The Death of Us, page 1
Contents
Advisement
Author Note Pt 1
Prologue
1. 1994
2. 1994
3. 2022
4. April 17, 1994
5. 1994
6. 1994
7. 2022
8. 1994
9. 1994
10. 1994
11. 1994
12. 1994
13. 2022
14. 1994
15. 1994
16. 1994
17. 2022
18. 1994
19. 2022
20. 2022
21. 2022
22. 2022
23. FREE
24. BUNNY
25. BUNNY
26. BUNNY
27. JUNE 14TH, 1994
28. BUNNY
29. BUNNY
30. BUNNY
31. BUNNY
32. 2022
33. THE END
34. 2022
35. 2022
36. 2022
37. 1994
Playlist
Author Note Pt. 2
Acknowledgments
The Death of Us
Copyright © 2024 by C.A. Mariah
Cover Design: Halle with AJ Wolf Graphics
Interior Formatting: Halle with AJ Wolf Graphics
Editing Services: Nice Girl Naughty Edits
All rights reserved.
The Death Of Us is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, occurrences, or location is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without the written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
For more information, address: authormariah21@gmail.com
Advisement
The Death of Us contains material that may not be suitable for all readers as it has dark themes that may be triggering to some.
The Death Of Us is a thrilling romance with heavy topics and triggering subjects. The situations portrayed in this story are not to be taken lightly.
Triggers include, but are not limited to:
Kidnapping
Trafficking
Mental and Emotional Abuse
Manipulative Behavior
Emotional, Physical, Mental, Sexual Assault
Child Sexual Assault
Gruesome Depictions
Author Note Pt 1
This is my warning to you, dear reader, that The Death Of Us is not your typical romance.
I promise you nothing but the truth.
I’m not afraid to break my own heart. So let me be very clear when I tell you that I’m not afraid to break yours either.
To lovely tragedies
And here I offer you a tale as old as time.
A love like no other.
A beautiful romance written in blood.
"We'll survive, you and I."
F. Scott Fitzgerald
“I love you.”
“Until the end.”
Prologue
2022
EMMA
"Another day, another fucking article about true love, first marriages, and the devastation of divorce. Tell me, Emma, why the fuck are we doing this again?"
"Because we're writers, Megan… We went to school to be writers, so we're going to write."
"Yeah, but not this shit," she mutters under her breath, tapping her stiletto-shaped nails along her keyboard to keep her from typing another empty word.
I understand her frustration. I really do. I didn't work my ass off to get to Columbia University just to sit in a tight eight-by-ten cubical and write inconsequential editorials on how Harry met Sally. I know it's a waste of my potential. It's something that Megan, my parents, and my boyfriend, Levi, like to remind me of daily. But when The Recorder, one of New York's largest newspapers, offered me a position, there was no way I could turn it down, even if it didn't utilize my skills.
Sighing, I get to my third wedding feature of the day. This one is no different from the other two except for the myriad of fireworks that went off at the end. Unfortunately, what should have been a night of bliss for this happy couple turned into a nightmare when they were forced behind bars for burning down their neighbor's trees. A disaster for them, but it makes for a good article. If there's one thing people love to read about, it's a disaster.
"Emma!" I hear my name shouted across the floor. Then, over the sound of keyboards clicking, coffee machines whirring, and the non-stop workplace chatter, I listen to my boss, Reese Laurent, call me into her office. Her strained, raspy voice from her half-pack-a-day habit reminds me of home. I try not to let that affect me as my heels clack on the gray nylon carpet on my way to her.
The walls of her office are crystal-clear windows. They wrap around her space, giving her the best view of the city towers. It's a shame that she clouds them in smoke, just as she does once I close the doors behind me.
"Take a seat," she orders, waving away her cloud of nicotine before taking the chair across from me. While she types something into her computer, I stare at the awards she has displayed on her walls.
One day, those will be mine.
I'll have this office, and it will be my name engraved on those metal placards.
Until then… "I got a story for you. I think you’re going to appreciate this one."
The harsh snap of Reese's voice breaks me from my thoughts and sparks a bit of excitement. Leaning forward in my seat, I tuck my cropped, jet-black hair behind my ear and squint into her piercing gray eyes. "Okay," I say patiently, waiting for her to give me the details, but instead, she continues to stare at me with that displeased look.
Brow cocked, lips pinched, Reese twirls a thin black pen between her fingers and watches me closely. Her eyes hold a glint that's never been directed at me before. Typically, when she looks at someone this way, it's because they did something to piss her off. But what the hell did I do?
"I know you’ve been trying to break out of the wedding section since you first started, and I’ve been tough on you. So here’s your chance for something new."
Okay…
Sensing my apprehension, Reese drops the pen and fiddles with her keyboard. The screen turns bright, illuminating the headline in bold.
Bunny Walker Set for Execution by Electric Chair in the Next— “That’s crazy that they’re bringing it back,” I mutter, addressing the article.
Pausing, Reese folds her fingers over one another, scrutinizing the text. "Did you ever hear about their story? They were two psychotic teenagers who went on that murder spree. Killed a cop, a couple, and a congressman…and even tortured one of their families. The tabloids called them 'The Beauty and The—"
"Blade."
Bunny and Cade.
"You know what they did.”
"I think it's safe to say everybody in the country knows about them." How could we not? Bunny and Cade rocked the world with their violence. Two teens, no more than seventeen, bathed New York state in blood, leaving nothing but a trail of bones and sorrow in their path.
I remember sitting on the floor in my grandmother's house as a little girl, my mom and her in the kitchen cooking and gossiping about other relatives, when a documentary about the two would come on. My legs would be crossed, eyes only inches away from the television, watching as the police carried a slack Bunny out in handcuffs and a deceased Cade in a body bag.
"What a waste," my mom and grandma would both say as the crowds cheered over their capture. Cade's death is unknown, but according to leaked segments of the autopsy report, it was brutal. And Bunny…no one’s heard from her since.
“So then you’d understand why they’re bringing back the death penalty. This woman is a monster. I’m glad my tax dollars won’t be going to her anymore."
By next Friday, the state of New York will hold its first execution in…decades. “I guess I don’t get it. New York doesn’t do capital punishment. They haven’t since the sixties.”
“Well,” Reese tsks, shaking her head swiftly, “They’re making an exception.”
My stomach sinks at the news. What Bunny and Cade did to all those people is…despicable…but bringing back a law that has long since been passed just to kill her doesn’t feel right.
Swallowing past the discomfort in my stomach, I tilt my head to the side. “Is this my story?” I ask, as my nerves burst into uncontrollable elation. I bounce in my seat, stuttering over my thanks and promises.
“Oh my God, thank you! I-I won’t let this opportunity—"
“Woah. Woah. Woah. Hold on.” Lips pursed, Reese reaches across her desk, pulling a laminated sheet from beneath stacks of mail. “I’m sorry to give you the wrong impression, but this isn’t going to you. Jerry’s taking this one. This,” she utters, extending the slip to me, “is what I wanted to share with you. I want you to cover the mayor’s newborn’s baptism. They’ve invited the press into the grand ceremony.”
Confidence deflating, I take the invitation weakly, eyeing the gold lettering with tears in my eyes.
“I’m sorry if this disappoints you, Emma. You just don’t have what it takes for the big stuff yet. But don’t worry. You’ll get there.” I’m dismissed from her office with a cold smile, one that doesn’t even hold until I reach the door.
“What did she want?” Megan asks. I don’t say anything. I simply hand her the invite and throw myself back into wo
Losing myself in the dull, cliché world of weddings, I failed to notice the call that lit my screen. I pause the music in my ears and palm my phone, studying the number I don’t recognize. After looking it up and discovering nothing, I attempt to call it back. There’s no ringing or voicemail, just an empty line before it clicks off.
Puzzled and slightly panicked, I lift the device to my ear and listen to the voicemail. With my arms pressed into my stomach, I’m leaning into the call. At first, all I hear is the buzzing sound of static, nothing but white noise to add to the quietness of my breathing, but then something new.
I feel it more than I hear it, the crack of a smile splitting lips in two.
“Hello, Miss Brookes. My name is Bernice Walters. You can look me up if you don’t know who I am—” Bunny. “Anyway, I’m dying on Friday, but I have some things to get off my chest before I do.”
There’s a pause in the message. It almost sounds as if she’s catching her breath, but then I hear her smile return, and I’m left with a chill that wasn’t there before.
“Our meeting would have to be discreet. I’ll have someone help you with that. I only ask one favor of you, Miss Brookes. Keep an open mind.”
My stomach sinks into hollow cavities as I recline in my chair, seeing if anyone meets my eyes across the office. I’m thinking, surely, this has to be a fucking joke, a prank on the desperate wedding writer, but no one laughs… No one’s staring as Bunny finishes in my ear. “I look forward to our visit.”
I can still hear her grin as the line goes dead, and even long after the hissing static fades from my ears, she’s all that’s in my head.
“What the fuck?”
“What?”
Shaking myself out of a stupor, Bunny’s satiny voice still slithering around my mind, I turn toward Megan, who hangs over my stall with a concerned pout. I say nothing but shake my head, waiting until she returns to her space before going back to my call. I listen to it three more times, ingraining the words into my mind, and then I lock it away and sit stiffly in my seat.
I write cutesy articles about weddings and finding true love that appears at the back of the paper. I’m not writing headline news…so why me? Why does Bernice ‘Bunny’ Walters want her first and final words to be with me?
I try to wrap my brain around why she chose me out of everyone. In terms of writers, I’m not the best at The Recorder. Fuck, I’m probably not even the best in my department. There are other journalists who are more qualified. “What?” Holy shit.
Shutting down my computer, I push away from my desk and head back through the hallway. My feet guide me back into Reese’s office without any help. “I need a few days off. Family emergency.” I may not know why Bunny Walker chose me, but I’m going to go find out and bring this company the best fucking story they have ever seen.
Oakwood Correctional is three hours outside of New York City, and that’s on a good day.
Today is not a good day.
I had to leave my tiny apartment at four this morning to make it to our eight o'clock meet-up time, and still, I was late.
I park in front of the entrance to the prison, ID in hand, practicing my introduction in the mirror because I’m nervous, and I suck at speaking when I’m anxious.
“Hi, my name is Emma Brookes. I have an interview today with—”
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
“Oh God!” My hand slaps my chest, heart racing. I shift to the window and eye the male guard standing outside my car. With caution, I roll the glass down a crack, enough to ask if he needs anything without danger. “Can I help you?”
“You seeing an inmate today here, ma’am?”
“Um. I am,” I state simply, keeping with who to myself.
“May I see some identification?” Confused, I question why. Aren’t I supposed to hand over my belongings inside?
He responds with a tight-lipped “Ma’am,” fingers parted for the ID in my hand. I still don’t understand why I’m not doing this inside, but I slide my ID through the slit in the window, waiting while he scrutinizes every detail.
With no expression, the officer drones for me to step out of the vehicle. “Okay, um, is there an issue? I was requested—” But he cuts me off with a swift shake of his head, a sly finger to his lips.
“I want you to go inside and step up to the second window. She won’t ask you anything, but don’t say a word if she does. Hand her your ID and go through the security clearance. I’ll handle it from there.” The officer hands me back my card and walks away without another word, disappearing between cars.
I process the strange interaction for a moment, ID loose in my hold. The instructions he delivered were simple enough, but the shadiness of this interview is making me squeamish. Shaking away the intrusion of doubt, I jump away from my vehicle and glide toward the entrance, ensuring to slap a smile on my face as I step through.
“Hi, my name is—”
The guard with a slicked bun and bright red lips doesn’t even look at me before barking, “ID.” She’s rude and tired in her tone, probably because she wants me to move along so she can finish whatever show she’s watching on the computer.
Within seconds, I have a visitor's pass made and roughly jolted my way. My smile is less sincere as I take the pass and ID, following her directions to walk to the right. I do as I’m told, stepping through the buzzing door into the chest of an officer three times as large as me. I begin to apologize, but he quickly interrupts me with strict instructions.
“Back against the wall, please. Arms out to your sides with your feet apart.” A bit taken aback by his tone, I drop my oversized canvas bag on the white plastic table for another guard to go through while he pats me down.
While his hands search me, I watch as the other roughly handles my equipment. Then, without care, he tosses my phone and recorder into a bin, securing it within a locker before muttering, “Clear.”
“Here as well. You’ll get your belongings at the end of the day.”
“Well, actually, I need those—”
“End of day.”
With a tight smile, I nod and step away from the wall, taking some of my items back from the guard's extended hand just as a familiar officer walks down the brightly lit hallway.
“Jordan, I’ll take her. You’re wanted down in the fields.” This mountain of a man looms over me a second longer before agreeing and stalking off. I’m left standing between the mysterious guard and the one behind the table.
“Thanks,” I say, taking my bag with missing items from his outstretched hands before turning around to introduce myself. He beats me to it, taking me by the hand while the other snakes around my back.
“My name is Officer Cole Cyrus. Hope I didn’t freak you out too much out there. I needed to make sure who you were before I brought you inside.”
“Um, no. It-it was fine. I understand. Thanks.”
“Great. It’ll be easier next time,” he utters. Eyeing the neglectful officers behind the desk, he motions me forward. My booted-heeled feet click on the linoleum in my haste to keep up, leaving me with hardly the chance to take in my surroundings as we enter hallway after hallway.
Uhhh. “Where are we going?” I ask, noticing how the blinding white lights above my head slowly dim into dull yellow beams. The farther we walk, the quieter the clamor and roars of frenzied women calling out for my attention become. They offered sickening praises and made promises that had me clenching my bag into knots before we strolled down an unmarked corridor.
