward at the sudden explosion, her legs slipping out from under her as she dodged the path of the bullet. Her mouth released the slightest hint of a gasp, her head bursting in agonizing pain as her arm cracked like a series of fireworks.
The shocked grimace mangling the man’s young face…the fork of lightning…a scurry of footsteps…and Melanie fell…
Her limp body hit the concrete.
She did not awaken.