Morning light filtered through the kitchen blinds, slicing the dining table into neat ribbons of brightness.
Gwen sat at the table, a latte before her with only two sips taken.
Her long blonde hair draped over her shoulders, and faint dark circles hung beneath her eyes.
She had spent over an hour perched on a rooftop in the wind last night, returning home to less than two hours of sleep.
Somewhere in the middle, she’d had a nightmare about turning in a blank sheet for her physics exam, only to wake up and find her pillow on the floor and her neck stiff.
She swirled the coffee cup with her fingertip, her mind replaying last night’s phone call.
“Find somewhere else to sleep.” What kind of thing was that to say?
From the kitchen came the sizzle of grease in a pan.
Helen Stacy stood at the stove, wearing a pale blue apron, using long-handled tongs to move strips of fried bacon onto a plate one by one.
Her movements were crisp, the spacing uniform, the gap between each slice precise to an almost maddening degree.
She had been an ER nurse for nearly twenty years; her hand with the bacon tongs was as steady as it was with a cotton ball.
On the other side of the table sat Gwen’s two younger brothers.
Twelve-year-old Howard was half-heartedly poking at a fried egg with his fork.
The yolk had already been pierced, bleeding across the plate, yet he kept poking.
Nine-year-old Simon was focused on tearing his bacon into tiny pieces and lining them up, muttering something under his breath.
Gwen listened for a moment and realized he was playing a game of “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” Whichever piece of bacon he landed on, he ate.
Then he rearranged the survivors and started again.
Sometimes Gwen really didn’t know what went on inside Simon’s head.
“Out again last night?” Helen didn’t turn around.
Her tone was flat, as casual as asking if they were out of milk.
Gwen’s bite of toast froze.
Crap.
Busted.
She was rapidly organizing her thoughts—saying she was at MJ’s house studying, or that the band had an emergency rehearsal— “Yeah, she was.” George Stacy’s voice came from the stairs, taking the bullet for her.
Gwen turned to see her father walking down in his crisp, pressed police uniform, car keys in hand.
The expression on his face wasn’t quite right.
It wasn’t the “my daughter snuck out again” kind of annoyance.
It was something else.
Something heavier.
George set his keys on the table and pulled out a chair.
Without a word, Helen set a cup of black coffee in front of him.
George glanced at Helen, his mouth opening as if to speak, but he hesitated.
Helen ignored him, turning back to the stove to finish cleaning up.
“Gwen,” George said, taking a sip of coffee.
“Don’t stay out too late after school lately.” “Why?
What’s wrong?” “That Mummified Corpse Killer.
He struck again in Queens.” Gwen put her toast down.
Across the table, Howard’s fork stopped.
Simon was still lining up bacon.
“Another one?” “Last night.
West side of Queens, an abandoned warehouse.” George’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table.
“The victim was a homeless man.
The scene had some…
unusual elements.” He pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, and turned the screen toward Gwen.
The photo showed a corner of the scene; scattered across the gray concrete floor were several small, black objects.
Gwen squinted for a few seconds before she could identify them.
Spiders.
Dozens of them.
All curled up, legs tucked inward, shriveled—as if something had hollowed them out from the inside.
Helen walked over with her coffee cup and caught a glimpse of the photo over Gwen’s shoulder.
Her expression didn’t change.
“These dead spiders were all over the scene.
Dozens of them.” George pulled the phone back.
“The initial forensic check says they aren’t a common species.
Their internal tissues have almost completely vanished, leaving only the husks.” “What species?” Gwen asked.
George shook his head.
“Still being identified.
But they aren’t a variety common to New York.” Gwen took a sip of her latte.
It was already cold.
Helen returned to the sink and turned on the faucet to start the dishes.
The water hammered against the porcelain with a loud rush.
“It’s not just about a serial killer, George.” Her voice blended with the sound of the water.
“Are you warning Gwen, or are you warning yourself?” George set down his coffee cup, his lips twitching.
“I just thought…
Gwen should know.” “There are many things Gwen should know.” Helen turned off the faucet and turned around to look at Gwen, a dishcloth still in her hand.
“Sweetie, what your father means is: come home early after school.” Gwen nodded.
“I get it, Mom.
I’ll be careful.” George sat in his chair for a few more seconds before finally standing up.
He grabbed his keys and paused at the door.
He looked back at Gwen, then at Helen, looking like he wanted to say something, but he ultimately didn’t.
He pushed the door open and left.
From outside came the muffled thud of a car door closing.
The table fell silent for three seconds.
“What’s a Mummified Corpse Killer?” Howard looked up, a piece of egg white still stuck on his fork.
“Eat your breakfast and stop talking,” Helen said.
“Why am I never allowed to join the interesting conversations—” “Howard.” Howard stuffed the egg white into his mouth and went silent.
Simon finished his last piece of bacon, wiped his hands contentedly, and never once looked up from start to finish.
Gwen sometimes suspected the kid actually heard everything; he just thought bacon was more interesting than serial killers.
The only sounds left in the kitchen were the dripping faucet and Simon’s chewing.
Gwen looked down at the coffee stains remaining in her cup, her mind looping over that photo.
The curled legs of those spiders, the shells so thin they were translucent, the tiny ruptures in their abdomens—there had to be a link between them and the killer.
But a piece of the logical chain was missing in the middle, and no matter how she thought about it, she couldn’t connect them.
“Mom,” Gwen said, looking up.
Helen was wiping the stove, her movements steady.
“Do you believe there are…
abnormal things in this world?” Helen’s hand paused for a single beat.
Just one.
Then she folded the rag, draped it over the faucet, and turned to lean against the counter, looking at Gwen.
Her gaze was strange.
It wasn’t surprise, or worry, or dismissal.
Gwen couldn’t quite name it, but she had a feeling—Helen had been waiting for this question for a long time.
“I’ve worked in the ER for twenty years,” Helen said.
“I’ve seen a bullet enter a man’s temple and come out the other side, and that man was still able to sit on a gurney and talk to me about his daughter’s tuition.
I’ve seen a man whose heart stopped for eight minutes; after he was resuscitated, he grabbed my hand and told me he saw Jesus, and that Jesus was wearing Adidas slides.” Gwen almost laughed.
But Helen’s tone wasn’t joking.
“Of the things I’ve seen, half have no medical explanation, and the other half—” she paused.
“I don’t want to explain them at all.” She turned the faucet back on, rinsing the last two plates.
The water was loud.
“So, yes.” She kept her back to Gwen, her voice kept low by the rushing water.
“I believe there are abnormal things in this world.
But I don’t want them anywhere near my family.” The last sentence was spoken so softly that Gwen wasn’t sure if she had misheard it.
She sat in her chair, staring at Helen’s back for a long time.
Sunlight slanted in through the window, hitting the floor, but the light didn’t reach where Helen stood.
She was positioned in the shadow between the stove and the sink, her spine perfectly straight, the same posture she’d spent twenty years practicing in the ER.
Gwen suddenly felt as if she had never truly known her mother.
She pushed the thought down and stood up to grab her backpack.
As she reached the kitchen door, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Helen on the cheek.
“I’m leaving.” “Come home early.” Helen didn’t turn around.
Gwen pushed the door open and walked out.
The Queens morning light hit her face, bright and sharp.
She squinted, pulling her phone from her pocket to check the time.
7:42 AM.
Eight hours and eighteen minutes until 4:00 PM.
The library.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket and headed toward the bus stop.
After a few steps, she stopped again, pulling up last night’s call history.
The number was still there, unsaved.
She hesitated for three seconds before typing a few characters.
“Alex.” She thought about it, deleted it, and changed it to “Physics Problems.” She thought about it again and deleted everything.
The text box remained empty.
Whatever.
She’d deal with it when the time came.
Gwen locked her screen and hurried toward the bus stop.
Behind her, through the Stacy kitchen window, Helen set down the dishcloth she had been gripping.
She stood there, watching her daughter’s figure disappear around the corner.
She picked up Gwen’s unfinished latte and poured it into the sink.
The coffee swirled once against the white porcelain before vanishing down the drain.
Helen turned off the faucet, and the kitchen fell into sudden silence.
“Mom, I’m done with my line,” Simon said, holding up an empty plate.
“…You ate it all.” “Yeah.
Every piece was chosen.” Helen stared at her youngest son for three seconds and decided not to think about the logic of that statement.