Mary leans forward, nodding eagerly. “It is real. I'm not sure about humans, but things do spontaneously combust.”
“What kind of things?” Raj asks.
“Like electrical stuff and engines,” Mary says. “There's even a computer system that helps predict spontaneous combustion before it happens at coal mines. Maybe I can do an explainer and interview one of the science teachers?”
“You've done your homework,” I say, impressed. Obviously, she’d had a more productive night than I had. She’d done research while I wasted time worrying about screwing up the interview I gave the TV stations. “That's a great idea. Thanks, Mary.” She beams at me. Her smile transforms her into a very pretty girl.
Alfie adds the story to the growing list on the whiteboard.
The editorial meeting lasts an hour. When we walk outside, the wind has kicked up. Dry leaves scuttle across the pavement. A siren begins to blare. The fire station is just around the corner. One truck passes us. Then another. We watch as they go by. Chloe is clutching Destiny’s arm. A police car whizzes past.
“Not again,” Chloe says.
“It’s too soon,” Destiny mutters. “Too soon.”
By the look on everyone’s faces, we’re all thinking the same thing. Another girl has died.
We pile into cars and follow the sound of the sirens. Hillside isn’t a big town, so we get there quickly. It’s an accident at a busy intersection on the other side of the train tracks on the eastern edge of town. Not as bad as it looks because the people in the two cars are sitting at the side of the road, looking shaken but not hurt.
Destiny’s reaction is the most extreme. She’s so relieved it’s not another burned girl that she bursts into tears.
Chapter 7
Marguerite: San Francisco, 1868
In this, my new journal, I shall tell the truth.
Here is one truth I have learned. A mother's laughter is hard to bear. When she is done laughing at me, I wish her dead.
A Lady in Full Bloom, the gentlemen call her. A lady who leans against the bar in the finest gambling saloons and talks and laughs with the men. Sometimes she sits at a card table and honors the players with her presence. Sometimes she is gone all night.
My time alone—and there is much of it—is spent reading books the rich old prostitute from Paris lends me. She owns the saloon and is a prosperous and shrewd woman. When I was young, she taught me to read and write. For Christmas, she gave me the pretty journal I now write in. It is my only comfort. For whom else is there to tell my secrets?
Now that I am seventeen, I have become more beautiful than my mother. My fine looks are often remarked upon in the saloon. And the men. They notice. Their devouring eyes follow me as I go about my chores. I ignore the old, ugly and dirty fools who are always about the place.
But when a young man of good health is about, I take a little too long dusting a lamp here, a table there. Sometimes I sweep past with downcast eyes. Sometimes my skirt brushes a leg, a knee.
I have perfected the art of turning with flushed cheeks to utter a pretty apology. Usually, the man cannot help himself. He reaches out to grab my wrist. Or grab me around the waist to pull me into his lap. Then I jump, a hand clapped over my mouth, but my eyes. My eyes say something else.
My mother says it is time to join her at the bar. I understand what this means: long nights with strange men and their animal appetites. How could my own mother want me to share in the fate she chose for herself all those years ago? I want to cry, kick, pull my hair. Run into the tramp filled street to accept whatever dark fate lurks there. But I do none of those things.
I wait. I pray for just the right man. And he arrives. He sweeps in as handsome as the good lord can make a man. He is young and tall and in good health with black hair and blue eyes. Bold is what I need to be because my mother is becoming impatient.
When he drops a glass on the floor, I see it happen and come dashing out to sweep up the mess. I kneel at his feet. I manage to knock off my cap and allow my long, golden hair to tumble down my back. And when I look over my shoulder, he's staring at me with parted lips and parting legs.
Later, I sit upon his lap, my arms entwined around his neck, while he whispers into my ear about another life. A life far from my mother and the Barbary Coast with its cut-throats, opium dens and putrid masses.
This is a place where the women fade. As my mother is surely destined to do. But I will not. I will not fade. I will not drink the vile liquor that is poured in this horrible place. I will not sing obscene songs into the night. I will not lie with foul, bleary-eyed men.
William is a groundskeeper at a magnificent mansion a train ride away from San Francisco. There is need of a maid, he says, and that I am well suited for the position. He is certain he can arrange it. And as soon he does, he will come back for me. To make sure he does, I cry prettily, saying I will miss him while he is gone. I press my lips to his and wiggle just so in his lap. And he keeps his promise. William comes back for me.
When I tell my mother of my plan, she laughs, a harsh and ugly sound as ever I heard. "A woman on her back, in the countryside, is still a whore. And that is what you will be."
I slap her. The very sound of it cracks the stale air. And then I pack what little I have and leave with William for the train station.
She is no mother to me. No kindness from her have I ever received. Only hardness where softness should have been. Only coldness instead of warmth.
There are no tearful goodbyes. No wistful waves. No promises of visits to come.
We are not traveling far. Some twenty-five miles south to a grand summer home in the village of Hillside, where my new life awaits.
Chapter 8
“Did you go to school dressed like that?” says my mother.
This is what pops out of her mouth when I walk into her salon. A girl dies at school and she's worried about my wardrobe. Then again, she knows I’m fine. She texted every hour to check on me.
The salon is especially busy for a weekday afternoon. Then I notice all the girls sitting around, scrolling away on their phones, flipping through gossip magazines, waiting for their moms. Like me. Waiting for my mom to get off work so I don’t have to be home alone.
“What's wrong with what I'm wearing?” I ask, throwing down my backpack.
My mother's dark eyes flick over me, head to toe. “That outfit. It doesn't even match.”
I don't bother replying, mostly because I'm distracted by all the talk that's going on.
Why is this only happening here? I can't believe they let the kids go back to school today. I kept Marly at home. That's the girl I saw on TV last night!
Vanessa Marquez, Alfie's mother, blows me a kiss over the foiled head of a blonde lady getting highlights.
“Sammie's hair is getting so long!” Vanessa says to my mom.
“Too long,” my mother replies. Then she points at the empty chair. “Sit, mija. My next appointment is running late. We can't have you on TV again with that mess going on.”
“Mom,” I say in a warning voice.
“When was the last time you had it cut?” she says. “The layers are all grown out.”
She has a point. My hair did look ratty on TV. I sit down with a sigh and let her get to work. Might as well get it over with. “Okay, but just a trim.”
I watch her in the mirror. She's forty-five but looks younger. We both have heart-shaped faces. Moles above our mouths. My hair is darker because I refuse to get highlights. She's wearing high heels even though she's on her feet all day.
“Not too short,” I tell her.
“Wouldn't she look amazing in one of those blunt cuts?” Vanessa says to my mom.
“No, she wouldn’t,” I say to Vanessa. Vanessa makes a face at me.
My mother gathers up all my hair and holds it in both of her hands. “Anything would be better than this mess,” she says loudly.
By now, some of the girls—a few I recognize from school—have lowered their magazi
nes and are watching us with interest. Like we're a reality show that's about to get good.
There's a twinkle in my mother's eye, a twitch of a smile, that I don't like. She's playing with my hair, pulling it this way and that, biting her lip, squinting, putting on a show. Like she's a famous stylist doing a makeover. Vanessa is staring at us, a piece of foil in her hands.
“Mom!” I'm looking at her in the mirror. I start to rise out of my chair, but she pushes me back down.
“It's just a little trim, Samantha!” She's wearing that face she gets when she thinks I'm talking back to her—chin down, eyes narrowed. She wasn’t always like this. It started around the ninth grade when I began to insist on making my own choices, about my hair, my clothes, wanting to spend more time with my friends.
Before I know it, she has a pair of shears in her hands. The ones made from Japanese steel. With her free hand she pushes my head forward, and there's a moment of awkward struggling as she combs out my hair while I try to slither out of the chair without getting stabbed.
“Stop,” I say. She doesn’t, of course. And then I hear long and steady ka-chunks.
Hair starts falling on my lap, on the floor. She steps back, shears dangling from her fingers, and surveys the results with a triumphant expression.
“Mom. What's wrong with you? Stop means stop.”
“You're overreacting,” she snaps. “It's just a few inches.” Then she grabs the precision scissors and neatens up the ends.
I throw off the cape. “A few inches? Are you joking? It's, like, six. How could you do that?”
My hair is now above my shoulders. A blunt cut. The hair style that is supposed to look good on everyone except I didn't want it. Because it is just a little too perfect. My face is white in the mirror. My eyes begin to water. I spin away, feeling dizzy.
My mother turns to Vanessa and throws up her hands. “Do you see how she gets? It looks good on her, right? Doesn't it?”
Vanessa nods, but I can see she's uncomfortable. When she doesn't say anything, my mother twirls around to face her audience. The girls gaze back, faces frozen, shocked. A few smirk.
“She's being silly, right?” my mother says. “Doesn't she look better without all that hair in her face?”
It's too much to take. I grab my backpack and stalk out.
“You're being ridiculous, Samantha!” my mother calls after me.
I bang out the door and stride down the street, feeling naked without my long hair.
The little downtown of Hillside is busy with people shopping, going to the post office, doing their errands. But no one's smiling. Teenage girls wander around, arms linked. Safety in numbers.
My destination is the closest cafe, where I head straight for the bathroom. I sit on the toilet and burst into tears. When I finally calm down, I splash water on my face, flick some hairs off my shirt, and go out and order a latte.
Sipping my drink, I wander around downtown, fantasizing about little acts of revenge against my mother.
To kill some time, I go back to the library and when I enter, I spot Destiny. She’s looking at a small exhibition of historic photos of Hillside. One picture seems to have grabbed her attention, because she’s staring at it so intently that she doesn’t notice when I walk up. I see it’s the Wirth Mansion. A creepy old monstrosity of a place that offers tours and tea. Destiny jumps and nearly has a heart attack when I tap her on the shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I ask, curious.
“Nothing,” she replies. But she’s lying. I know it.
Chapter 9
The ride home is silent.
My mother has decided that she is the victim. Her feelings are hurt. She has done nothing wrong by chopping off my hair. She was just trying to help me. And I embarrassed her in front of everyone by walking out of the salon. “You are too old for tantrums, Samantha!”
I am upset because, once again, my mother doesn’t seem to care about what I think. When I tried to explain, she called me “dramatic” and “selfish.” Selfish because I hadn’t realized how worried she’s been about me with everything that is going on in Hillside.
Now I get to debut my stupid haircut at a party. Not that my mother knows about it. She thinks I'm going to Destiny's to hang out.
There is so much tension in the car that it's a relief when we finally turn onto our steep and narrow street. A moving van is parked in front of the house across from us. The house is new. And big. Really big. Three floors. Giant windows. Flat roof. Black painted steel. Very trendy and modern. Our house is smaller, older, funkier.
I spot a red Tesla in the driveway.
We've only heard rumors about the people building the house, that they're rich Silicon Valley types. But no one has met them.
My mother has been obsessed with these new, mysterious neighbors. She pulls up the hand brake, then leaps out of the car and sprints across the street in her three-inch heels, waving a hand at a woman standing in the doorway of the house. I can't get a good look at her, but I get the impression she's tall and elegant.
With the mood I'm in, the last thing I want to do is meet someone new. But I am also curious.
Who are these people who have so much money they can pay a million dollars for a dump and knock it down, then spend even more money to build a dream house? I lean against the car and watch as my mom and the lady talk. After a bit, they disappear into the house. When they come out again, they're yakking away like they've known each other forever.
My mother waves at me to join them. I'm still seething, but I go anyway and manage a fake smile while the introductions are made.
The lady is about my mom's age, but she is taller and she's wearing a white tank that shows off her muscular arms. But it's her hair that gets my attention: long box braids gathered up in a high ponytail. She looks ready for the red carpet.
“This is Camille,” my mother says. “And this is my daughter, Samantha. She's the editor of the school paper and she was on the TV news last night talking about those poor, poor girls. This situation is terrible. Just terrible.”
Camille gives me a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Samantha. I was editor of my school paper, too.”
“Oh! Are you a journalist?” I ask. It would great to have someone to talk to about colleges and internships.
She shakes her head. “Not anymore. But it was my major in college, Howard in D.C. I started out as a newspaper reporter, but I couldn't hack the pay and the hours, so I switched to PR. And that's what I'm doing now. PR for a tech company. But good for you. The world needs dedicated journalists.”
My heart sinks. Great. Just what my mother needs. More ammunition.
My mother bumps me with her hip. “Didn't I tell you, Samantha? There's no money in journalism. No security. But isn't that a wonderful idea? I bet you can do PR, too.”
I doubt my mother even knows what PR stands for, but before she can continue, Camille says, “When I was in high school, we didn't have anything as horrible as the murder of three girls to write about. And the police don't have any suspects? No clues?”
I shake my head. “No. No suspects and if they have any clues, they're not making them public.”
My mother pats Camille on the arm. “At least you don't have girls to worry about, because, let me tell you, it's awful for all us mothers of daughters. We live in fear, absolute fear.”
I excuse myself and say goodbye to Camille. By now, I'm starving, and some crackers and cheese are calling my name. I'm sitting in the kitchen, shoveling down my snack when my mother scurries in a few minutes later. When she sees me still in one piece, she makes a quick sign of the cross.
I do not like the expression on her face. Sly. But whatever she's got going on, she won't be able to keep it to herself for long.
She kicks off her heels, then starts flinging open cabinet doors, pulling out a can of tomato sauce, an onion, a net bag of small potatoes. From the refrigerator she takes out a pack of thin cut steaks and green beans. My stomach rumbles. The makings
of steak guisado, one of my favorite Mexican dishes.
Before she can start her martyr routine of heavy sighing, I begin washing and chopping the green beans.
It's almost six o'clock. My dad should be home any minute. I wish he would hurry. My mother is humming. She shoots me a sideways glance. I know that look. She knows something I don’t know. I refuse to play along.
And then I hear the rumble of the garage door going up and a few seconds later my dad walks in. He's a big guy. Six feet. Built like a football player, but he's just a big nerd. He's an electrician. Now, he has his own company. Business has been great since the tech types started moving into Hillside. He jokes they'll be paying for my college tuition.
Usually, the first thing he does is kiss my mother, but ever since girls started turning up dead and burned, he gives me a giant bear hug like he can't believe I'm still alive. Tonight, he stops and his eyes pop.
“Oh! Wow. Hello!” he finally says. Then he runs a hand through his hair. It's nearly black, and he has a lot of it.
“Hey, Dad.” My chin goes all quivery. He has that effect on me. I can be hanging in there, all brave, and then he says something, and I lose it. Probably has something to do with being a daddy's girl.
He takes a few steps toward me. My mother, meanwhile, is smothering the thin steak slices in flour. “You got a new haircut, huh?” he asks.
I can't look at him. I just can't. Because I'll start crying. I begin cutting the little potatoes in half. “Yeah. I got a new haircut.” As in the haircut happened to me. Like you “get” the flu or a shot.
He's circling me now, trying to get a look at my face. “Do you like it, honey?” he asks cautiously.
I swivel toward him, knife midair. “No. Not really. Not that I had a choice.”
Now my father is confused. He's looking at me, then my mother, then back again. He shoots my mother a private look, a look she pretends not to see.
The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery Page 3