Allie often hovered in a dark corner of the living room to study the woman while she was there, wanting to be as close as possible to her. Sometimes Norah would catch her watching and Allie would frown and look away. She was afraid that if she were nice to the writer, her mother would get angry and send one—or both of them—away. Her mother didn’t approve of her being nice to people. She wanted her to be cynical and mean-spirited, just like she was.
But Allie looked forward to the woman’s visits, in small part because she always brought her gifts: cheap trinkets, candy bars, Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume books. But Allie mostly looked forward to the visits because she thought the woman would one day save her. When she stopped by, Allie saw concern in the woman’s eyes. Concern about Allie being trapped in the hellish whorehouse that was her childhood home. Many afternoons, Allie would catch the woman staring sadly at her for beats of time, and before long she’d come to rely on that sadness to one day save both her and her brother.
But then one afternoon something went very wrong.
The afternoon had started like most of the others. Norah had stopped by and given Allie’s mother a paper grocery bag full of food. She also handed her an envelope with four twenty-dollar bills in it. Allie specifically remembered the amount because her mother had made a big production of counting the bills before stuffing them back into the envelope. Then, seeming satisfied, she started humming as she carried the food into the kitchen and poured two whiskeys.
As her mother busied herself in the adjoining room, Norah quietly handed Allie a new book, a chocolate bar, and a folded-up five-dollar bill. Then she pressed her index finger to her lips and winked.
Delighted, Allie took the gifts and scurried into her room to put her new treasures away. She’d only been gone a few seconds when she heard her mother’s voice become angry. Allie hurried into the hallway to see what was going on.
“Think you’re sneaky, do you?” her mother drawled, approaching Norah. “You bring your uppity college-educated ass in here and think you’re goin’ to pull a fast one on me? What? You think I don’t have eyes? That I’m just some uneducated backwoods hooker that don’t have the good sense to see that you’re up to no good?” As her mother spoke, her voice continued to rise. “Well, you’re wrong on all accounts, little Miss Priss. And you just crossed the wrong hooker!”
At first Norah didn’t speak. When she finally did, she said, “I don’t understand, Dariah. What did I do?”
“Tell me what you gave my girl behind my back!”
“Oh. It was just a few gifts. I hope that was okay? I guess I should’ve asked you first—”
“What did you give her behind my back?” the woman roared.
“Just a book and some candy, Dariah. And five dollars so she can get herself . . . you know, a little something when you go to town.”
“You meddling shit!” her mother hissed.
“What? I don’t under—”
Allie rushed back into her room, shut the door, and jumped into her bed. Throwing the covers over her head, she clamped her hands against her ears and began to hum, just as Norah’s screaming began.
Allie hid in her bed for hours. She stayed there the rest of the afternoon and through the night. Finally, at two o’clock in the morning, she lifted the covers and listened.
Hearing her mother’s loud snoring from across the hallway, she slipped out of bed and went to her door. Then she crept to the hallway bathroom, used the toilet, and headed back to her room.
But then her curiosity got the best of her, so she tiptoed down the hallway and peered into the dark living room.
The TV, tuned in to an infomercial, pulsed with silent blue and white lights. As she stared at it, something awful filled her nostrils. It took her only a few seconds to place the odor. Her stomach clenched. It was the metallic odor of blood and pine-scented cleaning solution. She’d smelled the combination many times before.
She heard a noise behind her.
It came from the kitchen.
She turned toward the sound. Peeking around the corner, she saw that her brother was on his hands and knees. Even in the dim light, she could tell his skin was pale.
She froze as she realized what he was doing. A bucket was in front of him. He was peering down, wringing out a bloody cloth. She looked around. Blood covered the linoleum and was smeared across the back door.
Hearing her, her brother looked up, his eyes glistening and urgent. “Go back to bed, Allie,” he whispered. “Hurry. You don’t want her to see you right now.”
Thunder boomed outside, jarring Allie from her nightmare. Her eyes popped open and she stared up at the ceiling, trying to remember where she was. As the realization sank in, her frantic heartbeat began to slow.
Turning on her side, she watched the storm as it raged outside her window and tried to push the nightmare from her mind. She wanted to focus on how much better it was at Miss Bitty’s.
How different her life was now.
How much safer.
CHAPTER 26
HE TOSSED AND TURNED, listening to the storm build outside. As thunder exploded in the sky, rage built inside him.
Not killing the brunette had turned out to be a big mistake. He was foolish to think he could get by with mere stalking.
He grabbed the fork from his nightstand, then quietly went to the window and watched the storm. He raked the utensil down his scarred back in long, hard strokes, trying desperately to soothe the itch.
It was making him go mad.
Crazier than he already was.
He had been seven when his rage first became a problem. The boy on the school bus had been taunting him, as many of the students did during his school days, and he’d responded by jamming the pencil, hard, into the boy’s leg. If the boy had been a girl, he probably would’ve driven it in even harder.
Twenty minutes later, when he and his mother were in the principal’s office, his mom told him to tell the principal that he was remorseful.
But he wasn’t.
So he didn’t say it.
The principal stared at him, red-faced. “The wound could get infected and he could die. Then how would you feel?”
But he had simply shrugged and said, “I don’t think I’d feel anything at all.”