Alice knows this means Jewlee is sad. But why? What has Alice done wrong?
She has tried so hard to be Good. She showed the grown-ups the Bad Place in the woods, even went to the rocks that covered Her, even though it made Alice feel so sad. She let herself remember things she’d tried to forget. She’d learned to use forks and spoons and the toilet. She’d let them call her Alice, and had even learned to love that word, to smile inside when someone said it and meant her.
So what is left, what has she not done?
She knows about Leaving. Mommies who are soon to be DEAD have pale cheeks and shaking voices and leaking eyes. They try to tell you things you don’t understand, hug you so tightly you can’t breathe.
And then one day they’re gone and you’re alone and you wish your eyes would leak and someone would hold you again, but you’re alone now and you don’t know what you did wrong.
Alice feels that sick stomach feeling coming back, the panic that makes breathing hurt. She keeps trying to figure out what she has done wrong.
“Shoes!” she says suddenly. Maybe that is it. She never wants to wear her shoes. They pinch her toes and squish her feet, but she will sleep in them if Jewlee will keep loving her. “Shoes.”
Jewlee gives Alice a sad, sorry smile. From outside comes a sound, like a car driving into the yard. “No shoes now, honey. We’re inside.”
How can she say I’ll be good, Jewlee? Always. Always. I’ll do everything you say.
“Good girl.” She whispers it as a promise, meaning it with every piece of her.
Jewlee smiles again. “Yes. You’re a very good girl, honey. That’s why all this hurts so much.”
It isn’t enough, being a good girl. That much she understands.
“No leave Alice,” she says desperately.
Jewlee looks toward the glass box that holds the outside. The window.
She is waiting, Alice knows. For Something Bad.
Then Jewlee will Leave.
And Alice will be Girl again … and she will be alone. “Good girl,” she says one more time, hearing the crack in her voice. There is nothing else she can say. She runs across the room and picks up her shoes, trying to put them on the right feet. “Shoes. Promise.”
But Jewlee says nothing, just stares outside.
TWENTY-SIX
Ellie saw the clot of news vans parked on either side of the old highway. A white police barricade had been set up across her driveway, barring entrance. Peanut stood in front of it, her arms crossed, a whistle in her mouth.
Ellie hit the lights and siren for a second; the sound cleared the street instantly. Reporters parted into two groups and went to either side of the road. She pulled around the barricade and rolled down her window to talk to Peanut.
“They’re a roadside hazard. Get Earl and Mel out here to disperse the crowd. This day is bad enough without the media.”
A bright red Ferrari pulled up behind the cruiser. Ellie looked in her rearview mirror. George smiled at her, but it was faded, less than real. There was a sad, haunted look in his eyes.
Reporters swarmed his car, hurling questions.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Will there be a funeral?”
“Who did you sell your story to?”
“Get them out of here, Peanut,” she said, then stepped on the gas.
The Ferrari followed her down the potholed gravel road.
Ellie kept looking in her mirror, hoping he’d turn around or disappear.
By the time she pulled up in front of the porch, her stomach was coiled into a tiny ball.
She parked and killed the engine, then got out of the car.
George walked over to her. “How do I look?” he said, sounding nervous. He tucked a wavy strand of hair behind one ear.
“Good.” She cleared her throat. “You look good.”
He smiled and it took over his face, wiping away the nervousness, lighting those blue, blue eyes. Then his smile faded. He looked at the house and said, “It’s time.” His voice was soft, seductive. She wondered how many women had been drawn into the darkness by it and left there, alone, wondering vaguely how they’d gotten so lost. “I told your sister I’d pick up Brittany at three.”
Brittany.
With a sigh, she led him across the yard. They were almost to the steps when a gray Mercedes pulled up behind them and parked.
“Who’s that?” she asked George.
“Dr. Correll. He’s going to work with Brit.”
The man got out of his car. Tall, thin, almost elegantly effete, he walked toward them. His lean face showed plenty of lines but no hint of personality. “George.” He nodded at George, then he shook Ellie’s hand. “I’m Tad Correll.”
He had the grip strength of a toddler. Ellie had an almost overwhelming urge to coldcock him. “Nice to meet you.” She was about to turn away when she noticed the hypodermic needle sticking out of his breast pocket. “What’s that for? You a heroin addict?”