Page 62 of Little Twisted Things

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“You’ve been looking at the victims, Detective Walker. Dahlia was looking at the children they left behind. So every cheating husband became a reminder. Not of Katherine’s father. Of the little girl crouched in the corner of the room, watching her family disappear. Trauma explains behavior, but it doesn’t excuse it. I tried to stop her. To reason with her. But her twisted mind was too far gone. After she killed the professor, the others and I assembled and agreed she needed to be stopped. We forced Katherine back into this world and locked Dahlia away for good. Katherine needs help, Detective Walker. It may have been her body that physically murdered those men, but it wasn’t Katherine. She shouldn’t be punished for something she had no control over. She came to you for help.”

She closed her eyes, and after a moment, they opened.

“I’m sorry, Detective Walker. What did you ask me?”

“Katherine?” My brows furrowed.

“Yes.”

35

The Librarian

I sat behind my desk. My palms lay flat on the locked book in front of me. I knew everything. I kept precise records. For years I’d cataloged every memory. Every conversation. Every front. Every lost hour. Except this one. This book was securely locked and had never allowed itself to be opened. My fingers brushed over the cover. It was cold. Colder than any book I’d ever touched.

This wasn’t Dahlia’s doing. That much I knew. Someone else had locked this book/memory away. I heard something hit the floor. It sounded like a piece of metal. I looked down next to my chair, and a tiny brass key lay there. I reached down, picked it up, and studied it. I stared at the brass lock on the book. I slid the tiny brass key into the lock. I slowly turned it until I heard a click. I opened the cover. The first page was blank, as were the next five pages. When I reached the sixth page, my eyes widened as I stared at the words: If you’re reading this, I finally let you find me.

I turned the page.

You always believed you kept the records. And you never wondered who decided which records you were allowed to keep.

Impossible. I remembered everything. Didn’t I? I flipped the page. Photographs appeared. Memories. Quick flashes.

You cataloged memories. I buried the little twisted things we’d all done.

For the first time, I was truly frightened. I flipped to the next page.

You believed you knew everyone inside this house. You never counted me. I’ve been here before any of you. Before Katherine turned five and her mother killed her father.

A chill ran down my spine. The grandfather clock in the corner stopped ticking, and every light in the library went dark.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

This is your last chapter, Librarian.

I could hear the screams of the others as I felt a tight grip around my throat. I struggled. I fought. But it was stronger. Then everything went black.

36

Detective Paige Walker

I left the room and rubbed the back of my neck.

“You’re not buying that bullshit. Are you?” My partner, Elijah, asked.

“I’ve seen this before, Elijah.”

“What do you mean?” His brows furrowed.

“I had a friend in high school with multiple personality disorder. Now they call it dissociative identity disorder. I was friends with one of her alters and didn’t realize it.”

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“She was sent away to a psychiatric hospital. When I visited her, she had no idea who I was. A couple of years later, she hung herself in her room. What I just witnessed in there is real. No wonder we couldn’t tie Katherine to those murders. Dahlia made sure we never could.”

“It doesn’t matter, Paige. We still have to arrest Katherine Tate.”