“Keira, I’ve got something to tell you…” I sang cheerily as I knocked on the door to the master bedroom, our parents’ old room. I hated going in there, which was why I let Keira have their bathroom. The room still smelled of them—lilac perfume mixed with dust mixed with old leather.
No one answered, so I reluctantly walked in, newspaper pages rustling on my father’s antique desk as the wind from the door breezed through. We never touched a thing. It wasn’t like we were creating a shrine, more like we were too overwhelmed—with grief, with memories, with the sheer magnitude of our parents’ belongings. So we left everything where they’d put it, saying we’d deal with it later. But we always seemed to have enough to deal with.
A white light shone from the crack below the closed bathroom door, water roaring behind it.
“Wow, are you really taking a bath? How gross was that guy?” I knocked on the door. “Seriously, I don’t think there’s enough cucumber melon in the world to save you now…”
She didn’t respond, so I knocked again. “Keira? You there?”
Still nothing.
Suddenly, ice ran through my bones. I shivered.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad…” Only something told me it was. Visions flashed in my brain: Keira being hurt, him hurting her, him touching her, him forcing her.
I grabbed the handle to the door, my hand trembling.
“Keira, I’m coming in. Okay?” I struggled to keep my voice calm.
The door swung open.
All I saw was blood.
Chapter Four
I rocked silently on a kitchen chair. The patchwork quilt my parents brought back from Indonesia was loosely wrapped around my shoulders. It was black and blue, torn, and smelled faintly like a thrift store from the years spent resting at the top of a hall closet. I didn’t know who draped it over me—probably Charlotte—but I didn’t need it. I wasn’t cold. Still, I hugged it tighter.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Police charged through my apartment. There were dirty footprints covering every inch of our wood floors, plastic yellow teepees were scattered about marking evidence, and caution tape hung in the doorways.
My ears throbbed from the squealing police radios, the squawking voices.
“We’re so sorry about your sister…”
“Can we get you some water?”
“Is there someone you can stay with?”
I swayed, fists pressed to my ears, trying to drown them out. This isn’t real, this isn’t happening…
But it was.
“Miss! Excuse me. Miss!” someone shouted.
A clenched hand shook my leg, blue veins bulging around the pale white knuckles. I followed the arm up, dazed, and saw Charlotte gesturing to a detective with her chin. A forty-something African-American woman in a dark navy suit stared down at me, fidgeting slightly as if my pain made her uncomfortable. Believe me, I wanted to stop crying, but the tears were leaking from a broken faucet.
“Miss, I’m Detective Dawkins,” she introduced. “I’m sorry for what you’re going through, but I have some additional questions.” She averted her eyes. “I know this is difficult, but did your sister have a history of mental illness?”
“What are you talking about? Why would you ask that?” My forehead wrinkled.
“Maybe a history of depression? From your parents’ accident?” she continued, clutching at a tiny spiral notepad.
“Why would that matter?” She wasn’t making sense.
“It’s just, we need to understand her state of mind.” Her expression was serious. “We need to know what she might be capable of…”
What she might be capable of? My jagged fingernails dug into my palms. I glared at the detective. “Are you serious? Do you think my sister drowned herself in a pool of blood? And then what? She got up and walked away? Without leaving a trail? Someone cleaned up this place!” My vision blurred into a crimson film. “My sister is hurt, seriously hurt. Someone attacked her, took her, and they’re out there. You have to find him! Find her!”
My mind flipped back to that bathroom.
When I opened the door, blood flowed everywhere, gallons and gallons of vibrant red liquid spilled from the claw-foot tub and pooled so deep on the ceramic floor you couldn’t make out the white of the tiles.
There was no body. There was no Kiera.
Steam weighed heavily in the air, making me dizzy as it mixed with the scent of her vanilla bean lotion, her floral hairspray, her bodily fluid. It was like I could taste her. She had been here. This was her blood.
In an instant, my body flipped into primal mode. I howled, twisting off the spigot as it spread bits of Keira far and wide. I sank my bare arms into the boiling water, searching the blood as if I expected to find her, find something. Anything. That was when Charlotte appeared. Her zombie-like reaction left her frozen in the doorway, palm covering her mouth. I shrieked for her to call 911, my knees slipping on watery blood as I continued searching, calling Keira’s name in an endless loop.
When the paramedics arrived, I was covered in so much gore that they searched me for wounds. Charlotte had to strip my clothes.
“Okay, if your sister didn’t hurt herself, then who did?” Detective Dawkins asked, her plastic pen poised above her notepad as if not wanting to miss a word. “You need to tell us everything you know about the man she was with last night. What do you remember?”
“He was a douchebag.”
“Yes, I know. You said that.” She sighed. “But what was his name?”
“Craig,” I recalled.
“Craig, what?”
“I have no idea. I already told this to a different cop.” I hated that they kept making me repeat myself. It was painful enough the first time. Didn’t these people talk to one another? “The man was tall, white, twenties, long dark blond hair. He had a scar on his lip.”
“I know, but how did she meet him?” the detective continued, sounding irritated with me, like the least I could do was make her job easier.
“I don’t know. But I had a feeling she was waiting for him to call earlier. Maybe his number’s in her phone.”
“We’ll check.” The detective made a notation. “Do you remember his friends’ names?”
“No, but they might have hooked up with two of the nurses who were here, Keira’s friends.”
“Okay, good. We’ll need their names.” She nodded like I was finally being useful. “You said Craig was sketchy? In what way?”
“In every way,” I responded. “He grabbed his crotch when he saw me and blew me a kiss when Keira wasn’t looking. His outfit seemed fake, like he’d bought it at a nineties costume store. Everything was ironed and too clean. And his eyes kept darting around, but not at the girls. It was like he was sizing up the men. He just gave me the creeps, like I knew he was going to do something bad when he walked in the door.”
Why didn’t I stop him? I knew she was drunk. And I let Keira spend the night with him. What if all those squeaks from her bed weren’t consensual? What if I spent the night listening to him attack her? Please, God, tell me that wasn’t what happened. Please tell me my sister wasn’t pleading for help, and I left her.
Keira was alive in our apartment when I woke up. She was there and breathing when I knocked on her door, when I went to the grocery store, and when I flirted with Marcus. If I had just opened the door, if I had come back sooner, if I hadn’t been so damn judgmental, so pissed off, I could have stopped this. Please, God, let me go back and stop this. I’ll do anything. Absolutely anything.
Air drained from my lungs. The room grew hot. Too hot. I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at my heather gray T-shirt, the crew neck tightening like fingers around my throat. Someone pushed my head between my knees, then a cold cloth was pressed to my neck.
“Breathe, breathe,” Charlotte whispered in my ear. I could hear the tears in her voice. “You’re okay…”
“Miss, I’m sorry if I upset you. I know how difficult this must be,” the detective continued. “But we
need to know—”
“Stop calling me miss,” I hissed when air returned to my lungs.
“Sorry, Anastasia. Right now, we’re working on the assumption that the blood is your sister’s, but—”
“The assumption!” My head snapped up, my dark sweaty hair sticking to my face. I smeared it to the side. “What do you think this is, a practical joke? You think some rival high school came and dumped pig’s blood in our bathtub? Who else’s blood could it be?”
“For starters, the man she was with. We haven’t done any lab work yet,” said the officer beside her, piping up for the first time.
“This is my partner, Detective McCoy.” She nervously gestured to the man beside her like she already knew how I’d react to his comment.
“Well, Detective McCoy.” I snarled, jumping to my feet, my heavy quilt sinking to the kitchen floor. “Unless you’re suggesting that my sister, the woman who put herself through college, who gave up everything to take care of me, who works as a nurse treating people in an emergency room, suddenly woke up this morning, became a serial killer, and left me to be raised by wolves, then I think we can all assume that she is the victim! Why don’t you stop standing around here, and go out and find my sister!” I shouted so loud the Hazmat team carrying jars of watery blood stopped mid-step. Everyone quieted, making a siren in the distance—someone else’s emergency—seem impossibly loud.
“They will. Calm down.” Charlotte grabbed my arm, pulling me back. I hadn’t realized it, but I was within inches of Detective McCoy’s face. I’d spat on his cheek.
“Okay, everyone, take a breath,” said Detective Dawkins, shooting her partner a look. He coughed awkwardly into his chubby fist. He was fat, sweaty, bald, and smelled of onions. He didn’t look healthy enough to run around the block, let alone chase a criminal. “Anastasia,” she continued. “You mentioned your sister caring for you. I know your parents passed away. Again, I’m sorry. But we need to consider motive here. You said you think this man came here with the intention of causing harm. Why? Were he and your sister fighting?”
“I don’t even know if they were dating. I just know she was waiting for a call earlier in the day, and whenever Keira is waiting by the phone, it’s usually because of a guy. But she never mentioned him to me before. How about you?” I looked at Charlotte, who shook her head no. “This guy is a psycho. Plain and simple. That’s your motive.”
“What about your parents? They died in a car crash, correct? Three years ago?”
My jaw tightened. Why did she keep bringing this up? I had enough to upset me, without adding those memories. “You know what happened to my parents; it was in the newspaper.”
“Did they have any enemies?”
“No.” I folded my arms tightly across my chest. “And if you want me to keep answering these pointless questions, you better assure me that the rest of the Boston Police Department is out looking for my sister. Right this second. Tell me you have choppers, dogs, amber alerts…”
Detective Dawkins shot her partner a look, then they both stared at the ground.
“What?” I asked. Charlotte reached for my hand, like she needed support.
Detective Dawkins sighed warily. “We spoke to the medical examiner.” She looked up at me with softer eyes; it was a practiced look. It was her “I need to deliver bad news” face, big eyes full of sympathy. “It’s still preliminary, but the amount of blood at the scene…it’s significant.”
“I know. That’s what I’m saying. That’s why you need to be out there.” My stomach started twisting. I didn’t like where this was headed.
Charlotte tightened her grip.
“Look, it’s still preliminary, but it’s the opinion of the medical examiner that no one, especially not someone the size and weight of your sister, could survive that much blood loss.” The detective’s voice was steady, resolved. She stared me straight in the eye. “It’s very likely that the department is going to rule this case a homicide. So if it is determined that this is your sister’s blood, you should prepare yourself for the worst.”
Keira is dead.
That was what she was saying. She thinks my sister is dead. Little streaks of light danced before my eyes as a seething rage bubbled within me. Sweat covered my forehead, my body. I couldn’t see clearly, but I could feel the heated words blistering in my throat.
“What? What are you talking about? You’re wrong! Some dirtbag was in her room this morning! I was gone for less than an hour, and my sister went missing. Did you hear me? Missing. She can’t be far. She’s not dead. Why would he take her body? It makes no sense. Keira is out there! I know she’s out there!” I thrust my face within inches of the detectives. “You have to find her! You have to save her!”
“Anastasia, they’re doing their jobs.” Charlotte grabbed me, holding me back. Her frizzy hair was gathered into a high ponytail that looked ridiculously pep-rally-ish given the situation. But her gaze was lifeless.
There was a buzzing in my ears. “No, they’re not! Some guy could be torturing my sister, some pervert could be doing God knows what, he could be—” I doubled over, my stomach wrenching. I heaved at the ground, only nothing came out. Charlotte rubbed my back.
“We will find out what happened to your sister,” said Detective Dawkins.
“No. You will find my sister,” I choked out.
“Yes. Of course. That is our objective.”
“You’re the one insisting the blood is hers,” interrupted McCoy, his liver-spotted nose wrinkled, his eyes almost annoyed. “We don’t want to give you false hope.”
Fire shot through me, a burning, licking fire, and the buzzing in my ears hit a piercing level. “My sister is alive. And if you don’t believe that, then get out. All of you, get out of my house! Stop touching her stuff! Stop wasting my time! Either save my sister or get out!”
Charlotte gripped me by the shoulders and shoved me, dragging me from the kitchen. I couldn’t fight back. I could barely see. Black spots swirled before me. She yanked me down the hall and pulled me into my bedroom, quickly closing the door. The sudden silence engulfed me, and I collapsed on the floor, wailing. She tightly wrapped her arms around me, but she couldn’t stop the shaking.
My eyes clenched shut, sobs ripping through my chest.
This can’t be happening again.
I stayed on the floor, an old memory hammering in my head.
I was lying on my bed, no pillow beneath my head. It was black. Night. My comforter was in a heap by my feet. Goose bumps covered my skin, my shirt was pushed up to my chest, my belly exposed. I shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. My latest argument with my parents still churned in my brain. They told me that we were moving to Canada. I told them that I hated them.
I didn’t, of course. It was one of those things kids say when they’re too upset to think of other words. But it wasn’t fair to move me again, not after all the promises. So I let them leave for the airport without saying good-bye.
Now it was 12:32 in the morning, and my guilt had awoken me.
I reached for the heavy comforter balled at the foot of my bed. Its pale beige cotton glowed from the light of the streetlamps slicing through my mini blinds. It felt unseasonably cold for March. Maybe the heat was off. I pulled the covers tight against my chin, tucking my pillow back under my head.
I felt myself get heavy, drifting away, until the noise of the front door jolted me alert.
I held still, listening for the sounds of my mother returning. A key slid from the lock, and the hinges whined. I waited for the familiar tread of her footsteps.
Only that wasn’t what I heard.
These steps weren’t my mother’s.
My chest tightened. I sat up, waiting for the sounds to move closer, the old wood beams moaning with each movement.
I knew those steps.
What was she doing here?
“A?” Keira called. She sniffled, her breath staggered. “Ah-Anastasia?”
Something was wrong.
The sniffles repeated. She was standing in the hallway. She’d stopped walking. Even with the door closed, even without seeing her face, I could tell she didn’t want to come any closer to my room. She was waiting for me to come to her. Only I couldn’t move.
There are moments in your life when you know that everything is about to change. Time isn’t whizzing by, your mind isn’t in a blur, you’re in it, living it, and you know, consciously, that your world will never be the same again. You will never be the same again. And I knew, somewhere in the hollow of my being, that this was one of those moments. I could feel it in every hair follicle, every skin cell. I had never been more awake or alert in my life. And I didn’t want to open that door.
I stared at the six rectangular panels carved in the white-painted wood, the only things protecting me.
“Anastasia?” she cried again, her voice quivering. “A? Are you up?”
She hadn’t called me “A” since I was in kindergarten and called her “KayKay.”
I heard her footsteps walking closer, her sneakers squeaking. I could almost picture the pink and white Nikes on her feet. I was there when she bought them, and for some reason, in that moment, I couldn’t help but be annoyed that she didn’t buy the yellow and gray ones. I thought they were better, less girly.
“A,” she said again. There was a long pause. I could almost feel the heat of her breath on my face. “Something’s…happened.”
That was when the fragile bubble burst in my brain. She’d said it. Out loud. Something’s happened. I couldn’t ignore her anymore.
Robotically, I rose from my bed. My trembling hand reached for the brass knob, and I stepped into the hall. The golden light of the entry cast a haunting glow around her, creating a dark silhouette of my sister’s frame. She was shaking, her head hung.
“What happened?” I asked, tears already leaking down my cheeks.
Somewhere inside, I already knew. I’d known the second I awoke with the chills.
Keira looked up, biting her lip, her hands clenched below her chin.
Proof of Lies (Anastasia Phoenix) Page 4