“Hey,” Mac called out. “What’s up?”
“She claims she needs a ride to the rink. It is apparently a skating emergency.” Layla made a face, then held the phone away from her ear as Rosie responded loudly. To me she said, “When Rosie wants something, it’s always an emergency.”
“We can get her when Dad’s back,” Mac told her. “Half hour or so.”
Layla relayed this, then reported, “No, that’s unacceptable. And yes, that is a direct quote, in case you were wondering.”
Mac shrugged, going back to his book. Rosie was still talking. “I can give her a ride,” I offered. “I mean, if you want.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she replied. Then, into the phone, she told Rosie, “Nothing. Sydney’s just being entirely too nice to you.”
“I really don’t mind,” I said. “I don’t have to be home until six.”
Layla looked at me, her expression caustic. “You do not have to do anything for my sister.”
“I know. But I’m offering.”
I felt it was the least I could do. Though I’d tried to buy Layla breakfast both mornings she slept over and pay for the movie we saw, she had refused. “I got to stay at your house instead of with my crazy family,” she said. “I should be thanking you.” If I couldn’t repay her, this was the next closest thing.
Ten minutes later, we were turning onto a small residential street only a few blocks from Seaside. The houses were small, many of the yards cluttered with cars, swing sets, and lawn furniture. At the very end was a brick ranch with a detached garage. The grass was missing in huge patches, and at least four partial cars in various states of deterioration were parked in the side yard. A decorative flag by the door said HAPPY HOLIDAYS, even though it was September. And then there was the woods.
The trees behind their house were some of the tallest I’d ever seen. In the Arbors, the foliage varied: oaks, scrubby brush, some big cedars. Here, there were only tall, wide pines, close together. For the first time, I understood what it meant for a forest to be thick. As if the houses were laid out like bread crumbs along the road, leading you into the darkness beyond.
“Welcome to paradise,” Layla said wryly as we parked by the curb. When we got out, I immediately looked up at the vast spread of greenery above us. “The woods are crazy, right? When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about it. I still sleep with the shades pulled.”
She climbed the short stairway that led to the front door and I followed. Up close, I saw the HAPPY HOLIDAYS flag was so old and weathered, it was translucent, the sun shining right through. She twisted the doorknob, pushing it open. “It’s me,” she called into the darkness beyond. “And Sydney. Rosie, you’d better be ready to go.”
She was stepping inside, holding the door open for me. Once we were inside, it took a minute for the house to fall into place around me. When it did, I realized we were not in a foyer or entryway, but already in the living room.
It was very neat, but cluttered. Framed pictures crowded the mantle. Standing on the coffee table were little boxes of all varying sizes and materials: smooth wood, delicate mother-of-pearl, shiny chrome. A collection of beer steins lined a bookcase; a frame held nothing but aces from card decks. A large couch was covered with afghan blankets of varying patterns, while a smaller loveseat, stuffed with needlepoint pillows, faced a flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. And then there was the chair.
It was a recliner, well-worn and flanked by two low tables. On one was a large insulated cup with a straw poking out of it, a jumbo-size can of mixed nuts, and a box of tissues. The other held a tall stack of magazines, two remotes, a phone, and a row of pill and vitamin bottles. While the chair itself was empty, it was obvious that whoever sat there owned that room, present or not.
Layla crossed the powder-blue carpet into the kitchen. Finding it empty, she sighed, coming back out and dropping her bag on the couch. “Typical,” she told me. “Have a seat. I’ll go find her.”
As she disappeared down the hallway to my right, I moved to the couch, reaching down to push aside one of the blankets to make room so I could sit. As I did, my hand made contact not with mere fabric, but with something heavy and warm. With teeth.
I shrieked, drawing back my hand. I was still standing there, holding it to my chest, when Layla came back down the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “There’s something . . . I moved a blanket. And then . . .”
She walked over, yanking the afghan off with one hard jerk, like a magician doing that trick with the tablecloth. Left exposed were three very small, very ugly little dogs, who looked none too pleased to see us.
“Sorry,” she said to me. “Did they get you bad?”