The graves weren’t in any sort of order. I started in the first row, moving up and down the plots, reading the names on the faded headstones. After what felt like hours, I found the dead officer’s grave. It was lovely, with a modern stone and its height taller than its neighboring headstones. His birth and death dates were listed, and there was a nice epitaph.
Gone, but never forgotten.
Our hometown hero.
Survived by his wife and daughter.
There was a fresh bouquet of Stargazer lilies in the stone vase next to his grave. I extended my hand to the bottom of the pot, knowing I’d find the key there. A full envelope rested in the bottom. And sure enough, there was a key inside. A folded note was there too.
I sat on the ground beside the grave, worn out from the walk to get here. Not to mention the stress and sheer terror I’d endured. Unfolding the letter, I smoothed it open on my lap, struggling to read the words in the dark. The crinkling sounds of the paper seemed loud in the noiseless, steely dark cemetery, so I looked around a couple times, making sure no one was watching. Even if someone sees me here, they’ll just think I’m Wendi, naturally mourning the death of her husband, I tried to assure myself.
The letter was short, the handwriting frazzled and choppy.
Key to my house. Arsenal there. Take what you need. Money and keys to van under sink. Should go ahead and get out of here. But first you must see, five rows forward and three graves from the left. G-luck.
I stood up, finding the fifth row of graves. I jogged up the rows, making my way down the line to find the third one from my left. I expected to find the grave of someone I knew or someone significant to Wendi. I stared at the name on the headstone.
Rachel Bublowski
1980-1993
One of the victims? Instinctually, I searched the flower vase next to it, just like I did with Jonathan’s. Found a tiny scrap of paper.
Find her in the victim photos. In my desk drawer.
Chapter
Fifty-Six
Using the key Wendi gave me, I let myself inside her house. I stood silently in her living room, the same place Sam and I sat together, meeting her for the first time. I stared at the empty armchair, imagining his face with its babyish, chubby cheeks and those glasses sliding down his nose relentlessly. I missed the shit out of him. And maybe someday when, and if, this craziness was over, I could deal with the pain of his loss.
I went to the kitchen, instantly finding the wad of cash and keys to Wendi’s van in a box of powdered soap. Stepping around the loose powder I’d dumped on the floor, I went searching for her bedroom.
The first door I opened belonged to the room of a young girl, the one who went off to college, I presumed. I checked out a bathroom and linen closet, before finally finding her room. Pictures of her, Jonathan, and her daughter were plastered all over the walls. The shrine made my heart ache for the woman. She must be so lonely here, I realized.
In the corner was a fancy, hardwood desk. I crept forward, staring at an enormous map plastered to the wall above it. It was a map of Flocksdale. There were little red X’s all over it. Houses or people she suspected of involvement in criminal activity? I wondered. If so, she sure was paranoid. It didn’t seem possible for that many people to be involved in…what exactly? I wasn’t sure. Either way, I needed to go see my mother.
The only other furniture item, besides the bed and desk, was an antique trunk like the one she’d brought me, only this one was nearly triple its size. It was locked. I quickly located the key for it, hidden beneath Wendi’s mattress.
I opened the trunk, stunned to see dozens of weapons inside. What was Wendi preparing for? A damn zombie apocalypse? I was afraid to touch them at first, but I remembered an old professor once telling me that a gun won’t go off as long as you don’t pull the trigger.
I carefully unloaded the weapons one at a time, laying them out neatly on her bed. The metallic weapons looked strange against her frilly purple pillows and comforter.
I recognized a few of the guns, most from watching movies. There was a Mossberg shotgun, a nine millimeter, an AR-15, and what appeared to be an AK-47. My hands shook as I laid each one out. What did she expect me to do with these things? And now that I thought about it, the last time she’d given me a gun someone used it to kill my boyfriend.
I left them there, wandering back out to the kitchen. I let out a shrill cry as I came face-to-face with Wendi herself. No, not Wendi…it was my own reflection staring back at me in a warped wall-to-wall mirror in the hallway.
I adjusted the itchy black wig and wiped some of the smeared eyeliner from below my eyes. My stomach was so empty, I felt lightheaded and foggy-eyed. I went in the kitchen. Scrounging up some bread and lunchmeat, I slapped together three sandwiches. I leaned against Wendi’s counter, tiredly chewing on the soggy sandwiches until my stomach stopped aching.
Wiping my hands on my leggings—Wendi’s leggings, in fact—I was about to leave when I remembered the name on the headstone. What was it again? Rachel Bublowski, I remembered suddenly.
I was supposed to look for her pic at Wendi’s desk. I went back to the desk and opened all the drawers, easily finding the file labeled “Victims.” Wendi was a control freak. She had each victim’s name written on its own sheet, with pictures and info typed neatly below. She also had each name in alphabetical order, I realized gratefully.
Rachel Bublowski’s name was on the second sheet. I flipped to the page, briefly scanning the info, wondering what the hell I was looking for. And then I found it.
I stared at the picture of this teenage girl, presumed dead even though her body was never found. I was staring at a young photograph of my mother.
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
I stared at my mother’s face with numb disbelief. My life was starting to feel like some crazy, knife-wielding version of Alice in Wonderland. “How do I get out of this fucking rabbit hole?” I screamed aloud, the echo of my voice ricocheting off Wendi’s walls.
I stared at the picture of my young mother, totally freaked out. I read the description again.
Rachel Bublowski, daughter of Samantha Castillo, main member of the Garrett clan. Bublowski is believed to have been one of the first victims of the Garretts’ macabre killing and torture spree. Body never identified, although her remains were most likely a part of the Jane Does who could not be identified because remains were too old for accurate DNA testing.
The girl in the picture looked young and innocent, with my mother’s pale blue eyes and complexion. Her hair wasn’t white-blonde like she wore it now, but rather a dirty, almost brown, shade. Despite the differences, I had no doubt the girl in the picture was, in fact, my mother.
I sifted through Wendi’s other drawers, looking for more about my mother, “Rachel Bublowski.” Instead, I found a tattered missing person poster with young Wendi’s face on it. Written beneath it was:
Have You Seen This Girl?
I shivered.
Below the poster in the drawer, I was surprised to see a file with my name on it. I yanked it out of the drawer, hit with an odd sense of anger toward Wendi. What did all her stupid investigations mean? What was she trying to tell me?
The file contained a one-page, crisp letter addressed to me. Thankful that the letter was typed as opposed to being written in Wendi’s sloppy cursive, I took a seat on her bed and began reading the lengthy letter…
Dear Marianna,
Flocksdale is, and always has been, a town straight out of a horror film. Jonathan uncovered the sick family responsible for mine and so many others’ kidnappings, but I knew they’d come back to finish what they started someday. Especially now that Jonathan’s not around to stop them. You said you read my book. You remember that section about how some of the local families were breeding children for the sole purpose of trafficking? Well, I believe that’s what happened to your mother. Your Great Aunt Samantha gave birth to a child when she was thirteen. According to the birth records, t
hat child’s name was Rachel Bublowski. Samantha gave the baby the father’s last name. He is listed as Andrew Bublowski. This would be your grandfather. I don’t have any more info about him besides the fact that he wasn’t involved in your mother's life.
Your mother was raised by several of the well-known murderers in the Garrett family. She disappeared shortly before the perpetrators were apprehended, and until now, everyone assumed she was claimed with the other young victims in that house. The Garretts were evil, and killing their own family members wasn’t unusual. But they were wrong, because here she is back in Flocksdale. And she came with another Garrett relative, George.
Samantha’s sister was George’s mother, so that makes your mother and George cousins, not lovers. Marianna, I hate to be the one writing this to you…but I’m certain they came here to reclaim their legacy. I think they’ve been biding their time, waiting for Samantha and my husband to die. Or maybe they killed Samantha. I’m not sure. I'm also worried they killed your real father, Marianna. I’m sorry. I know you said he “left” five years ago and left a note, but I’ve searched for him everywhere using Jonathan's software, and found no record that he exists.
So, the reason I’m telling you this is because…Marianna, you must never go back to that house. Never. The crazy people in this town have a tendency to send the sane people across the river to the asylum, all the while bringing the crazies here to roost. I don’t think your mother was in New Orleans. I think she was hunting for victims. She got a traffic ticket in Ohio last week, close to a rest stop where two young girls went missing. Listen to me. Take the money. Take a weapon and plenty of ammo. Take the van. Get the hell out of this town, and don’t you ever come back.
Wendi Wise-Milby
Chapter
Fifty-Eight
I wadded up the letter, so mad I was nearly foaming at the mouth. How dare Wendi spin such ludicrous lies about my mother? Maybe it was a good thing we switched places because from the sound of her crazy conspiracy theories, she was the one who belonged in an institution. I grabbed one of the handguns from the bed and an extra magazine of ammo, in case I had to shoot Wendi’s crazy ass.
I stuffed Wendi’s roll of money down my underwear because I had nowhere else to put the damn thing. The gun I stuck in the back of my pants, and I held a clip of ammo in each hand. I left Wendi’s psycho memorabilia where it lay, and made my way home to my mother.
Chapter
Fifty-Nine
I didn’t walk. I ran. If my mother was a part of this evil history as Wendi proclaimed, then it wasn’t really her fault. She’d been born into it, and had probably been brainwashed. No way would my mom hurt innocent people. No way would my mom hurt me.
But why didn’t she come to see you? a little voice inside me asked. And why did she say she was going to New Orleans when, in fact, she was in Ohio?
“She can give me all the answers when I see her,” I said aloud, huffing along the wet pavement. I turned down Lincoln Boulevard, jogged through several yards, and came face-to-face with The House of Horrors.
I knew one thing for sure. Regardless of what the real story was, I refused to ever live here again. There were a couple lights on inside, but George’s SUV was gone. I also didn’t see my bike. Had they gotten rid of it already, assuming I’d never be back?
I didn’t have my key. It was somewhere at the institution, confiscated when they brought me in, I’m sure. I rang the doorbell repeatedly, finally trying the knob. I was pleasantly surprised to find the door open.
I entered slowly, calling out for my mother. I didn’t hear a sound in the house. Maybe they went out for groceries or something. Yeah, like one of those tomatoes they were so happy about while you sat alone at an insane asylum, that obnoxious voice pointed out.
I flipped lights on in the kitchen, looking for some sort of clue for where they’d gone. I heard the front door open and shut. Whipping around, I came face-to-face with Lou. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.
He stared at me, taking in the sight of my black wig and heavy, goth-like makeup. “Jesus, I didn’t know it was you. I saw someone running like a bat out of hell, so I tried to chase them, thinking something was wrong, or that they were up to no good. And then I saw them run in your house. I thought maybe you were an intruder.”
“Oh,” I said dully, turning back to the kitchen. In the chaos of his abrupt entry, I’d spotted a white sheet of paper on the table. Even from here, the writing on it looked familiar.
“Are you okay, Marianna?” Lou asked. I ignored him, creeping toward the note. It was clearly Wendi’s handwriting, but the letter was addressed from me…
Dear Mom,
Or should I call you Rachel Bublowski? I know the truth about you and George, and I’m going to the police. I’m meeting with an officer tonight to tell them everything I know. At least someone is coming to visit me in this hell hole, even if it is the police. I hate you and I can’t wait to see you rot in jail. By the way, I know you killed my father, you bitch.
Marianna
“Why did you write that letter?” Lou asked from behind me. He’d clearly been reading over my shoulder—a huge pet peeve of mine.
“I didn’t write it,” I said flatly. “Wendi did. That’s why I have this wig on. She wanted to trade places at the institution, help me escape…”
My mind was spinning. Why would Wendi pretend to be me? She wanted me to get out of town and she wanted my parents to think I was calling the police…something wasn’t clicking here.
“You’re really scaring me. What is going on?” Lou asked. He tried to put a hand on my shoulder, but I jerked away from him.
“She’s trying to incite them. If what she said is true, and they thought I knew the truth, they’d come and kill me. She wants them to try and kill her. She’s trying to lure them there. But why?” I was talking aloud, but I was mostly talking to myself, trying to make sense of the details.
“Wendi thinks my mom and George are killers. She thinks they’re a part of the Garrett family.”
“But that’s crazy!” Lou protested.
“I don’t know…my mother’s real name is Rachel Bublowski.” I repeated the name again, over and over in my mind.
“We have to go to the institution. We have to make sure Wendi’s all right. She might need my help,” I whispered hoarsely.
A loud clanging sound in the house pulled me away from my thoughts. “What was that?” Lou asked, his eyes widening fearfully. The clanging sounded again. It sounded almost like…chains.
I gasped. The sound was coming from the bedroom on the first floor. The one with the bars on the windows.
Chapter Sixty
I ran to the bedroom and yanked on the knob. It was locked. I started kicking the door as hard as I could. Lou came up behind, slamming himself against it until the wood split and cracked. I started punching the door furiously, trying to make a big enough hole to reach through.
Lou swept me aside, slamming one massive punch through the door. He stuck his hand in, unlocking the door from the other side. The door flung open. It was pitch dark inside, but I immediately felt for the switch, my blood pumping and adrenaline rushing.
When the light came on, I saw a girl. She was barely a teen and shackled to the floor, nearly nude. I screamed, placing my hands over my mouth. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…”
“Help me,” the girl croaked hoarsely. Lou and I ran to her side, falling to our knees by the shackles. Her hair was matted with blood; I could barely tell what color it was, but it had hints of red in it. Her face was swollen, her lips so dry they were cracked open and bleeding. “Please,” she whispered, staring at me.
I pulled at the shackles uselessly. “Where’s the key? Do you know?” I yelled desperately.
“The man…the woman…” My heart fell. “She put a bag over my head and knocked me unconscious. I was on a camping trip with my family. We stopped at a rest stop in Ohio…she brought me here, locked me up. People did horrible
things to me…”
I stood up, walking away from her. I paced the room, rubbing my face. This had to be a dream. This couldn’t be happening. “We’ll get you out of here. Don’t worry. We’ll find the key,” Lou, who was still sitting beside her, said assuredly.
“No. They left, and I know they have the key. The woman…she keeps it in her pocket at all times…”
“I’m calling the police,” I said decidedly. “Give me your cell phone,” I demanded of Lou.
“There’s other girls in the house…” the girl said weakly. Lou and I froze.
I took off running for the stairs. I threw open the first three bedroom doors, relieved to find them empty. But then I opened the door to what used to be my bedroom. There was another girl chained to the floor, this one barely older than the first. I thought I recognized her as the waitress from the diner Sam and I went to.
The girl was unconscious. I leaned down beside her, feeling for a pulse and listening for breathing. “She’s alive,” I told Lou, my eyes filling with tears. “Check the other rooms,” I commanded.
“Another girl in here!” he shouted moments later. I slowly walked to the room across the hall. A tiny girl, frail as a baby bird, sat shackled to a radiator in this room. She was shaking with fear and whimpering what sounded like a prayer. She was also nearly nude.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she begged Lou.
“We won’t hurt you, sweetheart. We’re going to call the police and get you out of here, I promise,” he told her. Her eyes widened, as though she didn’t believe his words to be true.
House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2) Page 13