The Girl in the Mirror

by Steven Ramirez

  “To be with her cousins, I thought.”

  “Those three were like peas in a pod. And the girls. Everyone thought they were sisters. I remember they would have sleepovers. And they always made Peter stay in the living room in a little tent we’d bought him. The girls would sleep in Nicole’s bed. Of course, instead of sleeping, they would giggle all night.”

  “What about Peter? Was he ever lonely?”

  “Oh, no. He seemed to enjoy being by himself. Didn’t he, Owen?”

  “I suppose,” he said.

  Sarah noticed the old man’s expression had darkened.

  “There was the one time, though. When he tried sneaking into the girls’ room.”

  Owen stood. “Colleen, don’t.”

  Carter and Sarah stared at the old woman’s brother.

  “It wasn’t Nicole’s fault,” the old woman said.

  Her voice was sharp and defensive. Sarah moved closer, glancing at Owen.

  “What wasn’t?” Sarah said.

  “She never encouraged him. My daughter was sweet and innocent. But that boy—he had the devil in him. He…”

  Owen took his sister’s hand and gave it a kiss. He turned to the women.

  “I think she’s had enough for today.”

  Outside, the air was crisp. Sarah and Carter walked through the garden slowly with Owen.

  “I don’t understand,” Carter said. “What exactly did Peter do?”

  The old man became incensed, the blue-green arteries in his aged neck throbbing with anger.

  “Do? He was naked. Naked in front of those poor, innocent girls. And he… my sister claimed he was, you know. Excited.”

  Sarah stopped and touched his arm. “I’m truly sorry, Owen. It wasn’t our intention to bring up all these painful memories. But if that was the case, why did they allow Nicole to stay with the family in California, knowing what they knew about Peter?”

  “Vivian insisted he’d changed. He’d been seeing a family therapist, and they took him to church every Sunday. He made his Confirmation.

  “I’m sure if Colleen had to do it over again… But you see, Nicole was in trouble. And she missed her cousin Hannah so much.”

  When he looked at them again, his eyes were glistening. Though Sarah didn’t want to put the old man through any more pain, she felt she needed to get what they had come here for.

  “Owen, one more question before we leave. The last time we spoke, you said Hannah returned to Lawrence with her brother. Do you know where we can reach her?”

  “No, I’m sorry. When she turned eighteen, she told Colleen she’d decided to get a job. You see, her parents had left Peter and her some money. She bought a car, packed her things, and moved out. She promised to stay in touch, but we never heard from her again.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Carter gave him a hug. “Thank you for everything, Owen.”

  He wiped away a tear with a calloused finger. “I hope you learn the truth about Peter’s parents.”

  “So do we,” Sarah said. “And we’re both very sorry about Nicole.”

  “It’s the not knowing, you see. When she called that one time—”

  “Wait,” Carter said. “Nicole called? After she ran away?”

  “Sorry I didn’t mention it before. Mind’s not what it used to be. Yes, she called Colleen once. About a week after her disappearance. Said she was fine but wouldn’t tell my sister where she was. We never heard from her after that.”

  “I see,” Sarah said. “Thank you again, Owen.”

  They left him in the garden. As they walked off toward the parking lot, Owen Daniels sat on a lonely park bench, the dead leaves of fall swirling at his feet, and wept the tears of an age.

  On the ride back to their hotel, Sarah thought again about everything Owen and his sister had told them. It was clear Peter was disturbed, and it made sense that he would kill himself. But they were no closer to finding Hannah or discovering the true identity of the girl who’d died. Though she’d been sure it was Hannah, she was willing to concede that it might have been Nicole after all. But that wasn’t possible either, since the girl had communicated with her mother after her disappearance. Could the dead girl have been a stranger after all? She glanced at Carter, who was reading something on her phone.

  “So, any ideas how we track down Hannah?”

  “I dunno. Maybe hire a private detective?”

  “Not sure Lou would approve. I feel sorry for them, you know? Owen and his sister?”

  Carter realized she was still wearing her fake glasses and, taking them off, rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  “I know what you mean. That family has gone through so much. I wish we could…”

  “What?”

  “I was thinking. Where did Peter kill himself? It wasn’t at home, right?”

  “No. Owen would’ve said something. Oh, no.” Sarah slapped her forehead. “The dream.”

  “What dream?”

  “Two nights ago. And it was more of a vision.”

  Sarah checked her rearview mirror and turned off at the next exit. When it was safe, she pulled over and parked.

  “Carter, he did it in a hotel room. Some flophouse, from what I could tell.”

  “Should we check it out? I know it doesn’t get us any closer to finding Hannah, but it might be a start.”

  “I’m right there with you, sista.” Sarah closed her eyes. “I saw a sign outside the window. It was glowing. The words… The Tap House. I’m sure of it.”

  Carter opened Google Maps and did a search. “Oh my God, here it is. It’s on Massachusetts Street.”

  “We need the hotel that’s next to it. What time is it?”

  “Almost eleven.”

  “How far?”

  “Looks like ten minutes.”

  “I say we check it out and, if what we find isn’t too gross, we get something to eat after.”

  Carter laughed. “Always thinking ahead. The way you eat, and yet you’re so skinny.”

  Sarah started the engine and got back on the road. “A five-mile run every day and a strict wine and scotch diet. You should try it.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Sarah and Carter stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the gleaming office building. Though part of the street was dotted with run-down storefronts—mostly closed—it looked as if the area was gradually recovering. To their right stood an upscale bar called The Tap House. It looked to Sarah like the type of watering hole businessmen and lawyers frequented.

  Carter happened to glance to her right. Slowly, she reached over and tugged on Sarah’s sleeve. As Sarah turned, she could see the bloodied bodies of what looked like men and teenage boys in nineteenth century clothes littering the street as cars blindly plowed through them, unaware.

  “Lawrence Massacre?” Sarah said.

  “I think so.”

  “Perfect.”

  They looked away and focused on the building in front of them. Sarah sighed dramatically.

  “Well, we’re not going to learn anything in there.”

  When she turned around to face the street, she noticed a tiny, run-down pawn shop that still appeared to be in business. She looked at Carter.

  “Worth a shot, I guess.”

  They went to the corner and crossed the street. When they reached the shop, Sarah opened the glass door and heard the sound of a little tinkling bell. How quaint.

  Inside, the air was stale, and Sarah could detect a faint odor of old books and man-sweat. Though the floor looked clean, the room was stuffed with cases and cases of old cameras, cassette players, binoculars, and assorted bric-a-brac. There didn’t seem to be any organization to the merchandise. It was almost as if everything had remained where it landed.

  Behind the counter, a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties, with pale hair and stubble, was examining a vintage comic book in a plastic sleeve. Sarah tilted her head at Carter, signaling her to take this one.

  “Excuse me?” Carter said.


  At first, the man ignored her. When he looked up and saw the girl, he broke into a huge, toothy grin.

  “H-Hey.”

  “Hi. Um, my friend and I are looking for some information.”

  The man glanced at Sarah, who was examining an assortment of vintage ladies’ watches.

  “What kind of information?”

  “See that building across the street?” Carter said, pointing. “Didn’t there used to be a hotel there?”

  “Uh, I guess?”

  “Well, we’re trying to find out about a man who, um, may have killed himself in one of the rooms. This would’ve been in 1993.”

  “Well, I was born in 1990, so.”

  “Are you the owner?” Sarah said, joining her friend.

  “Naw, that’s my papous. Hey, maybe he knows something. He’s owned this store for, like, forty years.”

  “Is he around?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the back. Want me to get ’im?”

  Carter smiled at the clueless clerk. “That would be great.”

  “Huh-huh. Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  “Looks like you made a new friend,” Sarah said.

  “So not my type.”

  In a moment, a man of around seventy with male pattern baldness, greasy reading glasses, and a paunch stepped out. Sarah noticed the baggy black suit pants and starched white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and guessed he might be an immigrant. When he spoke, his heavy Greek accent sealed the deal.

  “I am Nikolas. My grandson said you wanted to ask me question?”

  Sarah and Carter exchanged a look. They dug out their reporter IDs and showed them to the shop owner. After introducing themselves, Sarah took the lead.

  “We’re doing a story that involves a man who killed himself in the hotel that used to be across the street.”

  “Yes, I remember. This was many years ago. Nineteen-ninety…”

  “Three.”

  “Yes. Terrible. That hotel had a bad reputation. But it was good for business. People always pawning things for drug money. They tear it down four years ago. Now, only rich business types over there.

  “No one needs a pawn shop. I try to get my grandson interested in taking over so I can retire, but all he can think about is video games and girls.”

  On cue, the slacker poked his head out from the back and grinned at Carter. She avoided his gaze.

  “Papou, where do you keep the duct tape?”

  “Bottom shelf on the left.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rolling his eyes, the old man continued. “My wife don’t want me to work anymore. She is not feeling so good these days.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said, getting impatient. “Getting back to the suicide.”

  “Oh, yes. Very sad. They said that guy took his own eyes out before slitting his throat. Who would do such a thing?”

  “Did he ever come in here?”

  “Yes, he did. Bought only one item.”

  “What was that?” Carter said.

  Nikolas disappeared behind one of the display cases. When he returned, he was holding something long, black in the middle, and shiny at both ends. Carefully, as if handling explosives, he set it down on the glass counter.

  “What is that?”

  Sarah paled. “It’s a melon baller.” She stared at the old man. “Is this the one he used to, to…? You know.”

  “No. There were two. Other one end up with the police. Evidence, I guess.”

  Carter had picked up the instrument and was examining its silver bowl, which made Sarah wince.

  “It’s almost exactly the same size as a human eye.”

  The old man laughed hoarsely. “This was what the woman said.”

  Sarah touched his arm. “‘The woman’?”

  “Yes. That man come in with some woman. Young and pretty. Blonde. Nice legs. I think she was his girlfriend.”

  “Hannah,” Sarah said to Carter. Then, to the shop owner, “Did they say anything else? Like where they were going or…”

  “No, nothing. Pay in cash and leave.”

  “I see. Well, thank you. This has been very helpful.”

  “Anytime. You’re reporters. Sure you don’t need a camera, maybe? Or a tape recorder? Everything is thirty percent off.”

  “No, we’re good,” Carter said, and they left the store.

  Outside on the street, the girl took a deep breath of Kansas air. “So, The Tap House for lunch?”

  “Why not? I wonder if they have fresh melon on the menu.”

  “Good one.”

  But Sarah hadn’t meant the remark to be funny. In fact, seeing that instrument had filled her with a dread that clung to her bones like kudzu, or the supernatural bird-storm that had been responsible for Gail Cohen’s death. And the woman? It was Hannah, she was sure of it.

  Hours later, she and Carter were on a plane bound for LAX. Sarah hoped flying at thirty-five thousand feet would prevent any visions from piercing the first-class cabin she’d been upgraded to.

  Hildy knocked softly and entered to tuck in Colleen for the night. But instead of finding the old woman in the chair she always occupied by the window, the aide found her on the bed face up and still. Terrified, Hildy rushed over.

  Colleen was breathing—thank God. Her eyes were open wide in sheer terror. She tried speaking but could only manage to babble incoherently.

  “Colleen, what happened? Are you alright?”

  “Here.”

  “What?”

  “He was here.”

  She looked at the aide, petrified by the presence of some unseen intruder. Despite her uneasiness, Hildy checked the closet, bathroom, and draperies, and found nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Who? Your brother?”

  “No. Him.”

  Hildy helped the old woman into a sitting position and propped her up against the headboard with two large pillows for support. She went into the bathroom and filled a glass with water. When she offered it, the old woman pushed it away.

  “Colleen, did someone…try and hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But who was it? There’s no one here.”

  Colleen took the glass and drank. Swallowing hard, she looked at the aide, her eyes like two cold flames.

  “It was my nephew. It was Peter.”

  By the time Sarah got to her house, it was after 1 a.m.—too late to call Joe. So, she settled for having Gary in her bed with her. At first, she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the pawn shop and that cursed melon baller. Eventually, the sound of Gary’s gentle purring relaxed her, and she drifted off.

  When she opened her eyes, she found herself moving down a dark corridor that smelled of mildew. Was she sleepwalking? The dark carpet with the faded floral pattern looked threadbare in places. Faintly, she could hear the sounds of television sets behind closed doors, and she realized she was in that same run-down hotel. She didn’t want to be here and tried going back. But as she reversed course, she met with a solid wall.

  Continuing on, she reached a door with worn brass numbers that spelled 1408. She could hear whispering inside. Shaking, she forced herself to grab the doorknob. When she turned it, the door opened easily. Inside, she found Peter Moody sitting on the bed, naked. He was saying something she couldn’t understand. On the nightstand there was an offering bowl and a dagger with a black handle.

  Hannah walked in from the bathroom, wearing a sheer white nightgown. She looked so grown up now. The light from the grimy window illuminated her breasts under the fabric. She was holding something, but Sarah couldn’t see what it was. Unable to look away, she watched as Hannah approached her brother and mounted him, her eyes looking at the ceiling as she undulated her hips rhythmically.

  Peter continued chanting, and soon, he grimaced in a prolonged shudder of sexual release. Hannah raised her left hand. The melon baller she was holding gleamed in the weak light. Instinctively, Sarah reached her hand out, trying to stop what was about to happen. But it was no use. Hanna
h kissed Peter full on the lips and, saying something unintelligible, plucked out his right eye in one swift motion. She did the same to the left. Though Peter didn’t scream, Sarah could tell he was crying as his sister pressed his bloody face against her breasts and stroked his hair.

  Now, Hannah reached over and picked up the offering bowl. She placed the severed eyes inside and grabbed the knife. Sarah tried screaming, but nothing came out. Peter took up his chanting again, and Hannah joined him. She lifted his head and, placing the bowl under his chin, watched calmly as he took the knife and slit his throat. The dark blood flowed into the bowl, droplets splashing on Hannah’s nightgown. When the bowl was full, she stood and, leaving her brother to bleed out on the bed, stared at the yellow moonlight pouring through the hotel window.

  The scene in front of Sarah seemed to be getting smaller, and soon, the hotel room was a pinpoint of light. As she opened her eyes again, she found herself safe in her bed. She felt exhausted and couldn’t bring herself to cry.

  Twenty-Three

  Lou Fiore finished his coffee and set the cup on the floor. He was feeling sleep-deprived and wished he could lick the rest of the dark brown sediment off the bottom of the paper cup, but he was worried Vic Womble might say something. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair as Franklin Chestnut used a pointer to refer to the radiographs on the light box.

  Lou wondered whether Sarah was awake yet. He was aware she’d gotten in late, and was anxious to talk to her about what else she and Carter had learned in Lawrence. Instead, he had to endure a morning with Vic, although admittedly, it was generous of the homicide detective to have invited him to the briefing.

  “And you’re certain no human could’ve done this,” Womble said. He was chewing on his pen again, something Lou knew he’d picked up after quitting smoking.

  Franklin shook his head. “Not a hundred percent. I suppose someone could’ve fashioned a pair of gloves with sharp instruments…”

  “Like Freddy Krueger?” Lou said, grinning.

  He nudged Vic, but the dour cop wasn’t having it.

  “My point being,” Vic said, “we can rule out homicide as the manner of death.”