Little Girl Lost

by Addison Moore

  It’s not for show. If I had my way, Allison wouldn’t be anywhere near me right now. The truth is, I can’t stand to be in my own skin. I can’t stand who I’ve become—that I’ve let my dick define me, take down my family, and put my daughter’s very life in danger. My greed, my lust, my irreverence toward my wife, our life, the life we created is insurmountable. I have failed as a man, become insufferable as a husband, and detestable as a human being. I didn’t just hit rock bottom. I crashed through the granite and fell into a hellish vortex that generates more and more misery on an exponential level. I am a waste of human skin. My greatest contribution to this earth is that one day I will become a feast for worms. A meal for subterranean creatures—I should have that carved into my tombstone.

  “James.” Allison sits on my lap and pulls me toward her by the back of my neck. The cool air of the room licks over my tear-slicked face.

  My chest thumps with a hiccup which draws a strange sad smile from the two of us.

  “I forgive you.” She tweaks her brows as if this were her check-mate in our game of psychological chess.

  Allison has always been a generous woman. But not this generous.

  “I haven’t asked for your forgiveness”—I frown while inspecting her for clues—“yet.”

  “But I could feel it coming.” She glances over her shoulder at the lights shining outside, the constant vigil of reporters waiting for that one big break. “I’m not over this. I’m not over us. I don’t know what I want where we’re concerned, but I have to get Reagan back first. We have to keep her our priority, and then we can dismantle one another all we want.” A single tear rolls down her cheek, and I catch it with my fingertip.

  My heart pounds like a freight train barreling its way to hell. “You want a truce.” I’ll take it. A few months ago, admitting this to her was my biggest nightmare, my biggest fear, and here I spilled every dirty detail, and she still hasn’t plucked my eyes out and shoved them down my throat.

  “We should focus on Reagan.” My fingers press into her flesh as I attempt to pull her close, but her body goes rigid.

  “You’ll sleep downstairs now that your father is gone.”

  “Done.” Thank God she didn’t ask me to leave the house. There’s still time. Time to get on her good side. Time to prove that I’m a changed man. To prove that nobody could love Allison more than me.

  “You won’t speak with her again.”

  My gut cinches. Hailey seemed pretty convinced that the child she’s carrying is half mine.

  “I won’t,” I whisper as my fingers find a home in her warm soft hair.

  But deep down I’m afraid I will.

  * * *

  The next day goes by in a blur, then the next as if someone pressed fast-forward on time. I’ve spent the hours lost in a thick sea of slumber. One long glorious dream in which I forget the world after the other, and then just like that, I’m reminded of the fact some sick bastard has my child, my beautiful, beautiful little girl and could be doing who knows what to her, and suddenly I want to rip my own balls off for enjoying such a luxury instead of running through the streets screaming her name, tearing each and every house in Concordia apart, ripping through drywall and floorboards until the bones become exposed in my hands.

  My father is MIA, no calls for the last two days, won’t pick up his damn phone, so I figure I’d better pay him a visit. In the evening, I tell Ally I’m headed over and invite her to come along, but she opts out, citing the need for a nice long shower. I scoop my keys up and assure her I’m coming right back. She’ll know whether I’m lying or not once that asshole she has trained on me reports back to her. Not that she doesn’t have a right to put a GPS in my pants. I’ve certainly given her a reason.

  The drive to the country isn’t a long one. It’s a quiet one, though. Reagan has been my singular focus for the last several weeks, and yet I’ve been impotent to help her. And that girl that was with her, Ota—not one family came forward to claim her. Not even that witch Dolla Chetney could figure that one out. You know if you stump a celebrity psychic you’ve got some real problems on your hands.

  Ota. Who the hell was she? Is she? Was she human? Was she another one of my children that seems to be coming out of the woodwork lately? First Monica, then Hailey. I grimace into the road.

  That promise I made to Allison comes back to me. How am I going to stay away from the woman who just might be having my child? I should probably wait until she has the baby, then request a paternity test. If the baby isn’t mine, I go out for beer. If it is—I cross that bridge when I get to it. Right now, the only child on earth I care about is Reagan.

  I pull into my father’s lumpy and ever so long driveway, only to find him sitting on the porch, drink in hand. I park and hop out, grimacing at the sight of him.

  “Howdy.” He lifts his bottle, but his sentiment came out dry.

  “Howdy, yourself. You know you had me worried. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Here and there.” His gray eyes stare silently ahead. In the two days we’ve been apart, he looks older, grayer, and far more frayed around the edges.

  I take a seat on the railing and lean back against the post.

  “That’s a ten foot drop if you fall.” His voice tumbles out slow and gravely. “You break your neck, and I might just smother the life out of you—put you out of your misery.”

  My insides tense in a knot. “Why not? You’re pretty good at putting people out of their misery.”

  His eyes flit to mine, nothing but white glossy shards. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you want it to mean?” I lean over and pluck the beer right out of his hand before giving it a sniff. “I’m pretty sure there’s no antifreeze in this.” I knock back a quick gulp and taste a cigarette on the lip.

  “Boy, you have ten seconds to explain yourself before I boot you off my property.” His voice rises, well-controlled and teeming with percolating aggression.

  “Just like you booted Mom? The way you emptied the attic of every last memory of who we were as a family?”

  He brings his chin close to his chest, his brows pointing an angry V right at me. Flames shoot from his ears, he’s so irate—I must be right.

  “Why did you do it?” My gaze latches onto those demonic eyes of his and I can feel the need in me to kill him. I don’t see why not. Offing another human being seems to be in my DNA.

  “I needed some space.” He leans into his seat as if weighing his options. “What do you care? Just a bunch of pictures and boxes of tinsel. Damn stuff collected dust for close to forty years, long before you were born. Some of those boxes hadn’t been touched in that long either.”

  “Did you need the space or were you tired of being haunted by all those long-gone faces?” I turn toward him, my feet planted on the creaky floorboards beneath me.

  He gives a flick of the hand, his tired eyes moving toward the mountains in the distance wearing its fog-laden halo. “I know what they looked like. So do you.”

  “Do you see their ghosts? Do they gather around your bed at night, tormenting you? Begging to know the reason you decided there was no more room on the planet for them?”

  His eyes click over once again, a flash of guilt buried in each one.

  “That’s right.” I raise his disgusting beer at him before chucking it over the railing. “I know what you did to Wilson. I know what you did to Mom.” That last sentence comes out tired, a secret whispered in the night that I wish never broke the seal of my lips. “But what I don’t get is why Rachel? How?” I stagger over and pull him out of his seat by the neck. “How did you kill my sister?” I shout so loud my voice reverberates off the mountainside.

  He slaps my hands off his body quick and heavy like the trunk of a tree falling over me. “Let go.” His hands grip my shirt and pull me in close. “You think you can come to my house and spew these sick vicious lies? I tell you what—if there was a member of this family I should have slaughtered, it would have
been you.” He sends me flying into the post and I hit my forehead over a rusted nail. I touch my hand over it and it glows pink under the light.

  “You killed them.” I glare at this older, not wiser, far deadlier version of myself. “Wilson was a stoner, a coke head who was quickly mucking up your image. Hell, our image of the perfect all-American family.” I give him a hard shove to the chest. “Isn’t that right? You fucking sick bastard? And who knows why you left Mom to die out there. What I really want to know is how long did it take you to practice that little maneuver? You had to time it just right, didn’t you? You jammed her door so she couldn’t escape. You’re a heartless, soulless monster. A stray dog would have made a better husband.”

  He snarls, as his upper lip tugs to the side. “You were the one that murdered our family. You took a bright light and blew his head all over the ceiling. Aston had the greatest potential of any Price child before or after him. You stole his youth, his children, his legacy right from underneath him because you were irresponsible. You’re the moron who should have died that day. You were a danger to yourself and others, and you continued that tradition when you lost your damn daughter!”

  I lunge at him, my hands finding a happy home around that slippery, wrinkled turkey neck of his and I squeeze until bubbles come from his lips, a choking sound emits, sweet as a lullaby.

  “I should kill you.” My eyes fix on his. Those dirty lenses he sees the world through bulge like eggs. “I should send you straight to hell. In less than thirty seconds you can be there, getting a head start on your miserable eternal state.” I thrust his head into the wall and it hits with a thud, like a melon to concrete. “Were those the last words you said to my mother?” I seethe over him, still motivated to remove him from the planet. I’m not opposed to disposing of a body later. It’s doubtful anyone would care if he was gone.

  He grips the back of his head and moans as he drifts toward the front door. “I forgive you, son. You’re under an awful lot of pressure. No sleep. You’re not eating right.”

  He forgives me? It seems to be a common theme. Forgiveness without asking. Life had become so simple.

  “You have a daughter out there somewhere.” He glares at me before stepping inside and the screen snaps shut between us. “Why don’t you take a good look around this town? You just might find her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? So help me God, if you know where she is and won’t tell me, you are as good as dead, old man.”

  “Or maybe it’s the best way I can keep you from choking the life out of me.”

  “Dammit!” I knife the word out of my throat so fast it rips through me like a razor.

  The door begins to close, then pauses abruptly. “What’s the matter, James?” That worn smile of his plays on his lips. “Got a ghost of your own you wish would get on the next ship?”

  A moment thumps by as we stare one another down. My father flooded with disappointment in me, resentment for discovering that the skeletons rattling around in his closet belonged to our own family. And me, wondering if he just gifted me a clue on a silver platter.

  He grunts into the night. “You never were that smart, kid.” The door slams quick and final, stealing all the light along with it.

  Ghost. Ship. Ghost Ship?

  I jump in my truck and speed all the way to Monica’s house. My heart racing, my blood pumping as I run light after light.

  And I wonder all the way there what in the hell would Monica want with my daughter?

  * * *

  There is a slight sense of relief in the thought that Monica could actually somehow be responsible for this plague that has affected my life. For as psychotic as she is, she’s a decent human being. One that I could never imagine mistreating a child in any single way. Heck, if Monica had Reagan tucked away in that wood-rotted mansion of hers, I’d bet she were taking excellent care of her. Candy, popcorn—movies on a never-ending loop. Anything to keep Reagan satiated and satisfied. With my luck, Reagan would never want to come home. And with me as a parent, it’s probably a damn good idea she keep her distance.

  I park on the street and walk close to the hedges as I make my way to the house. That giant ship still sits prominent on the lawn, still looking as haunted as ever. There’s no way I’d ever want to live in that mausoleum all by myself. Not sure why Monica would want to. McCafferty suggested Monica was single, alone, no longer Mrs. whatever the hell she was to begin with.

  The lights are on upstairs. Downstairs has the blue flicker of the television coming from the corner window. An awful lot of lights for just one person. But then again, I can’t fault her. A single woman all alone in that oversized monstrosity probably warrants a ding to your electric bill.

  I make my way around the back, no clue what I expect to find. A couple of garbage cans sit neat in a row and I pluck open the lid to the last one, only to be greeted with the stench of sour milk and a plethora of fast food bags slowly composting themselves, getting eaten alive by their soil stains.

  The house seems to grow taller as I crouch in the periphery. The Ghost Ship has been one of those legendary homes in Concordia that the entire town swears is haunted. Back when we were dating, I couldn’t even get Monica to watch a horror flick with me, let alone live one.

  A pale blue sphere at the base of the back porch stops me cold. A small rubber ball—the cheap kind they sell by the dozens at the grocery store. I bend over and pick it up, soft, rubbery, depleted of air just enough to let me know it’s been melting in the elements for a while now.

  Who the hell does she have playing with a ball? Niece, nephew—hell, it could be neighborhood children. Monica could be a nanny for all I know. Sending me over here was probably just a ploy of my father’s. How can I get rid of the latest and greatest Price disgrace? Turn him into the town Peeping Tom. I’ll outsmart him. I jog back to the front and give a brisk knock over the door.

  A nervous rustle comes from inside and I peer into the murky glass to catch a shadowy figure moving quickly in the opposite direction.

  “It’s me. James.” I try to sound friendly despite the fact I’ve just shouted my head off.

  The porch light clicks on, and I give a humble wave.

  “My God, James Price?” The door swings open and she pulls me in. “Is that you?”

  “It’s me.” I take her in, with her hair sitting on top of her head in a blob, a white silk robe on and a pair of matching pants underneath. Monica always did have a flare for the luxurious. That was part of what drew me to Allison. She was so down-to-earth, sleeping in my old sweats and happy to do it. Just the thought makes me yearn for her. Instead, here I am staring in the face of my old high school girlfriend, wondering if she knows anything about my missing child.

  “What brings you around?” She shuttles me in the opposite direction of that glowing blue light, toward a hall that leads to an expansive kitchen. I spot a box of Lucky Charms cereal on the counter and my insides cinch at the sight of it. Reagan loves that stuff. She’d shovel it in by the bucketful if I let her.

  A quick bite of heat rises through me, and I’m suddenly struck with the urge to start shouting her name and whipping open doors, looking under beds, ransacking closets.

  “Just drove by after visiting the old man.” I give a wistful shake of the head while taking in the architecture, old world craftsmanship you just don’t see anymore. “I’ve always wondered what this place looked like. Saw the lights on and thought maybe you wouldn’t mind showing an old friend around.” I let my gaze fall to hers, lift my hand to her cheek, and do a clean sweep over it with my thumb as if I were flirting.

  “Oh.” She jumps back a notch as if my advance were something she’d need to consider. “Actually”—she glances over her shoulder, back toward that room with the flickering lights—“it’s pretty late. Um, I haven’t exactly been too tidy these last few weeks.” Those lying eyes drift back to mine. “Look, I know you miss your angel, hon. It’s bound to drive you mad. All of my concern has been for you,
James.” Now it’s her hand caressing me, fondling my lips as if she still had any right to them.

  “I’m good with a mess.” I blink a dry smile. “Unless, of course, you have a guest.” I give a playful hop on one leg back toward the door. “Anybody here?” My voice booms throughout the skeletal structure, vibrating off the walls like a tuning fork.

  She swats me over the chest like a reflex. “Would you keep it down? I’ve got a sick dog that needs his beauty sleep.”

  “What kind of dog?”

  “Mutt,” she’s quick to answer, and I’m prone to believe her. Monica had three of them in the time we dated. For all I know it’s one of the three.

  “So how about that tour?” I rock back on my heels, trying to convince her I’m up for a good time if she’s looking. I’m not, but my father’s sick clue, that ball I found in the yard, her sketchy, skittish behavior—none of it sits well with me.

  “How about you’re drunk? I can smell the beer on your breath.” She turns me toward the door. “Get yourself home to that little wifey of yours. She’s probably worried sick about where you are. You should be down on your hands and knees together praying that little angel of yours gets home safe.” There’s a sarcastic inflection in that last sentence when she says the word angel as if she were mocking Reagan’s innocence.