House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2)

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  Later, when I came down to take a bath, his room was closed with the lights out. Good, he’d gone to bed early. I bathed slowly, enjoying the heat of the water. I washed my long, blonde hair two times, daydreaming about Sam.

  He was turning out to be quite the boyfriend. Wait…is he my boyfriend? I wondered, scrubbing my split ends thoroughly. If someone drops everything to go on a random trip to New Orleans with you, then they’re probably your boyfriend, I decided. That thought cheered me up from my somber mood.

  I dried off and dressed in the clothes I was planning to wear to the airport. I needed to be ready to jump right up and go, and I was worried that I might oversleep. I set an alarm on my phone, turning it to the lowest volume. I needed to hear it, but I couldn’t take the chance of waking up George.

  It was nearly ten o’clock and I really needed to sleep. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shut my brain off. My thoughts were running rampant…This was why I’d always loved reading. Focusing on the words and getting lost in a good story helped me escape from my inner turmoil.

  I pulled out the murder mystery book I’d started the other day, but the words kept blurring together on the page. I switched back to Wendi’s book. Since I couldn’t focus on the words, I flipped to the pictures in the middle again.

  I stared at a young picture of Wendi, plastered on the front of a missing person poster. The words below it read:

  Have You Seen This Girl?

  I flipped through more photos: Wendi with a blanket around her shoulders in a hospital bed, being reunited with her family years after being kidnapped by the Garretts. More photos of the Garretts’ victims. In the back of the picture section, there were also small photographs of some of the Garrett family members. A few of the perpetrators were children themselves, teenagers used to lure other kids to the House of Horrors.

  My eyes instantly noticed the name below one of the pictures—Samantha Castillo. My breath caught in my throat. Could this be my great aunt George referred to? The one who left him this house?

  If so, then she was listed as a suspect. Under her name was a sentence:

  Samantha Castillo was shot by Officer Jonathan Milby. She was bound to a wheelchair. Sentenced to only eight years in prison for her role in the kidnappings and murders.

  So, George had lied. Samantha wasn’t some innocent bystander whose family terrorized the town. She played a significant role in the Garretts’ crimes, apparently.

  I lay on my bed, stretching my toes and contemplating George’s lie. Why would he say Samantha hated her ties to the family when in reality, she played a part in it and even served time in prison for it? For the same reason he omitted information about this house, I realized. George was a liar, and was it really all that surprising when I considered who his family was?

  I thought about the trauma Wendi was forced to endure. I couldn’t imagine what that must have been like for her. And honestly, I didn’t want to. My sleep was riddled with dreams.

  I dreamed that I was lying on the hood of George’s SUV, sunbathing as the vehicle roared through the streets of Flocksdale. The wind was blowing through my hair and for a minute I felt…weightless. But then I glanced back over my shoulder, realizing no one was driving the SUV. I was racing toward the river, with no one behind the wheel to stop or guide me…

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  I didn’t get up until nearly four o’clock on the dot. My alarm didn’t wake me up but luckily, Sam’s repeated calls did. I stumbled around the room, tripping over unpacked boxes and searching frantically for my shoes. Finding a pair of slip-ons, I peeked out the window. Sam was parked in the alleyway behind the house, lights turned off.

  I pulled my bag out from under the bed and tip-toed down the stairs. I tried to stay silent, but the steps creaked with every press of my foot. I made it to the front door, placed my hand on the knob.

  “Where are you going, young lady?” George’s voice boomed. He was sitting in the living room, hands folded in his lap. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness. It was like he’d known…like he’d been waiting for me. But how?

  I started to answer him, but then he stood up. I panicked. I twisted the knob, threw the door open, and took off running around the side of the house.

  I don’t know if he followed. I jumped in the passenger seat of Sam’s Cobalt, locking the door behind me. “Go!” I shouted.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  I sat in one of those stiff plastic seats, waiting at the terminal for my flight to begin boarding. Sam sat beside me, wringing his hands nervously. “Probably need to tell him the truth,” he mumbled, talking about my stepdad, George.

  “No way! That’s the whole point. I want to talk to my mom alone, without his influence.” After much convincing, I texted George.

  Me: I’m sorry. I am. But I need to go home and see my friends in Ohio for a few days. Hell, I might even check out a few colleges in Ohio while I’m there. With everything going on in Flocksdale, you should be happy I’m ducking out of town. I promise I’ll be back in a few days. Try not to worry.

  I reread the message, deleted the word ‘hell,’ and clicked send. Of course, it was all a big fat lie. But I didn’t want him hunting me down, and if he did, I needed to throw him off track with the details of where I was going…for at least long enough that I could talk to my mom and convince her we needed to stay away from him.

  Our seat numbers were called for boarding. We stood in line, waiting with our iPhones, ready to show our mobile boarding passes. Once seated on the plane, I felt a little more relieved. At least George couldn’t come running into the airport to find me now. We were getting ready to be high in the sky, far away from Flocksdale. Out of reach.

  We had seats in the aisle, right across from each other. I didn’t have a window seat, thank god. I’d only flown a few times, and personally, I didn’t want to look outside when I was suspended 35,000 feet in the air. But that’s just me.

  We were cleared for takeoff. The plane’s engine roared to life, charging down the runway. The force of it pushed me against the back of my seat. I closed my eyes, reached for Sam’s hand. I couldn’t help remembering that dream…

  “If we go down, at least we’ll be together,” he joked. I smiled, opened my eyes, and enjoyed that single brief sensation when the plane’s wheels lifted off the ground—that moment of weightlessness, when you know there’s no turning back…

  ***

  It was still incredibly early when we landed in Orlando, the sun playing peekaboo with the clouds. We had a brief layover before catching our next flight to New Orleans. I don’t know why I expected this airport to be small. It was quite the opposite.

  We had to take a tram to get to the other side of the airport. It was filled with dazzling Disney shops, little kids with Mickey ears, a fountain, and even a hotel. It was a little overwhelming to say the least.

  We got a quick bite to eat at Chick-fil-a, then wandered through the large array of gift shops and bookstores. By the time we made it back to the terminal, I had a bag filled with books in each hand.

  “I can’t help feeling cheated on, you buying books from someone else and all…” Sam pouted. He was so freaking cute.

  “The heart wants what it wants,” I declared dramatically, cracking open the first paperback. I slept most of the two-hour flight to New Orleans, Courtney Love belching out the lyrics to “Doll Parts” in my ears. Sam woke me up when we landed. Time to go talk to Mom.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  It was late afternoon as we stood at the curb, waiting for our turn to get a cab. Other weary travelers were waiting, tiredly leaning against their suitcases. I felt grateful for my small carry-on.

  Our cab driver’s skin was dark as night, and his accent so thick I struggled to grasp what few words I could. “The Hotel Dauphine Orleans, please,” Sam and I said in unison.

  Our driver knew the place, weaving in and out of daytime traffic with practiced pre
cision.The streets of New Orleans zoomed by. I was amazed by the architecture, all of the buildings built before World War II. They were side by side, with one building hooked to the next one, and so on, all the way down each block. Despite being attached, each building had its own style, type, shape, and color—images mind-blowing to my eyes—with these bizarre saloon-like swinging doors on the front of most.

  Flowers bloomed, people walked the streets—literally in the streets, not the sidewalks, and smells of rich spices and fresh seafood permeated the air. It felt like we’d been transported to a different time and place.

  On the way into town, we passed elaborate cemeteries, grand tombs nearly touching the sky, or so it seemed. People say New Orleans is haunted. Based on the age of the city and its historic buildings, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.

  The Hotel Dauphine Orleans was located in a section of town called the French Quarter. Our cabbie parked in front of an extravagant pinkish orange-colored building. “Welcome to New Orleans,” he said, but it sounded like “Nyoo Aahlyins.”

  We tipped him well and made our way in through the fancy hotel entrance, resting our bags on the floor by the front desk. “I’m here to see my mom. Michelle Bertagnoli. Or it might be under her new married name, Michelle Laudre.”

  “Is she expecting you, miss?” the polite young lady asked. She had dark black hair, a cute little stud in one nostril.

  “No. But I need to see her. It’s important.”

  The girl disappeared in the office behind the counter. I heard her talking in hurried whispers to someone I assumed was a supervisor.

  A man wearing a suit and tie came out with a friendly smile. “We respect our guests’ privacy. If you know someone staying here, please have him or her call the front desk and we’ll gladly give you information about that particular guest’s room number.”

  So, he’d called my bluff. I didn’t know my mom’s room number and I didn’t want to call and ask her. She probably wouldn’t pick up anyway.

  “Well, may we go ahead and reserve a room? We’re going to be staying here. Her mom will let us know which room she’s staying in later. No worries…” Sam said casually.

  The supervisor nodded, found us a room on the computer, and handed us two key cards for room 327. We went ahead and paid for two days. We’d at least be staying that long, we figured.

  “She’s probably setting up the new shop. It’s by Jackson Square. We’ll find her there,” I said, as we made our way to the double elevators. I peeked around the corner, checking out a gorgeous inground pool with lounge chairs and a small bar connected to it.

  “Too bad this isn’t a real vacation. Could be super fun,” I commented, following Sam onto the elevator. We rode up slowly to the third floor.

  “We can still try to have some fun,” he said, slipping his hand in mine.

  Room 327 was the last room at the end of the hallway. There was an ice machine near our door. Sam slipped the key card in the reader, unlocking the door to our room. I was surprised to find only one king-sized bed in the middle of the room. “Uhhh…I guess we should have asked for two beds,” I said, embarrassed. Sam didn’t seem too upset about it though. He opened the Victorian doors to the balcony, letting in a thin, dusty stream of sunlight.

  “Do you care if I shower and change before we go looking for her?” he asked, unzipping his bag to reveal carefully folded stacks of clothes. I hadn’t taken him for a neat freak.

  I nodded, biting my lower lip. I shouldn’t have been worried. I mean, I was here…I hadn’t found my mom yet, but I’d track her down in no time. If worse came to worst, I’d text her and tell her the truth—that I was here, tracking her down in New Orleans.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Four

  We started out walking east, stopping for an early dinner at a restaurant named Deanie’s. I ordered a plateful of fried shrimp and onion rings. They brought out the onion rings stacked so high on a plate, I could barely see over them to talk to Sam. The food was amazing—some of the best shrimp I’d ever eaten.

  Afterwards, I felt so bloated that I was tempted to return to the room for a nap. But we headed west, making our way toward the lights and sounds of Bourbon Street. It wasn’t Mardi Gras yet, but the infamous street was still wall-to-wall people.

  Drinking in the streets was legal here, and many people were partaking even at this early evening hour. Too young to drink, we stopped at a small drink bar that appeared to be serving slushies. I was so hot and dehydrated, I chugged the half gallon green apple slushie as we pushed through the crowds. We had to pass over Bourbon and several other streets before we’d reach Jackson Square.

  It didn’t take long for us both to realize that the slushie contained alcohol. By that point though, I’d nearly finished the damn thing. My vision was fuzzy, the people and bars moving in slow, wavy motions.

  I stopped at a colorful store, admiring the rows and rows of sparkling beads. The alcohol had me distracted. Drag queens and topless girls with their nipples painted whirred by. Young, childish men threw beads over balconies, hitting some of the people as they passed.

  “Whoa…” Sam grabbed my arm, barely catching me from falling over a loose stone on the ground. “We need to focus. Need to get to Jackson Square,” he said, his speech mildly slurred. Remind me to never again assume slushies are just…well, slushies.

  Bright lights blurred; my head was groggy. We walked and walked till our feet ached. “This has to be it,” I said, pointing at a massive statue of Andrew Jackson straddling a horse. It stood proud and tall in the middle of a fountain, thick vegetation and lovely flowerbeds surrounding it.

  The square was less crowded than Bourbon Street, but it was bustling all the same. Booths lined the street in front of the statue, people reading fortunes and offering touristy-looking guide maps. An eccentric man in a top coat led a small army-sized group through the square. “Follow me if you’re on the ghost tour!” he bellowed over a loud band, who were playing in the middle of the street. Guitar strings and banjos, and the vibrations of people clapping and hopping in time to the music, had my mind spinning.

  It was utter chaos—a beautiful sort of chaos. By the time we made it past the band, we were nearly separated by ‘A Big Gay Wedding Parade’, as their sign proudly proclaimed. The participants were dancing through the streets as a solid unit. At this point, I just stopped so I could take it all in.

  “Let’s just sit for a minute,” I said, pulling Sam toward a bench near the center of the square. We rested, getting our bearings, enjoying the sights, and…coming down from our mutual slushie buzz.

  Finally, Sam suggested, “Let’s go to all the shops around the square, and see if any of the owners know where The Shell Shop is, ’cause there’s no way we’ll find it on our own in these crowds.” He was right, and we did just that—moved shop to shop, asking about The Shell Shop, dropping my mom’s name and showing pictures of her I’d saved on my cell phone.

  Nobody had a clue who or what I was talking about.

  Disappointed, we started the journey back to the Hotel Dauphine. “I think we have a better chance of finding her at the hotel,” Sam admitted. Again, I had to agree.

  We stopped at a corner convenient store, grabbed a six-pack of Mountain Dew and some beef sticks. Back at the hotel, there was a new girl working the counter. She had a short pixie hairdo and a nice smile.

  Before I even knew what was happening, Sam pushed me aside, stumbling up to the counter. Slurring badly, he said, “We are so drunk! I love this place! But I’ve forgotten my room number…can you help me, sweetie pie?” The friendly girl smiled.

  “What name is it under?” she asked politely.

  I perked up, finally catching on. “Michelle Bertagnoli. Or I might have used my other last name, Laudre. That’s my name…” I lied stupidly.

  “Sure. No problem,” the girl said stiffly.

  Yay! We were finally going to get Mom’s room number!

  The girl at the counter stared a
t her screen for what seemed like an eternity. I tapped my foot, struggling to stay patient.

  When the girl looked back up from the screen, her mouth formed a tight line. “No one by that name is registered here. You must have the wrong hotel,” she said, clearly irritated.

  Too shocked to react, I quickly said, “I’m sorry. We’re drunk. It’s under the name Marianna Bertagnoli.” I pulled our key cards out. “Well, look at that! We’re in room 327!” I said, pulling Sam away toward the elevators. The woman watched us uneasily.

  Once in the elevator, I started freaking. “Where the fuck is my mom, Sam?” I repeated over and over, my chest suddenly filled with dread.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Five

  I sat on the bed Indian style, ripping open beef packets on my lap. Sam sat beside me, opening cans of Mountain Dew. He popped the top on one and handed it to me. I, in turn, tossed him a beef stick.

  “What the fuck is going on?” I asked the room, throwing up my hands in frustration. Mountain Dew sloshed over the sides.

  “I don’t get it. She said she was staying here. Even George and Shelley said she was here…” Sam chewed a beef stick thoughtfully.

  “Could she possibly be having an affair?” he asked. I rolled my eyes.

  “God, I hope so. I fucking hate George.”

  Sam looked at me, stunned, then laughed so hard he snorted some Mountain Dew from his nose. “Seriously, I’m scared,” I said, sounding as small as I felt.

  “How did she seem when you talked to her? Did it seem like something was wrong?” Sam asked.

  I sat my drink down. “That’s just it, Sam. I never talked to her. We only texted. She’s been in meetings all week, so she couldn’t answer my calls…is it possible the girl at the counter was wrong?” I asked, hopefully.