The marbhaven reaper, p.1
The Marbhaven Reaper, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
. Chapter
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-one
22. Chapter Twenty-two
23. Chapter Twenty-three
24. Chapter Twenty-four
25. Chapter Twenty-five
26. Chapter Twenty-six
27. Chapter Twenty-seven
28. Chapter Twenty-eight
29. Chapter Twenty-nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-one
32. Chapter Thirty-two
33. Chapter Thirty-three
34. Chapter Thirty-four
35. Chapter Thirty-five
36. Chapter Thirty-six
37. Chapter Thirty-seven
38. Chapter Thirty-eight
Acknowledgements
About the author
The Marbhaven Reaper
Maile Starr
Copyright © 2024 by Maile Starr
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact starrmaile@gmail.com with the email Subject: Permissions Inquiry.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Cover Designed by Maldo Designs.
Formatted by Maldo Designs.
Edited by EJL Editing.
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9914306-0-9
eBook ISBN: 979-8-9914306-1-6
To Sweet Peas and Knuckle Heads everywhere,
grief is the weight of a nickname never to be spoken again.
For a full list of trigger and content warnings please visit: CONTENT WARNINGS
Chapter One
She talked often about where we’d go if we ever lost each other.
Whenever we were anywhere more crowded than Marbhaven that is. Marbhaven, Oregon: home to a mere 2,300 souls, a harbor that smells perpetually of fish, and cliffsides that spiral up and up and up, gatekeeping the only pathway out.
Marbhaven is home to one of everything and nothing more. One grocery store, one restaurant, one candy shop.
I remember the chewy saltwater taffy that Mom let me try free samples of when I was a kid, only the free samples, never a whole bag. The stories she told me to distract me from heavy rain pounding against our roof. The sound of the waves calmed everything around us.
I hear them now, the waves. They don’t calm me today.
Today, as I sit on the bench where I last saw her, the waves are ominous whispers. It’s as though I’m being watched, listened to, talked about.
“Go to the place where we last saw each other, Jade, and we’ll find each other.” Mom said this every time we entered a crowded place, the occasional mall, a museum, anywhere.
Well, I’m here. Where is she?
The last few days are a blur of colors and streetlamps, crashing waves and headlights. First, Mom called on Sunday to tell me that Father Iraci had stood in for Father Rodriguez's usual service.
I wasn't that bothered, figured he was sick. When Mom went to check on him, he wasn’t home, or anywhere. Then three days later, my little sisters called in a panic because Mom hadn't come home from her job as a scientist three towns over.
My eyes are fixed on the waves, but my thoughts are elsewhere. A steady ticking has taken residence in my head. Ticking as the hours wear on. Ticking until, statistically, Mom is most likely never coming home. Thirteen more hours and that's it. We’ll have hit seventy-two hours, and the police will start searching for her body instead of her.
I’m stuck in purgatory, perpetually waiting.
Waiting for Mom, waiting for my sisters, Raina and Anisha, to come home from school. They’d be home if I hadn’t had to speak to the most unhelpful person in the world. Officer Meyer, our only police officer, offered no hope at all. Too much for a couple of ten-year-olds.
“Jade!” Deanna calls from the house. Her black hair is pulled back into complicated braids that only Deanna can manage. A light blue sweater clings to her as she beckons me, pale skin red from the wind chill. “School bus!”
My heart pounds in my chest and tangled black hair gets caught in my eyelashes. I’m fighting the wind all the way back to the house, through the still messy kitchen, and out into the front yard.
I reach Raina just in time to catch her in a whirl of blond curls. She wraps her arms around me fiercely.
I didn’t realize how worried I was that they wouldn’t make it home.
Anisha's dark blue hair hangs limply around her face. She’s subdued coming down the school bus steps. Her eyes are empty, they have been since I came back from college.
She walks straight past my outstretched arm.
I wish I could say I was holding out hope, but when someone like Vanessa Zaveri goes missing? You have to wonder who was confident enough to mess with her, and then you doubt that she's safe.
“How was school?” I fight to keep my voice even. Anisha snorts derisively and walks past me. Raina smiles weakly and tries to reassure me that her day was good, but I know it was a stupid question, anyway.
They toss their backpacks down in the entryway and collapse on the couch. Deanna shoves two steaming mugs of cocoa into their hands and busies herself cleaning the kitchen.
She's dropped everything and called out of work for the past two days for us. All the Cherishés have. I've never been more thankful to have her as a friend, but I wish she didn't have to do this. She's still saving up for college. I’m hoping Mr. Jones at the diner doesn’t fire her for the amount of work she’s missed. I stand to help her, but she practically pushes me back down onto the sofa.
“Jade Zaveri, you sit back down and wait for your hot cocoa.” Her tone is so mom-like that I obey her out of reflex. We don’t sit in silence for long.
“Mom?” Raina asks expectantly.
I shake my head solemnly. “Not yet, kid.” She usually hates it when I call her kid, something that would typically goad me into doing it more. We’ve all let a lot slide lately.
“What happened to her?” she asks, more insistently.
I bite my lip, trying to figure out what ten-year-olds would understand. Maybe understand isn’t the right word. I’m more concerned with what won’t shatter them. “We know she left work but didn’t make it home. Something happened to her in the middle.”
“Do you think someone killed her?” Raina’s voice is high-pitched but controlled. More controlled than Anisha, obsessively biting her nails.
“I”—my voice stops. The air simply refuses to come. I force myself to take in air, then let it out. Father Rodriguez, then Mom. Why?—“I don’t believe that. No matter what anyone says.”
Anisha takes a sip of her cocoa. Her dark blue curls spill over her shoulder on one side. “What makes you so sure?” Derisive, but hopeful. She doesn’t want to get her hopes up, but God, don’t we all want to get our hopes up?
“I know that you guys have only known her as a pretty normal mom, but when I was a kid? Things were different. Mom’s tough.”
A memory of Mom on this very couch plays in my mind. She’s reckoning with a pile of bills and staring a social worker down with a fiery blue-eyed glare.
“She’s gonna be okay.” I turn back to them. “We have to have faith that she’ll be okay.”
They nod slowly, sipping their cocoa. I hand them the TV remote and retreat to the kitchen. I know how to play with them, clean up some scrapes, and occasionally discuss the fifth-grade drama. I’m not equipped for this.
“Deanna?” I whisper. She pauses her feverish scrubbing of the wooden counters. “Your dad. He didn’t happen to see Mom before she went missing, did he?”
“No.” Deanna makes to wipe her hands off on her sweater and reconsiders, using the kitchen towel instead. “Why would he?”
“Oh c’mon!” I scoff. “You’ve seen them flirt. At church?”
Deanna smirks reluctantly. “I have. But he didn’t see her.” Her brow furrows. “Like you said, Jade”—she clasps my hand in hers—“we have to have faith.”
I nod, my lips tightening in an effort to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill ov er. Not in front of Deanna. She’s doing enough already.
“That’s the same thing you’ve been wearing for the past two days, isn’t it?” Deanna’s grey-eyed gaze passes over me. “I remember you arriving in that.”
“I . . . yeah,” I sigh.
“Go upstairs and get changed. I’ve got it down here.”
“Are you sure?” She waves me off insistently. I make my way through the living room and up the stairs. They creak.
Usually, I know the path that doesn’t make noise up and down the stairs, but I’m too distracted.
My room is in the corner farthest away from the stairs. Mom’s is the closest. The entire reason I know how to get down the stairs without making noise.
I’ve only been back for a few days, but my room is already messy. It certainly doesn’t help that I threw some stuff around after stupid Officer Meyer asked me if my dad could have had anything to do with this.
I told her that I’d never met the man, and he hadn’t spoken to Mom since shortly after I was born. She made quite the show of explaining that this happened with men like my dad. It wasn’t hard to read between the lines.
Mom is white. I’m not. I have a good idea what my dad must have looked like.
My hand forms a fist around the hoodie I’ve chosen from my closet. It’s a light green that brings out my bright green eyes. Mom gave it to me on my fifth birthday, telling me that it used to be my dad’s, and she wanted me to have it. I run my fingers along the soft inside of the hoodie, remembering how it used to swallow me up to wear it.
I throw it on along with a pair of thrifted jeans that I let Deanna embroider with leaves and blueberries back in high school, then drag a brush mercilessly through my wind-tangled black hair. It’s down to my waist now, and every day that the wind gets to it, I want to chop it off.
I make my way to the bathroom, hoping to wash my face and be somewhat presentable for the rest of the day. I’m tired of feeling dirty and sad already. I want to get rid of one of them. Plus, Deanna’s older brother takes over tonight.
Which is nice of him. Out of that whole family, Aaron’s the best cook. If I can stomach eating tonight, I know I’ll eat well.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror, trying to steel myself to go back downstairs. An outcropping of zits is forming on my chin, but I can’t bring myself to care. My feet drag the rest of my body downstairs and into the kitchen to help Deanna. Instead, I end up asking her to do my hair.
My hair is pulled up into jet black knots and braids, wrapping forever around the crown of my head. Deanna spared no effort. I hardly ever let her do my hair and it’s much longer than hers. I’m glad, if only for the brief distraction it gave Raina and Anisha when Deanna tried to show them how to do a rope braid. Raina’s hair is now pulled into knots all about her head.
“To bring out the curls tomorrow morning,” Deanna said.
Anisha’s blue hair is pulled back into what Deanna called warrior braids.
Deanna’s gone now. The house is loudly empty without a fourth. The clock continues to tick by.
Nine hours. Where is she?
Anisha is twisting her hair in worry, biting her lip, and staring at the door. Raina is buried deep in her homework, but she hasn’t moved past problem one. I should be doing my own homework, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Not when I think—I know that I’ll have to drop out soon.
There’s a knock at the door, gentle but firm. “Upstairs!” I hiss. “Go.”
They drop their things without a word and scurry up the stairs. What if they’ve come back? What if Father Rodriguez and Mom weren’t enough? I have to bend down to properly see through the peephole.
A pale man in his early twenties with flouncy black waves holds three bags of groceries in his hands. I open the door hurriedly, but the metal latch stops it after only a few inches. My face burns.
“Hold on,” I mutter, closing the door, undoing the latch, and opening it again. “Aaron! It’s good to see you again.”
“You too, Jade.” He wraps his free arm around my shoulder.
I shut the door behind him and pull the latch again. “Raina! Anisha! You can come back down.” Footsteps thunder down the creaky steps. They clearly haven’t had cause to learn the path of least resistance yet.
“Aaron!” they shout, barreling into him. They’ve been hugging everyone more frequently and harder lately. The danger certainly hasn’t slipped past them.
One of the grocery bags falls to the floor as Aaron attempts to hug them both back. “Let go, guys.” I laugh shortly and pick up the fallen groceries. Aaron follows me into the kitchen, and we unpack the meal for tonight.
“How was college?” Aaron asks carefully.
Aaron was years ahead of me in school, going off to college when I was only a freshman in high school. He babysat the girls on a number of occasions when I was busy, and I’ll always be grateful that because of him I was allowed one after-school club.
“It was alright.” I shrug.
“You were going for . . .” He waits for me to answer, turning on the stove. At least he’s accepted the past tense when it comes to my schooling. It’s a lot easier than Deanna’s persistent hopefulness.
“Math.” I toss him a freshly washed tomato. “Calculus was a lot of fun, actually.”
“You can always learn online, Jade.” He chops with a practiced finesse that I can’t help but stare at. “I know it’s going to be tough with the girls, but we’re here for you. You don’t have to give up yet.”
“I hardly had time for myself in high school.” I laugh humorlessly, burying down the seed of resentment that is building in me. I’m happy to do this instead of them going into foster care. I won’t let it happen, not after what Mom went through before Nani Anisha adopted her. “Speaking of, do you know anywhere that’s hiring?”
“Flower shop down the street.” Aaron points his knife in the direction of the front door. “Remember Amy? I set up prom with her for you guys?” I nod. “She’s a great boss. She’d treat you right, give you the time off you need. It’s good pay.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe I’ll send you a math problem a day from my grad school textbooks, huh? Keep those skills sharp?” I roll my eyes. “Jade, I’m serious. If there’s one thing I learned from Dad when everything happened with Mom, it’s not to forget to take time for yourself.”
I nod somberly. Raina and Anisha weren’t even born yet when Lauren Cherishé died. It wasn’t exactly a surprise with her in and out of the hospital for months, but the blow was devastating. Especially the realization that we would never again taste her marionberry pie or—or—
Sobs issue from my mouth completely unbidden. My elbows catch me on the counter as my legs give out underneath me. I hear the clatter of the pot being dropped onto the stove and then Aaron’s arms are around me.
Before I can compose myself, small footsteps pound into the kitchen. Through my bleary eyes, I see Anisha’s bright blue braids. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry——” I say, gasping for air.
Aaron relinquishes me and turns to them for a split second. “Can you do me a favor and run a bath upstairs? I think it would really help her.”
I hiccup in confusion, trying to shrink away from their little faces. They do as he says, the stairs creaking on their way up.
“That should keep them occupied for a while,” he mutters. “Come here.” I bury my face in his neck, shaking uncontrollably. “Hey. Hey. I know, Jade. Believe me, I know how this feels.”
“How did you do it? God, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” He smooths my hair back. “And my situation was completely different. I was a kid. I barely knew what was going on and we still had Dad to take care of us.”
I’m all alone.
“You’re not alone,” he whispers, somehow reading my thoughts. “I’ll be here to cook dinner every night until the end of time if you need me to. Deanna will never stop helping you clean up when you get behind. Dad won’t hesitate to clear out our spare bedroom for the three of you.”
I sniffle. My eyes finally run dry. “God, I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I don’t usually do this.” I gesture to my face.
“It’s alright.”
I make to back away from him, but my eyes land on something black on his neck. I reach out to brush it away, but it doesn’t rub off. I’d say it was a tattoo, but there’s something off about it. Maybe an art style I’m not used to. Two crossed scythes rest below his ear. “How long have you had this?”
