Lovely Bad Things
Hollow’s Row: Book One
Trisha Wolfe
Copyright © 2022 by Trisha Wolfe
All rights reserved.
Publisher: Lock Key Press, LLC
Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Playlist
Quote
1. Six Months Ago
2. Killing Fields
3. Wicked Eyes
4. Bag of Tricks
5. Deal with the Devil
6. The Insane Root
7. Into the Abyss
8. Divine Madness
9. Deities of Frenzy
10. Dance with the Devil
11. Will to Power
12. Bridge to Rebirth
13. Awakening
14. Chaos of the Heart
15. Hidden Wisdom
16. The Duality
Epilogue
Free Novella
Darkly, Madly Duet
With Visions of Red
Also by Trisha Wolfe
Acknowledgments
The Lovely Bad Things Spotify Playlist click here
Wicked Game - Chris Isaak
Runnin’ with the Devil - Van Halen
The Funeral - Band of Horses
Don’t Fear the Reaper - Gus Black
Angel - Massive Attack
Sweet Dreams - Trinix
Where is my Mind - Pixies
Running up that Hill - Placebo
Deep End - Ruelle
Madness - Ruelle
Paint it Black - Ciara
Come Back - The Misfits
(Don’t Fear) The Reaper - Keep Shelly in Athens
Wicked Game - Jessie Villa
One must cultivate one’s own garden.
Candide, Voltaire
Six Months Ago
Halen
The courtroom air is a living, visceral force as it breathes over the crowded bodies in the pews. The weight of it bears down on my uncomfortable dress suit, the material too stiff, the seams slightly off-center, making the atmosphere dense as a current arcs between me and the defendant.
A shock of heat licks my skin as his soulless gaze attempts to penetrate my resolve, to try to weaken me. Slate-green and the hottest blue embers, his eyes are a thing of beauty, like being lured into quicksand.
The disarming temptation draws you close before you fall into the abyss.
The expensive black suit enfolds his leanly cut form like a sheath over a blade, striking and lethal. Only an indication of his tattooed skin sneaks past the collar. The tip of an archaic design swirls along the lower part of his neck. Inked sigils mark his fingers. He taps his thumb ring against the defendant’s table in rhythmic succession to the clicking of the A/C vent.
A crooked grin curls his full lips as I take my seat on the witness stand after I’ve been sworn in to give my testimony.
Judge McCarthy may reside over this proceeding, but this courtroom is Kallum Locke’s church. He rules over the eager mass, charming his flock, a magician with a bag of tricks.
His deception is flawless. If you can’t see past the handsome, sophisticated philosophy professor with sleek black hair and alluring eyes, then you fail to notice the gruesome crime-scene photos stacked along the wall.
The victim, Percy Wellington, was the fourth in a string of ritualistic murders that ranged across five New England states. I’d been working the Harbinger case for eleven months when I got called to the university crime scene in Cambridge.
Just twenty miles away from the third scene where I was stationed.
Right away, I noticed the differences between the cases. The distance, for one: the Harbinger killer always separated his kills by state lines. The timing: only five days between kills, whereas the killer typically waited at least two months. Which could indicate he was devolving, but then there was the method:
The Harbinger killer performed a ceremony, adorning his victims like the fabled harbinger of death and doom, the death’s-head hawkmoth. Once the victim was transformed into the moth with the face of a skull, the killer decapitated the head. This was part of his ritual to try to stave off a doomsday he believed would befall the world.
He always left a letter—written in block letters; no DNA or prints—at the scenes, forewarning about the end of times, a vague event he predicted would occur to wipe out humanity.
First responders recovered no letter at the Cambridge scene.
Rather, the university crime scene was more personal in nature. The perpetrator seemed to either hesitate with severing the head or physically struggle, using a different instrument altogether after a violent attack that left the victim disfigured.
Again, all these findings could denote a devolving offender, becoming increasingly more unhinged and desperate—but it was what transpired my final day at the scene that tipped the scales, and why I’m seated in this courtroom now.
After a brief welcome and introduction, the defense attorney, Charles Crosby, approaches the witness stand. “Miss St. James, you were only on the case for three days, is this correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I respond.
“And in those three days, how many interactions did you have or interviews did you conduct with the defendant?”
“One,” I answer honestly. “As a specialized criminologist, I study the scene of a crime to build a profile for investigators. I rarely have the opportunity to interview suspects.”
I regret my words immediately. I can and do conduct interviews with suspects, but it depends on the factors of each case. Like this one, where it was evident within a short period who the suspect was, and I had no reason to delve deeper into my investigation of the scene.
“I see,” he says, his gaze fixed on my streak of white hair. “So when you conducted your one and only interview with Professor Locke, how much bearing did that conversation have on your profile, the one that named my client as the prime suspect?”
I incline my head. Instead of answering his baiting question, I pull out my phone and lay it on the witness bench.
Crosby immediately objects. “Not in evidence, your honor,” he declares.
I speak up before the state’s attorney can argue any point. “Counsel asked specifically for me to explain what bearing my interview had on my analysis,” I say. “I think admitting my testimony into evidence is only relevant if that interview is also admitted.”
Crosby interjects again. “Boston is a two-party consent state, your honor, and my client did not give his consent to be recorded.”
Judge McCarthy calls both lawyers up to the bench. I overhear arguments for federal law consent and expectations of privacy, before the judge dismisses the lawyers.
“Miss St. James,” the judge addresses me, “where did this conversation take place?”