Shannon Kirk [Kirk - Gretchen

PRAISE FOR GRETCHEN

Gretchen terrified me, made me laugh, made my jaw hit the floor... This book is a nightmare, a delight, and a mischief-making, nasty-nice, fairy-tale pixie, all wrapped into one insidious package.

Emily Carpenter, author of Burying the Honeysuckle Girls and Until the Day I Die

Every page of Shannon Kirks intricate thriller Gretchen is a finely crafted piece of a puzzle. With her signature skill, Kirk transforms a heartbreaking study of abandonment, grief, and madness into an exquisite, horrifying riddle screaming to be solved.

Amber Cowie, author of Rapid Falls and Raven Lane

Spine-tingling and deliciously creepy... Gretchen has a way of getting into your head, making you frantically turn the pages to find out what shell do next, and who shell let live.

Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of Her Secret Son and The Neighbors

PRAISE FOR IN THE VINES

Only the crazy-brilliant mind of the super-talented Shannon Kirk could channel Stephen King and Edgar Allan Poeand create this unique and contemporary horrormysterylove story. Only a skilled writer like Kirk could dive into the dark madness of the mind and souland come up with this chilling tale of broken hearts and desperately twisted love.

Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark Awardwinning author

Flowers in the Attic meets The Tell-Tale Heart with a dash of Psycho, Shannon Kirks In the Vines is as dark, tangled, and twisty as the title would suggest. A fascinating portrayal of madness, wealth, and decaying family legacy, Kirks superbly crafted gothic thriller will have you gasping the entire way through. This is an insanely good ride into the mind of a madwoman... just remember to hang on, lest you not make it back out.

Jennifer Hillier, author of Jar of Hearts, nominated for ITW best novel 2019

OTHER TITLES BY SHANNON KIRK

In the Vines

Method 15/33

El Plan 15/33 (Spanish sequel to Method 15/33)

The Extraordinary Journey of Vivienne Marshall

Carter Hank McKater Takes a Sedative at One in the A.M.

(short story in The Night of the Flood)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright 2019 by Shannon Kirk

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542041348

ISBN-10: 1542041341

Cover design by Laywan Kwan

Max, thank you for listening to the early outline of Gretchen.
You have no idea how much your interest motivated me.
This story, like all my stories, is for you. Love, Mom

CONTENTS

This is the worst part,
Reckoning with what Ive become
A half being
The unsaid one
Unmentionable
Unintentional secret

This is the worst part
I am the worst part
Halved here,
Half of the life
You will not live

SCK, 10/18/18 (excerpt from The Worst Part, poem)

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

LUCY

Mom and I are living in our tenth state. Some middle state in the Midwest, and I dont even care to remember the name of the specific one were in right now. I feel the pattern calling. I just know well be running toward our eleventh state soon.

I never know when it will set in, what triggers the drop in my stomach, the sudden glaze of black that envelops my guts. Heavy curtains falling in my brain. But when dread comes calling, its like a predictable pattern, some wheel Mom and I are stuck on. Us two, a couple of spokes.

Someday, I hope we can break this pattern and stay in one state. But Im fifteen, living in our tenth state, in my third high school already, and I felt it this morning. I felt the dread calling again, the click gaining closer to reset the pattern. Again. Again, again. Again. Around the loops and voids of our lives.

When the click happens in our pattern, its a variation of the same theme: Mom or I think someone recognizes her or me, or goddess forbid, both of us. A woman pumping gas lets it overfill because shes staring too long at Mom, seemingly trying to place her. Or the cashier in a pizza place says, while handing a large pepperoni over the counter, You remind me of... hmm... someone. Or Im grocery shopping and run into a bunch of kids from some new school, and one says to another as I pass, The new girl looks like... whos she look like? An actress? That actress? I know I saw something... a picture, a movie? Right?a throwaway line to anyone else, but to us, a red flag. We are rarely together in public, so one always reports these red flags to the other. Its how weve been able to stay on the run for thirteen years.

Because I dont look like anyone in any school Ive ever attended, and I dont know of any actresses who do either. Also, Mom makes me wear colored contacts to hide my violet eyes.

I felt the pattern turn turn turn this morning. All I was doing was the regular, a collection of meaningless morning actions: making toastfrom bread I baked homemadeand steeping French-press coffee. Standing by the open window of our latest rental cottage, the bright morning sun heralded heat for the day. The sill was warm, so I set my hand there as I waited on the toast to pop. Something about my hot palm, the morning suns brightness, the scent of baking bread, the cozy closeness of the pantrys galley counters... maybe all of it together conjured a buried memory. Whatever clicked the dread to descend, I felt the distinctive drop in my stomach, an acknowledgment that led to my heart racing. I saw the whole day roll out before me and held my breathand this sickening anticipation always makes me want to hurl.

I bent in the pantry, placing my hands on each of the facing counters, such that I was a diving bird with wings spread. I closed my eyes and counted to thirty. Imagining the course of the day, I saw Mom and me running back to the cottage. I went through the motions in my mind of the fevered packing, the beat of my legs in panic to get to the car while it was dark and shadows could hide us and neighbors wouldnt see us, stop us, ask questions. I heard in future memory my mother calling the landlord with our preset emergency excuse. Something about a rare jackdaw in the wrong climate of some vague statesome genius bird Mom must document for her book of birds. Thats the latest planned excuse, because thats the current lie were living. And theres always some truth to the lie, easier to remember.

The smoke alarm screamed from my burning toast. I waved a tea towel for the smoke to clear. And once the screaming alarm stopped, I scratched Allens fat-cat tummy and gave him a treat Id concocted from leftover salmon. Then I ran out to Mom, who was waiting in our crappy, brown, used Volvo to take me to my third high school. Im a freshman, soon to be sophomore. Two years ago, she stopped homeschooling me, although with tons of restrictions. My last two finals are tomorrow to end the school year.