The Stradivarius

The Stradivarius “The Stradivarius is claustrophobia incarnate. Each turn of the page creeps walls closer in with cracks opening in their old, Victorian wood for eyes to peep through; even the air feels too thick for sound to traverse…Knowles masterfully constructs a mystery that twists and turns in places one least expects; even when the pieces seem to all fit together, both the main character, Mae, and you the reader will be forced to question everything with the rampant gaslighting that nails self doubt in among the tight wooden walls. With such a visceral and realised world that often feels alive, the rising feminine rage that boils right until the last page, and a well thought out mystery that seems to always be a few steps ahead of you, The Stradivarius is an absolute must have.” —Sapphire Lazuli, Author, Blogger at sapphirelazuli.com, & Youtube Video Essayist @sapphicsapph Rae Knowles writes beautifully and precisely. The Stradivarius is an unfor- gettable read! —Samantha Kolesnik, author of Waif and True Crime “Goddamn if this isn’t a delicious, Ingrid Bergman Gaslight (1944) vibes—just as thrilling and tantalizing. Rae Knowles is on my insta-buy list!” —Sadie Hartmann, Author of 101 Horror Books to Read Before You're Murdered, Bram Stoker Awards® nominated editor The Stradivarius by Rae Knowles The Stradivarius Copyright 2023 © Rae Knowles This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this story are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. Edited by MJ Pankey Proofread and formatted by Stephanie Ellis Cover illustration and design by David Román (Max Stark) First Edition: May 2023 ISBN (paperback): 9781957537528 ISBN (ebook): 9781957537511 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023932795 BRIGIDS GATE PRESS Bucyrus, Kansas www.brigidsgatepress.com Printed in the United States of America For everyone who wasn’t sure if it was real. Content warnings are provided at the end of this book Contents Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Epilogue About the Author Acknowledgements Content Warnings More from Brigids Gate Press Prologue Landrum, South Carolina Spring 2008 Detective Williams gasped, though no one heard. Whether the sound was hushed by heavy curtains or gobbled up by the blood-soaked carpet, he didn’t know. But the fact remained the same: at the foot of a snaking staircase, below flowery wallpaper and cherry-stained wainscoting, Richard Pruitt lay sprawled, an axe in his skull. Beside him and still as a porcelain doll, a girl’s head barely cleared the banister. Her nightgown dragged, leaving a trail of bloody streaks on the hardwood. “The bangin’ woke me,” she said, a voice like spun sugar. She was Mae Pruitt, according to dispatch, the victim’s daughter. Uniformed officers buzzed around the scene, their careless steps peppering dirt around her already soiled home. “Give me the room,” Detective Williams said. Mae watched them scuttle to the front door, an oversized trail of ants. Her sandy hair drooped around her shoulders in loose curls, brushing the silky hem of her ruined nightgown, her wide eyes sitting atop deep purple recesses, unnatural on a girl her age. Williams crouched to meet them, hazel irises searching him for answers he couldn’t provide. “It’s okay, sweetie.” Though, it wasn’t. He cuffed his arm around her shoulders, turning her tiny frame with a gentle nudge away from her father’s body. Shards of glass glistened against wide oak floorboards, triangles large and small, a clustered mosaic dyed burgundy by specks of blood spray. He lifted Mae, sparing her vulnerable toes. “Do I have to go to my aunt?” she asked, her voice mousy. “What if he wakes up?” A twinge. Williams shielded her view with a curved palm and glanced back at Richard Pruitt. The axe remained upright, steadfast, posed and ready for its closeup from forensic photographers. “It’s just for a while,” he said. Glass crunched under his heavy boots as he maneuvered around the crimson spatter. He hesitated in the entry, stealing one last look at the empty display case hanging above the mantle. A robbery gone wrong, they’d told him. Surviving glass clung to the wooden frame in violent spikes, haphazard arrows pointing to the empty space in the middle, the small black prongs and hourglass stencil of dust tracing the void. It was a position of honor, centered over the fireplace. In the time the home was built, Williams imagined a grand portrait had hung where the shattered case did now. Oak floors groaned as he carried Mae across. Stained glass embedded in the front door bent and colored the light cast by gas lamps outside. On the wraparound porch, bloody footprints were stark against white paint, surrounded by rainbow patches of filtered light. Williams hopped from one foot to another to avoid the blood, over the vibrant patterns which dared to be beautiful despite the tragedy congealing around them. Down the steps he found a soft patch of grass and eased Mae onto her feet, hoping the blades would be kind to her exposed soles. A wiry-haired woman waited for him beside her sedan. She wore her blazer over a sleep shirt and clutched a cup of coffee. “You the social worker?” The woman nodded, her face bare and eyelashes crusted with sleep. “Lydia Co—ollins,” she said mid-yawn, “DSS.” She flashed credentials and her eyes perked when she noticed Mae’s bloodied nightgown. “Does she have