Objects

  What's Done in the Dark Will Be Brought Into the Light Prologue: The Roadkill for Breakfast Years Before wigs spoke and gospel came in sequins, Eveline was a sad, lonely, confused soul. By nineteen, her parents had turned her into a medical experiment—diagnosed with ADHD, bipolar disorder, depression, and gender dysphoria, then enrolled in a mail‑order neurotherapy program that promised to “repattern trauma through guided dolphin sounds and light fasting.” Effexor, Seroquel, Lamictal: perfumes of despair fogging her up like a haunted mirror. On Sundays, televangelists thundered that mental illness was demonic residue, their frosted hair glowing like cheap halos while Eveline’s temples burned under hydrogel patches that smelled of melted plastic. But the darkness had teeth long before that. Trailer park nights reeked of stolen liquor, Zoloft, and Marlboro Reds. Eveline learned to paint bruises with Wet n Wild foundation, to swallow pills dry like communion wafers, to carve scriptu...

  The calluses on Ethan Lauderdale’s fingers came from tending her. Every scrape of lichen, every pulled vine was less maintenance than appeasement. The Crying Angel demanded touch. When he failed, her marble chipped in ways that matched his scars. Claire Holloway’s rental car skidded to a stop beside the wrought-iron fence. Afternoon light fractured through oak branches, streaking the angel’s face with phantom tears. Dry as bone when she blinked—but the statue’s hollow eyes did not release her gaze. Claire muttered “optical illusion,” though the angel’s lips seemed to twitch at the lie. Ethan wrenched ivy from a headstone. “Herbicide would save time,” Claire offered. He turned, pale eyes sharp. “This isn’t a cornfield. Some things deserve hands.” Behind him, the angel’s shadow stretched, wings framing him like a mantle. Claire felt chosen, though she hadn’t agreed. Mausoleum Lightning split the sky. Rain drummed her cheeks like tears. Ethan pulled Claire toward the mausoleum. As t...