I’ve always been drawn to the poster. Even on a flat piece of paper, the guy has the most soulful eyes—eyes that seem to know me, just like I know them. Although I’ve never seen the movie, he’s familiar, to the point that I can smell the leather swaddling his body … feel the slickness against my cheek.
“He’s here …” I jump as the words rush my ears—the same ones the fly said earlier. Only it’s not a whisper this time, not the white noise I’m used to. It’s a guy’s deep cockney accent.
Mirrors line the side walls of the store, and a blur of movement races across them. When I look closer, the reflections show nothing but my own image.
“He rides the wind.” The voice hums through my blood. A gust of cold air comes out of nowhere and snuffs out the candles, leaving only the afternoon light and the chandelier overhead.
I scramble backward until I hit the counter. The poster’s bottomless eyes follow my every move, as if he’s the one talking to my mind and turning the wind. Icy tingles run through my spine.
“Al!” Jen’s shout breaks the spell. “Can you help me carry some stuff? We need to put up the Dark Angel display before I leave.”
I force myself to break the poster’s hypnotic gaze and head for the storeroom. The air conditioner clicks off. The gust must have come from the vents.
I laugh nervously. I’m tired, hungry, and in shock. My delusions are real and my family’s cursed. That’s all. It should be easy to accept, right?
Wrong.
My soggy Skechers squish with each step along the black-and-white checked tiles. Jenara meets me in the doorway, arms stacked so high with clothes and props, she can’t see over them.
“So, my dress is nice?” Her question drifts from behind the stack. “Way to pull out all the stops for your BFF’s ego.”
“It’s awesome. Bret will love it.” Still feeling the poster’s eyes, I balance on tiptoe and take the blue wig and miniature fog machine from the top of her armful.
“As if it matters,” she says from behind the swaying stack. “Did I tell you Jeb threatened to turn Bret into a smashed pumpkin if I don’t get home by midnight? Taking a sweet fairy tale like ‘Cinderella’ and twisting it into a death threat. That’s seriously warped.”
“Yeah, he’s been on a real role lately.”
Everything starts to slide from her tower. I grab several props from the top of the pile, revealing her face.
Her heavily lined green eyes bulge when she sees me. “Ohmy-holyshiz. You look like you duked it out with a Sasquatch. Did you and Jeb settle things in a mud pit?”
“Ha.” Leading the way to the display window, I drop my stuff in the window next to Window Waif, Persephone’s mannequin.
Jenara sets some sooty feathered wings atop the props pile. They sparkle with black sequins.
“Seriously, what happened? I thought you were going to visit your mom. Hey.” Jen touches my arm. “Did something go wrong?”
Several tendrils of dark pink hair have fallen from her upswept do. The strands coil like pink flames over her black tube dress, bringing back what they did to Alison’s hair at the asylum.
“She lost it,” I blurt. “Attacked me.”
All other details clog my throat: how they shaved her hair so she wouldn’t try to choke herself again—though now I suspect it was preparation for her shock treatments. How they kept wiping slobber from the sides of her mouth and put her into adult diapers, because when you’re heavily sedated, you don’t have control of your faculties. And, worst of all, how they took her to the padded cell in a wheelchair, hunched and strapped in a straitjacket like a withered old woman. That’s why I couldn’t follow and say good-bye. I’d already seen enough.
“Oh, Al.” Jen’s voice is low and soft. She pulls me in for a hug. The citrusy, bubblegum scent of her shampoo comforts me. “I’ll do my own makeup and stuff here. Go home.”
“I can’t.” I tug her closer. “I don’t want to be around things that remind me of her. Not yet.”
“But you shouldn’t be alone.”
The doorbell chirps and three ladies wander inside. Jen and I step back.
“I won’t be alone,” I answer. “Not during business hours.”
Jen tilts her head, sizing me up. “Look, I can stay for another half hour. Go get yourself together. I’ll take care of the customers.”
“You sure?”
She flicks a tangle of my hair. “Sure and absolute. Can’t leave you in charge of the place looking like a circus clown reject. What if a hot guy comes in?”
I attempt a smile.
“Take my makeup bag,” she says. “I have some more hair extensions you can use.”
I pick through my layaway stuff in the storeroom, grabbing a pair of platform boots along with the clothes, then duck into the tiny bathroom. The vent above the sink blows frosted air over my skin. A fluorescent glow from the tiny light fixture distorts my reflection. I brush out my tangles and clip on Jenara’s purple dreadlocks.
Most of my makeup has been cried and rained off, leaving smudge tracks on my face. Now all I see is Alison. But if I look deeper, it’s me wearing a straitjacket and an eel turban, grimacing like the Cheshire Cat as I sip pot roast from a teacup.