Lucas Szabo wasn’t on the corner anymore.
He wasn’t anywhere.
My saliva tasted metallic; my head felt heavy, as if I had just come out of a drug-induced fog. I rubbed my eyes and ducked into the nearest café, abandoning my plan to eat at Loco Legs.
I didn’t want anyone to see me.
I flopped down in the nearest booth and hung my head, my fingertips making small circular motions at my temples. Am I seeing things now?
No. He was there. He had been there, standing on the street corner, his eyes trained on mine.
My father.
“What can I get you?”
I looked up to see a pierced, pale waitress snapping her gum at me. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and when she wound her ink-black hair around her index finger, I saw that she had a series of navy-blue stars tattooed on her hand.
“Uh,” I said, “a burger. Cheeseburger, actually. And fries. And a Diet Coke, please.”
The waitress scrawled my order on her pad and snapped her gum. “Coming right up.”
When she was safely out of view I reached into my shoulder bag and took out my cell. I flipped it open to dial, but it shook in my hand. My entire body was quaking. I took several deep breaths and a few calming gulps of ice water. By this time the waitress returned, carrying my lunch.
“Are you okay, hon?” she asked me.
“Fine,” I said without looking up.
“Sure thing,” she said, sliding the plate in front of me.
Suddenly, I was ravenous. I took one bite of my burger and chewed hungrily, but when I tried to swallow, the meat stuck in my throat. I felt a prick go up the back of my neck, felt the cold sting of sweat as it beaded along my hairline and then blanketed my skin. The whole café dropped into silence; all I could hear was the heaving beat of my heart, the whoosh of my own breath as it filled my lungs. I looked around slowly, my whole body feeling leaden and foreign. I turned a quarter inch to my left and I saw her, perched on a bar stool, her body facing me. Her posture was ramrod straight and her hands were folded daintily in her lap, her knees bolted together, legs crossed at the ankle. Her blond hair was nearly waist length and hung in brilliant waves over one shoulder. She smiled and her lips were full and berry-stained; her chin was defined and defiant. She stared at me with eyes that were an icy, piercing blue.
She was the same woman from the coffee shop, and suddenly I knew without having to ask—she was Ophelia.
It was as though she knew exactly what I was thinking. The second I came to the realization, her lips parted into a smile that was part sweet, part bone-chillingly sly and she raised one hand, arching her fingers into a prim finger wave.
Ice water filled my veins.
Ophelia turned around on her bar stool so she was facing away from me. I turned back to my lunch and the sounds of the café crashed over me. I looked down at my plate and clamped my hand over my mouth. My eyes watered, my stomach heaved.
The top bun of my burger moved slowly, jerkily. My fries were covered with fat, yellow-white maggots writhing, falling off my French fries, dripping onto the table. I poked my burger bun with my fingernail and it fell aside, revealing my hamburger patty, my arched bite mark, and a hundred pulsing bugs.
I let out a howl and stood up, scratching the electric-blue vinyl of the booth as I clawed for my shoulder bag. I knocked over my Diet Coke, heard the clatter of my plate as it crashed to the floor.
“You’ve got to pay for that,” I heard as I ran through the café. “Hey, lady!”
I fished a few bills out of my purse and tossed them onto the counter—right at the empty spot where Ophelia had been sitting a half second ago. I paused and looked over my shoulder at my lunch: my burger bun spilled open, the grilled brown patty lay on the floor in a pool of gelling grease. My fries scattered in a thousand directions. There wasn’t a maggot anywhere.
I pushed out of the café and ran the entire way back to the UDA, my tears making cold, wet tracks down my cheeks. I was heaving and hiccupping by the time I barreled through the doors of the police station, by the time I ran full force into Alex’s chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around me and I was enveloped in his soothing warmth.
“Whoa, Lawson! Slow down! Hey, sweetie, what’s wrong?” he was saying. “It’s okay, calm down.” He pressed his lips into my hair, and I buried my damp face into the warm skin of his neck, breathing in his familiar, calming scent of cut grass and cocoa. When I was assured that my heart wouldn’t beat out of my chest, I loosened my grip on Alex, sniffed, and looked up at him.
“It was Ophelia,” I said, my voice sounding very small. “And my father. And maggots.”
Alex held me at arm’s length, his eyes going wide. “You saw Ophelia?”
I nodded and began to tremble again as the image of her wry smile blazed in my memory.