Her hand reaches for the doorknob, and I flatten my hand over the glass. “You’re right. I’ve had one too many.” I’ll go with it. “Let’s play a game.”
Her affect drops. That I’m-so-concerned-for-you look in her eye quickly turns to anger. “What kind of a game?” Her voice shakes just enough to let me know she’s running scared.
I lean in close, my nose just a millimeter from hers. “Hide-and-seek.” I bolt toward the back, toward that room with its flickering light. The blue glow of the television looks outright hypnotic.
“Stop!” Her voice fills the house with its horror. “James, stop right there!”
The hall bleeds into a family room, just big enough for a couple of sofas, a fireplace in the corner. The sound of moaning fills my ears, and I flick on the lights and a chandelier explodes overhead like the sun. Another sharp groan comes from my left, and then I see it on TV. The larger than life, very up close and personal view of the anatomy of a woman being penetrated by the world’s longest dick.
“James!” Monica jumps over my back, trying to cover my eyes, and dances me in a circle while laughing off her shame.
“Some like it hot.” I storm out of the room and head for the stairs. So what? Monica likes her porn. I would have never figured it, but people change. Ideals drift, and before you know it you’re cheating on your wife, watching men with dicks the size of butcher knives eat up your living room. “How about up here?” I stride right onto the second floor with her hot on my heels. “You hiding any more dirty little secrets? I’m betting the answer to that is a long, hard yes.”
“James, stop before I call the police.”
“Be my guest. I’m sure Rich would love to join me. Kink it up a bit.” I open the first room I come across and flip on the lights. Old school décor, dated, too frilly and peach. Allison would want to burn it. A twin-sized bed sits in the corner, and I head over and run my foot underneath it. I open up the closet and find it stacked with shoeboxes and a few coats that smell like mothballs.
“Would you get out of here?” She slaps me over the back as I hit the exit.
“How about this one?” The door to the next room is open, with nothing but a sewing machine, some bolts of fabric leaning against the wall to show for it. The closet doors have been removed and inside sits a bookshelf laden with yarn and heaps of abandoned fabric. “It’s nice to know old habits die hard,” I tease. Monica used to attempt to sew her own clothing. The seams were always crooked, the fabric too cheap, but I never had the heart to tell her.
I hustle down the hall and come across an office. No closet, but I check the desk on both sides just in case. “I could never cram my body in there.” I give a heavy wink as I blow right past her. A set of double doors sit open, and a pink fluffy cloud of a comforter greets me on the oversized bed set in the middle of the master bedroom. A television sits above the fireplace with the news playing, volume on mute. At any moment, I half-expect my face to pop up on the screen. America’s most wanted. Worst father in the nation. Shoot on sight!
I head into the bathroom, a gaudy gold and glitter covered mess, a bathtub deep and wide enough to qualify as a swimming pool with a dark ring around the periphery covered in stubble-like hairs. She wasn’t joking. The place isn’t exactly hygienic. But I won’t hold it against her. I float back out, only to find her on the mattress. The robe slipped open down over one shoulder, exposing a low lying tit, that dark purple nipple peering out to see me once again for itself. And it’s in that moment I wake up from this self-induced nightmare.
What in the hell am I doing here? I glance at her closet and step inside, nothing but a forest of clothes packed too tight, no room for another pair of jeans. Monica always did live by the diatribe more is more.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Her voice strums smooth and seductive. I step out to find her bare legs gliding over the newly exposed sheets. Her white silk pants sit in a puddle at the foot of the bed. “Come on, James.” She pats the spot next to her. “You and I both know why you came.” Her lips invert before she licks them clean. “You needed to come. And so do I.”
A sick feeling penetrates me right down to my bones. Not because I’m in any way tempted, but I’m wondering how fast Allison will slap me with her knowledge of the event.
“I’d better go.” I duck into the hall and stop cold when I spot a small patch of wood on the ceiling down on the other end. Hide-a-stairs. Of course, the Ghost Ship has an attic. I race over and hear Monica’s bare feet padding from behind.
“James!” Her voice pitches into a fervor as I sling the ladder down so fast I nearly decapitate her. “You can’t go up there!”
“Why? Is that where the dying dog is?” I race to the top and pull out my cell phone to use it as a flashlight. A long cord dangles from the ceiling, and I don’t hesitate to pull the damn thing, exposing the room in a blast of bright light.
“Shit,” the word stumbles from me as I take it all in. “Monica.” I fall to my knees, tears swelling in my eyes.
“I knew you’d think I was a freak. I can’t believe your father told you.” She climbs up and falls next to me, her robe still flapping open in the front.
Strewn over several feet are boxes and boxes of all that old crap I thought my father tossed into a dumpster. Boxes and boxes of my mother’s precious scrapbooks, picture frames he plucked from the wall. Macaroni art my mother saved from her children’s precious years that went by far too quickly.
I pull out a dusty old album covered in quilted brown fabric, microscopic white dots that give it a gingerbread appeal, and open it up. A smiling Aston is the first to greet me, and my chest bucks with a sharp hiccup of relief. His toothy smiles says I love you, I forgive you, all rolled into one. It’s a day that unexplainable forgiveness has been shed my way, so I don’t see why not.
I flip through a few more and find Wilson and Rachel hugging, my mother in her Sunday best. Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays. The Price family lives to see another day. At least in the form of faded photographic memories.
Monica blows out a hard breath. “I drove by one day a few months back and he had the entire street lined with box after box. I couldn’t bear the idea of this stuff getting thrown out. I figured I could give it back to you one day. Probably after your daddy died.”
I take a hard sniff, trying to hold it together, but I catch a glimpse of my mother’s silk scarf and I pull it under my nose and lose it. Her scent is still there, alive and present with or without her. It’s as if in some small way she reached out through the great beyond to reassure me miracles still happen. She’s still with me. It’s going to be okay.
Monica rubs my back, softly, gently grazes her nails in a circular pattern between my shoulders the way she used to and it feels good, comforting, something that I’ve needed.
I tell her to hang onto the stuff for me and offer a heartfelt hug, then issue an apology for playing drunk mind games with her. She walks me out, and just before I’m about to drive off I notice a flicker of a light coming from a partially subterranean window.
The Ghost Ship has a basement. I drive out a good two blocks before getting back out and jogging my way over once again.
“Leave no stone unturned,” McCafferty’s voice comes in clear as I pant my way through the night.
The flickering of the downstairs television is gone, and the lights upstairs switch off one by one like illuminated dominos.
I head around back and find a stairwell that leads down to the basement. I jump to the bottom and land on my toes, freezing a moment as if expecting a fallout. The small red door is locked so I try the dusty window, single-paned glass with a lightning bolt crack in the corner. The light still flickers from inside so I flash my phone through the glass, but I can’t make anything out. I set an elbow against the fractured shards, give a slight push, evicting the glass from its base and pulling open the window with ease. I crawl in and flash my phone around the room erratically in an effort to illuminate the place. If
anyone in the street saw it, they’d think it was a dance party taking place. One thing’s for sure, I’d make a lousy thief.
The room is barren, old moldy carpet, the kind you can put indoors or out. An old table, a bed in the corner, smaller than the twin upstairs, and my heart freezes. It’s a child’s bed. White with pink covers. I shine the light over the pillow and note a single dark hair, curled in the corner. My heart thumps unnaturally. Could be Reagan’s. Could be Monica’s for all I know. A wicker nightstand with a basket lamp and a matching pink shade sit next to it. The entire room has a nursery appeal about it. There is definitely something unsettling about this space. A framed picture sits above the bed, a child’s hand dipped in pink paint. The hand looks no bigger than Reagan’s, and my eyes widen in the dark trying to take in the bizarre scene. Scrawled in a child’s penmanship up above it reads Angel.
Angel. I shake my head uneasily. That’s what Monica called Reagan when I arrived. At first I thought it was a cute little backwoods quirk with the undertones of strangulating sarcasm, but this? What the hell?
I do a quick scan of the four corners of the room. Not a body to be found, not another hint of my baby girl.
There’s no way I’m getting back out that window, so I let myself out the door instead.
All the way home I wonder who the hell Angel is and whether or not I should care. The only angel I care about is my own. It’s going to take a miracle for us to find her, though.
But if those boxes in Monica’s attic remind me of anything—it’s that miracles still happen.
I can practically feel my mother winking down at me.
Now if she’d only point me in the right direction.
I get home and let myself in through the kitchen door in the back. Not only won’t I have to face the scrutiny of the sleepy fucks that are squatting at the end of the street just hoping to catch a glimpse of something salacious, but it’s closer to my new bedroom, otherwise known as the doghouse.
The night runs through me in jags as I rinse my face off with the ice water from the sink. I head back to change before realizing the only clothes in the downstairs bedroom are that of my father’s. They smell of a fresh kill, so I opt to sleep in my own clothes. No sooner do I flop down on the bed and turn on the TV than a light knock comes from the back door.
My chest seizes as I mute the television, my breathing turns shallow as I strain to listen for it again. I might have hallucinated it. My head feels as if I have a boxing match going on inside it and my brain is getting pummeled in the process.
A quick knock explodes over the kitchen door once again, this time losing its friendly cadence, and I hop to my feet, scrolling through the possibilities on my way over—my father being the prime suspect. But it could be Monica armed with porn flicks. I did leave her in a randy state of distress. Or God forbid, Hailey. Please, God, don’t let it be her. Maybe it’s Allison. She could have gone out for a walk, a quick run. God knows we suddenly live in the world’s safest neighborhood. A child abduction is a surefire way to beef up security—after the fact being the preferable method of employment.
A light scratching comes from the door, but there’s not a soul out there as far as I can tell. The door window remains headless. I swing it open quick, hoping to scare off whatever creature is trying to claw its way in, and a breath gets caught in my throat.
It’s not anybody I remotely thought it might be. It’s not an animal or an angry ex. Instead I find those dark alien eyes staring back at me, that soulless hint of a smile flirting on her lips.
“Ota,” I bark out her name like a reprimand. “Where’s Reagan?” I do a quick scan of the vicinity and come up empty. “Is Reagan with you?”
The little girl with her impeccably smooth ponytail, her short yellow dress and wide coal black eyes looks up at me and shakes her head a solemn, heartbreaking no.
So I do the only thing I can think of and yank the little demon inside.
11
Allison
There is a certain comfort listening to your sister’s voice at close to eleven o’clock at night while sitting on the closet floor among winter coats and an impressive boot collection. Jane isn’t allowed calls after curfew. Jane isn’t allowed out of bed after curfew, but she’s assured me she’s worked out an arrangement with the guards—men, two of which she claims to have slept with. As glad as I am to speak with my sister, a part of me worries she’s trading blowjobs for the opportunity. And selfishly, I’m glad about it. I need her. Ironically, I need her levelheaded guidance. My sister has always been akin to a magician to me, capable of rearranging reality with her sleight of hand—but more importantly, her impressive cache of weaponry.
“Well, shit, Ally.” She pushes a heated breath into the receiver and clots up the line with its static. “Heather, Monica and Hailey all need to go. They’re dead weight you don’t need in your life right now. And sorry to say it, but so does James. In fact, I might schedule a visit out there just to cut his dick off myself. I’m pretty good at it, you know.”
A small laugh gets buried in my chest. “I know.”
A muffled cry comes from downstairs. A masculine familiar voice muttering something my way.
“I think James is calling me.” A horribly long sigh escapes me. “He probably needs me to turn down his bed,” I tease. James has always felt like a second child, and I never seemed to mind it. Until now.
“Don’t you dare—unless you plan on putting a scorpion in it, then be my guest.”
“Allison!” The hard thump of footsteps making their way up the stairs startles me.
“I’d better go.” It takes far more energy than I’ve got to get on my feet. “Thank you for listening.”
“Hey, I’m a captive audience. I’m glad to help. Look, don’t worry about the nut job or the nut job you’re married to. I’m going to fix all of this for you. The only thing you need to worry about is getting my niece back.”
The door to the room rattles and in comes the sound of anxious breathing, of my name being repeated on a furious loop.
“I’ll talk to you later.” I kill the line, and just as I’m about to exit the closet, the door bursts open, but it’s not James and his mile a minute chatter I focus in on. It’s the little girl he’s got a death grip on shivering next to him.
“Ota?” I sink to my knees and take in her pristine smooth skin, those large pits she calls eyes, that familiar yellow pinafore, her dark ponytail looking clean and glossed. My entire body explodes with every emotion all at once. “My God, where’s Reagan?” I look to James.
“She wasn’t out there. I’m going to look around. Don’t you let this little witch out of your sight.” He pushes her into me and takes off thundering down the stairs. “And don’t call anyone just yet!”
In seconds, I hear the back door slam shut, and it’s just me and this pint-sized being that ushered in so much hell into our lives.
“Ota?” I give her shoulders a quick rattle, but the little girl doesn’t make a sound. Her eyes gaze up at mine as if her silence were a game she’s determined to win. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Maybe if I come at this from another angle. I mean, it’s not as if she was old enough to pull this off on her own. “Is your real name Allison?” My voice shakes as I say the lunacy out loud. “Is your mother Heather Evans?” My mouth hangs wide, anticipating something, anything, but her eyes examine me, her mouth remains sealed. “They hurt you, didn’t they?” I ease up my grip over her frail arms. She looks well. Her skin tone is good—not pale as if she were hidden from the light of the world in some dark closet. She looks just as healthy as I remember, and her cheeks are fat and filled. There is not one outward sign of abuse, not a bruise, not a hair out of place. “Ota, you have to talk to me. Reagan is your friend, and she’s in danger. You’re our only hope of getting her back.” My chest heaves with heartache that I won’t give into.
She blinks up at me, hard, haunted doll clicks that make me wonder if they’ve damaged her in other ways, irre
parable damage that has stolen her childhood, her innocence, and her sanity forever.
“I can take you to a doctor.” I bring my voice down to a whisper. “I can get you the very best care. Those people who did this to you—who are still doing it to Reagan”—my voice grows tight—“they can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.” I caress the top of her head with my hand, and she nuzzles into it like a cat.
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around her and marvel at how solid she feels. “It’s okay. It’s all over. You’re here now. You’re never going back there. Please, help me bring Reagan home.” Her body tenses beneath me. “You can live here with us.” I pull back, desperate to bargain the moon and the stars. I’d give her anything in the world if she helped me find Reagan tonight. “You can be my little girl.” My voice trembles as I hold back tears. “You’ll be Reagan’s sister.”
The back door slams, and the heavy rustling of James’ footsteps come barreling up the stairs.
I spring to my feet, my heart and my eyes hopeful to see my little girl again. “Did you find her?”
James comes in empty-handed, out of breath, his hair windblown. “There’s no trace of anyone out there.” He drops to his knees and grips the little girl by the arms. “Is Reagan hurt?” Her tiny frame rattles in his arms. “Is she alive?” His voice roars over her like a fire, and it takes all of my strength to pluck her free.
“Stop! You’re scaring her!” I pull her out of the room into the cool of the hall and try to catch my breath. “Would you like to see Reagan’s room?”
The little girl looks up at me intently before offering a solemn nod.
A flood of relief fills me. Progress. “There.” I look to James as he comes in close. “We just need to get her settled. Get some food in her belly.” I lean into Ota once again. “Do you like peanut butter and jelly?”
She gives an enthusiastic nod. Her hungry eyes affirm this.