James leans in, brows hovering over his eyes as if each were its own storm. “How did you figure it out? Did she confess?”
“Partially.” She eyes me with her disdain. “She doesn’t want to go back to prison. She’s ready to wheel and deal. She said she never intended on hurting anybody.”
McCafferty’s phone gives off a shrill cry and she answers it abruptly. “What’s this?” She rises and takes a few steps away, holding down her other ear as if to avert the noise. “I’ll be right down.” She dumps her phone into her purse. “That was quick.” She looks to me accusingly. “Heather Evans is dead.”
My mouth opens, and as much as I want to shriek or gasp in horror, all I can do is stare past McCafferty through the wall and into this mad world that we’ve all fallen into.
“I’ve got her.” James wraps an arm around me. “Go ahead and do what you need to do. We’ll be here. We’ll continue this another time.”
“I’ll see you both in the morning.” She takes off, slamming the door behind her. No sooner does James pull me in to comfort me than a miniature face appears just feet away.
“Is the mean woman gone?”
A breath gets locked in my throat as I look at the fragile girl with her wide eyes, her hair miraculously combed neatly into a thick glossy ponytail once again.
She speaks.
Now we’re getting someplace.
* * *
It turns out Ota found a bag of pistachios I keep near my bed and shelled them to her heart’s content. She drank water straight from the bathroom sink and assured us she feels much better now. So much for starving the truth from her.
“Shall we sit in the living room?” Her light voice ices the room with its sugary tone.
Shall we? James and I share a brief glance, equally uncertain what to do with this strange child.
“Anywhere you like.” No sooner do the words bleed from my throat than I regret them.
“No.” James winces out the window. Of course, we can’t sit in the living room. Not with the megawatt floodlight they have set on us like a spotlight, not with the million-dollar camera equipment ready and willing to record our every move. “How about the kitchen? We can sit at the island like a real family.” He gives her a quick pat to the head and breaks out that killer smile that’s able to slay women of every shape and size, and apparently age.
“Can I call you Daddy?” A giggle erupts from her as she takes him by the hand and skips in that direction.
“You sure can. I do love the sound.” I’m glad he didn’t say miss. For as much as I want her to spill everything she knows about Reagan, I don’t want to shake her up just yet.
The two of them settle at the counter while I pull out the peanut butter, the blood red jelly, and a package of quickly dwindling English muffins.
“I have something for you.” She holds up a neatly folded piece of paper, the size of the palm of her hand, and I take it from her, still very amazed that she’s spilling words so easily. Why do I feel a threat coming? Why can’t any of this be easy?
It’s wrapped tight, still warm from her flesh, and it makes me miss Reagan all the more. Reagan loved to slip me notes. I love you Mama Pie! It’s still taped to my mirror. She helped me place it there after I opened it. Reagan was a beautiful child and she gave beautiful gifts.
I stop midflight. Was? No. I won’t accept that. Is. She is all of those things, and more.
I unfurl the crisp white page, only to find I can’t make out the drawing. I turn it once again every which way before the image strikes me. A head, X’s for eyes, a stick embedded in its forehead—a pool of blood washed over the bottom.
“What’s this?” My chest seizes as I try to get the words out.
“Is that what it looked like?” Her voice hikes with mild curiosity, but I don’t look at her to see if she’s mocking me. Instead, I marvel at how she got the profile right. Heather’s freckles, that raggedy hair.
James cranes his neck. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.” I shudder, making it apparent that I do. “Here.” I hand it over to him and do my best to create an assembly line of bread.
James studies the picture, and his features darken as he slides the picture back to Ota. “Is that her?” His voice breaks. “Is that Reagan?”
My stomach bottoms out because the thought hadn’t even occurred to me.
“That’s not my sister.” She smiles up at him, huge puppy dog eyes with a perfect cartoon smile. “This is Mommy’s very best friend.”
The world freezes. My heart stops beating. The knife slips from my fingertips and lands sharp side down over my foot. That one hard pinch stirs me back to life.
“That’s who you are.” I bend over to pick the knife back up again and hold it low to my thigh. “James.” I shake my head at him. “This is Heather’s daughter. She must be.” A horrible numbness takes over as I absorb the cruel facts. “Oh my God. You saw her,” I whimper. “You saw your mother lying there in a pool of blood, and that’s why you came here.” I shake my head, incredibly sorry for her. “Your mother was sick,” I plead for her to understand as if it had to be this way.
She gives a quick tug to James’ shirt. “What’s wrong with Mommy?”
“Allison?” James cocks his head my way, concerned, frightened.
“Someone killed Heather.” That image of the girl crossing in front of me this morning comes to mind. “Do you have a twin?”
Her lips curl up at the tips. She offers an icy gaze my way as if answering the question with every ounce of her haunted being.
“Shit.” James pulls the picture forward and examines it again. “Ota, tell me right now if my father—Reagan’s grandfather, has anything to do with this.”
My heart slaps heavy against my chest, and I suddenly feel very sorry for my poor husband. I’ve left him in the dark for so long he doesn’t even know which way is up.
Ota raises her wicked face to him, sober, not a smile in sight. “Why would Grandpa Charles have anything to do with this?”
“How do you know Grandpa Charles, Ota?” I practically pant out the words.
“Reagan talked about him all the time.” Her miniature pink lips purse as if it were no big deal. “I like mine with extra jelly, please.”
“Have you ever met Grandpa Charles?” I ask nonchalantly as I pile the peanut butter high. I know for a fact Charles had never been over once during any of those demented playdates she had with my daughter.
“I’ve seen him plenty of times. I know all of his ways, all of his stories.” She looks to James with a marked insistence. “He’s a good storyteller, isn’t he?”
I shake my head at James as if affirming what he has to be thinking. Ota hasn’t met Charles on our watch. Either she’s fabricating the whole thing or she has very much met Charles—and according to her knowledge of his bullshitting ways, I’d bet on the latter.
“Ota”—James takes up her hand—“we’re going to go on a little trip.” And she pulls her hand right back.
“I’m not going anywhere.” She flattens her palms over the granite and leans in, bearing her fangs like a lion. “Now give me my food!” An unnerving echo booms from her voice.
James paws at her as if he’s trying to charm her. “I’m going to hide you in my coat.”
Her hand glides up and slices a line across the left side of his face. A seam of blood erupts in a jag like a snake.
“Grab her!” I say as both James and I start in on a cartoon-like maneuver around the island.
He snaps her up, and as soon as she begins to wail, he clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her cries.
“I’ll call your dad and tell him to come right over.” I move toward the phone and he blocks my path.
“No. It’s going to get ugly, and I don’t want any more drama here than need be. We’re going to drop by and pay him a little visit. I want to see his face once we do a little show-and-tell.” James tosses the girl over his shoulder and disappears into the spare room down the hall. “I’ll find a bag to put her in.”