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.