Ugly Young Thing

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Ugly Young Thing Page 17

by Jennifer Jaynes


  His back and stomach were oozing from his handiwork with the fork, and a fever of 102.3 had come on during the night. In the bathroom he removed his shirt and gazed in the mirror at the deep, jagged, angry-looking slices on his stomach. The discharge leaking from them was slightly yellow. Most likely infection. He turned and studied his back. It was a similar canvas of angry, red slashes.

  But he still itched.

  He wiped his brow and replayed the words Hope had used to describe him on the telephone to her friend. And to think he’d spared several weeks of her life when he could’ve killed her that very first night.

  It had been a huge mistake.

  Rage bubbled over inside of him as he remembered how she had stabbed him in the back. But apparently she wasn’t the only backstabber.

  Killing the young girl would be terribly sloppy, but at this point he didn’t care. It would be like killing two birds with one stone.

  He’d finally get his release.

  And it would also be payback.

  He twisted the knob on the back door and it opened with ease.

  He stepped in and closed it gently behind him. In the distance, he could hear the soft thrums of music. Otherwise, the house was still. He knew the teenager was the only person home . . . and that she would be home alone for hours today.

  He wiped at his brow with the back of his hand, then humming softly, he tightened his grip on the knife. He moved slowly through the room, then through the living room, a fine sheen of sweat chilling the back of his neck.

  He entered the back hallway and made his way to her bedroom. Peering in, he saw that the room was empty.

  He had once liked the girl. At first, she seemed very nice. But he’d now known her long enough to know that she also had a very nasty side.

  She liked to hurt people, so she would get hurt, too.

  He heard movement in the hallway. Adrenaline poured through him as he lowered his knife to thigh level and casually turned.

  The girl appeared in the doorway, holding a mound of wadded-up clothes; her hair was wet as though she’d just showered. Seeing him, she froze and frowned. “What—? Wh-why are you in my room?” she slurred.

  He just smiled.

  She scrunched up her nose. “And why are you looking at me like that? You’re like seriously . . . seriously creeping me out.”

  He kept smiling. The slurring, her dilated pupils—she was high.

  Perfect.

  She stepped backward. “Um, seriously, you’re freaking me out, okay? Stop it.”

  He let his eyes trail down to the knife. Her eyes followed and her jaw dropped. She hurled her dirty clothes at him and shot down the hallway. Knife drawn, he thundered after her.

  She scrambled into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  He reached the door a second too late.

  But that was okay—the bathroom was one of the worst rooms she could’ve chosen. There was no window in the bathroom.

  It was a dead end.

  He stood, sweating, on the hallway side of the door. “Come on out,” he called.

  “You have a knife! Why do you have a fucking knife?” she screamed. “Whaa— . . . Seriously, you just made me pee myself. You’re scaring the shit out of me!”

  A drop of sweat landed in his eye. He wiped it away, then threw his body against the door. It didn’t budge.

  She screamed.

  Blood pounded in his ears.

  “Come on out, sweetheart. Let’s talk.”

  “Nooo!” she shouted, the word ending in a sob.

  He rammed the door again, this time with his hip.

  She screamed even louder.

  The house went quiet.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I was rude, but please,” she begged. “Please stop. I won’t say anything about this. About, you know, you being in my room. Having the knife. Doing . . . this . . . this . . . whatever you’re doing.”

  Right. I’m sure I can believe you.

  “Please. Just stop,” she begged. “I swear I won’t say a word about this to anyone. Please! I swear! I really do!”

  “Fine. I believe you,” he said gently. “I believe you won’t say anything to anyone about this. Look, I must’ve just lost my head. I had some drinks earlier and things got out of control.” He paused and tapped the blade against the door. “I guess I wanted to snoop around your room a little and you caught me off guard. I was embarrassed, that’s all. I’m fine now, though, so you can come out.”

  Silence.

  He waited for several seconds to give her time to decide. But she said nothing.

  As he suspected, she wasn’t going for it. Smart, smart girl.

  Clenching his jaw, he threw his body against the door again and a sharp pain burst up his side. Cursing under his breath, he stopped to rub it. But then he noticed something: the door was now ajar, and the girl had stopped screaming.

  This made him uneasy.

  His eyes narrowing, he pushed the door until it was halfway open. The room was still—and for a few moments, he stared into what appeared to be an empty bathroom. He couldn’t hear as much as her heartbeat, although he knew it must be pounding.

  His was.

  Rubbing his sweaty palm against his pants, he readied the knife.

  Was she cowering behind the door?

  Behind the shower curtain?

  In the linen closet?

  The answer had to be one of the three. There was no place else. He slammed the door open as hard as he could—and it hit the wall behind it.

  Okay, she isn’t behind the door . . .

  He took a step toward the linen closet. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he sang.

  Silence.

  Gripping the doorknob, he threw the closet door open only to find shelves filled with toiletries, a toilet brush, rolls of paper towels, and bathroom cleaner. Otherwise, it was empty.

  She’s not in the linen closet . . .

  He licked his lips and stared at the blue shower curtain. He reached out and it opened with a shriek.

  There she sat, in the corner of the bathtub, grasping her little lavender tin. But the expression on her face surprised him. She was grinning ear to ear. Her cheeks were wet, but she looked at him as though she was seeing something comical.

  “I’m imagining this, right?” she asked, blinking. “I just took too many pills?”

  “No, sweetheart. This is real.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not. It . . . it can’t be.”

  He nodded. “Yes, it can.”

  He reached for her, and the dazed smile slipped off her face.

  “Nonononono!” she screamed. “It’s not real!”

  “Oh, but yesyesyes, it’s very real,” he smiled. Then he glared at her. “You really should’ve been nice to her.”

  CHAPTER 50

  MISS BITTY’S BODY was betraying her. She couldn’t eat without vomiting, and days ago she’d stopped trying. She couldn’t concentrate on anything except the dread that loomed in the pit of her stomach.

  Her ears had been ringing all day. One of the many signs that told her something was very wrong. Something was going to happen soon, if it hadn’t already, and she was powerless to stop it.

  First of all, she didn’t know exactly what was going to happen—or when. She just knew that it would be very bad.

  She had become afraid for Allie, so she constantly checked on the girl. Most nights she also went as far as to sleep on the hallway floor outside the girl’s room.

  She had also secretly hired Hannah’s stepfather, Ted, to change all the locks on the doors—and she was locking the doors even during the daytime.

  She berated herself again for her mistakes. The only refuge she could find from her stress was the alcohol—a substance she’d had a private love-hate relationship with for decades.

  She sat in bed with her laptop and logged on to a mental illness board. For years it had been part of her bedtime ritual. She dispensed nutrition and lifestyle advice to those who
didn’t have access to practitioners like her.

  She frowned as she read a post by the mother of a bipolar teen who hadn’t taken his meds for three days. He’d been found on the roof of a Southern California apartment complex, threatening to blow the place to smithereens. She was at her wits’ end, having no idea what to do.

  She read the comments that followed the post. Most were empathetic, from other parents of children with mental illness. One, though, was just plain hateful.

  Anonymous wrote: “There’s no reason for these sickos to be walking on our streets. They should all be either institutionalized or euthanized.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and she saw red.

  MizBit777 wrote: “Go fuck yourself, IGNORANT asshole!”

  She hit “Enter” and slammed the cover to the laptop shut.

  Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her nerves and become Miss Bitty again, the person she’d been for two decades.

  The gentle, kind, helpful Miss Bitty.

  Her driver’s license, birth certificate, and Social Security card said she was Bitty Taylor. But that’s not who she’d been just six years ago. No, she’d been someone else entirely, who’d been forced to make a decision no one should ever be faced with.

  Standing, she smoothed her shirt, left the room, and went to ask Allie if she wanted to be adopted.

  CHAPTER 51

  IT WASN’T THE way Bitty had wanted to ask the girl.

  She’d wanted to first confide in Allie about her plan. To finally be honest and come clean. But the situation had become too desperate too quickly and she didn’t trust the girl enough yet to clue her in.

  Revealing too much prematurely could be disastrous because the girl could easily go to the authorities.

  In the living room, she found Allie sitting alone on the couch watching an Everybody Loves Raymond rerun.

  “Hey, girlie,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted.

  Allie looked up, her eyes shiny.

  Bitty grabbed the remote control and lowered the volume. She peered at Allie and smiled. She was about to speak—to pop her big question—but Allie spoke first.

  “Hey, can I ask you something?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  “Of course. Anything.” She laid the remote on the couch and took a seat.

  The girl studied her for a moment with her intelligent eyes but then seemed to lose her nerve. Her eyes shifted back to the television. “Never mind,” she said. She picked up the remote and began surfing through the channels.

  Bitty placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “No, go on. You can tell me anything.”

  Allie’s eyes welled up with tears, and she punched the button on the remote control harder.

  “Anything,” Bitty repeated. “I’m here for you. I won’t judge.”

  The girl took a deep breath, then the words barreled out of her mouth. “Do you ever worry about losing your mind? Like, really. Like maybe you’re becoming crazy?”

  Yes, every single day. “What do you mean? Did something happen?”

  “Well—” Allie started, her eyes flitting from Miss Bitty’s to the television. She seemed to be trying to put her thoughts into words. Her eyes filled with tears again and she began to tremble. She opened her mouth to speak again, but then her jaw dropped and she clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!”

  Miss Bitty’s gaze followed hers.

  A breaking news broadcast was on with reporters standing in front of a local home. A home that Miss Bitty quickly recognized as Hannah’s.

  A caption was splashed across the bottom of the screen:

  GRAND TRESPASS TEENAGER SLAIN IN HER HOME

  The air was sucked out of Miss Bitty’s body. “Oh dear God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  Allie sprang up and stepped closer to the television. She watched quietly, her hand still clamped against her mouth.

  The phone rang, startling them both. Miss Bitty’s hand trembled as she picked it up.

  It was Joe. “Bitty, have you seen the news about Hannah? Is Allie okay?”

  CHAPTER 52

  BITTY FINALLY MADE her decision . . . by far the most difficult decision of her life. For years, she had allowed certain instincts to outpower others and she couldn’t . . . wouldn’t . . . do it anymore.

  She wept into a towel in her room, so hard she was unable to catch her breath. She knew she should be with Allie, helping her through the loss of her friend and telling her that everything would be okay.

  But it would just be a lie.

  Besides, she was having trouble just keeping herself together. She had used the hallway wall to support her weak knees just so she could walk from the living room to her bedroom without collapsing, so she knew she’d be no help to the girl.

  She’d only scare her more.

  She had asked Joe to be with Allie, to talk with her and watch her closely for the rest of the evening, and he said he’d be happy to help.

  She lowered herself to her old knees and prayed. It was one of two things, for years, she’d been too much of a coward to do—and she’d do the other soon.

  A soothing warmth always flooded her chest when she prayed to her maker, instantly calming her. That and an unshakable certainty that He would help her get through whatever struggles she was facing.

  It wasn’t the case this time. This time there was no warmth. No certainty.

  When she was done praying, she vomited. Then, on shaky legs, she went to the mirror. The old woman staring back looked beaten—and, the truth was, she had been. She’d weathered more storms than anyone should ever have to face, but most of it had been by choice . . . the consequences of making the wrong decisions.

  But she’d do the right thing now.

  And it would all start with drafting a very detailed grocery list.

  CHAPTER 53

  ALLIE PINCHED HER arm hard to make sure she wasn’t having a nightmare.

  Wincing, she realized she wasn’t. Lying in bed, she stared up at her bedroom ceiling, a million questions running wild in her mind.

  She had talked to Hannah only hours before and now she was dead? It reminded her of how quickly her brother had died. One second he’d been there. The next he was gone for good.

  The reporter said Hannah had been murdered. Stabbed forty-two times.

  Allie shuddered at the thought.

  How scared had she been? How much had it hurt? How long had she been conscious? What were her last thoughts?

  And . . . why? Who would want to kill Hannah?

  Was it the same person who’d killed that single mother? Or had she just been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was it more personal than that?

  Did it have something to do with me?

  Hannah’s words in the woods that night echoed in her ears:

  Wow. What if I get murdered by, like, some ax murderer just because I know you? Because you and I hang out?

  Gooseflesh rose on Allie’s arms, and she hugged herself.

  Will murder always follow me?

  Am I just fooling myself thinking I’ll ever be normal?

  Tears flooding her eyes, she pulled the comforter up to her neck and tried to breathe.

  Her bedroom door eased open. It was Miss Bitty. “Are you okay?”

  Swiping at her nose, Allie studied her. She looked tired, ragged, and way too thin. “Yeah, I mean, I guess so.”

  The old woman shuffled to the bedroom window and checked the locks.

  “Are you okay?” Allie asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  I don’t believe you.

  “Try to get some sleep,” Miss Bitty said, crossing to the other side of the room again. The door began to close.

  “Miss Bitty?”

  “Yes?”

  “You sure you’re—”

  “Get some sleep, Allie,” she answered, her voice stern.

  The woman closed the door and Allie listened as her soft footsteps disappeared down the hall.

  Allie
reached out for Piglet, only to realize the puppy wasn’t there. She began to sob. She’d spent hours in the woods the following morning looking for Piglet to no avail. She had been a coward not to have gone after her immediately. Her pulse quickened as she realized she hadn’t stopped her brother from leaving either.

  Death . . . death . . . everywhere.

  She sank deeper beneath the sheets. The stability she’d known for the first time in her life was crumbling fast . . . crashing down all around her.

  CHAPTER 54

  THE NEXT MORNING Ted appeared at the mudroom door. His hair was disheveled, his eyes swollen. Allie watched Miss Bitty walk toward him, her arms wide open.

  “Mr. Hanover,” the old woman whispered, folding him into a hug. “I am so sorry.”

  Ted hugged Miss Bitty back. “Thanks.”

  “How’s Claire holding up?”

  He released her and cleared his throat. “Not well,” he said. “Actually, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course.” Miss Bitty gestured toward the table. “Come have a cup of coffee.”

  Ted walked to the table and nodded in Allie and Big Joe’s direction.

  “I’m sorry, Ted,” Big Joe said. “How awful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Me too,” Allie said, her voice thick. She still felt very confused and a little numb. The fact that Hannah was dead still didn’t seem real—even with her grieving stepfather sitting just a few feet away.

  Bitty returned with a cup of steaming coffee. Allie noticed the woman’s hand tremble as she set it down. Miss Bitty’s behavior that morning had been more odd than usual. Not only were her eyes bloodshot and bag-ridden, she’d been forgetful all morning. She’d even dropped a plate a few minutes before Ted had arrived.

  Ted cleared his throat. “This might sound like a strange request, but with the expenses for the funeral, things are tight for us right now and I know you have the guesthouse, so I was wondering—”

  Miss Bitty gestured for Ted to stop talking. “No need to say more. You and Claire can stay in the back bedroom of the guesthouse for as long as you want.” She looked up at Big Joe. “Right, Joe? You don’t mind if the Hanovers share the guesthouse with you, do you?”

 

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