The Lost

by Vicki Pettersson

  And Scratch knew it. Its eyes gleamed, crusting her aunt’s normally direct gaze with the same sickly-sooted stare that Kit had seen in Jeannie. It was blasphemous to see someone she loved defiled in such a way, so Kit’s reaction was almost involuntary as she picked up the hospital’s plastic pitcher of water and threw it on her aunt’s face. Marin—or Scratch inside—sputtered. Her aunt’s head dropped, and the shocked expression was blotted away, along with the water, by the thin sheet. After a moment, Scratch came up smiling widely. “Nice try, dear, but you’d have to drown me in your tears to get rid of me now.”

  For the first time in almost as long as she could remember, Kit didn’t know what to say or do. This was Grif’s domain, not hers. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t leave Marin with this . . . thing in her body.

  “You know, from this perspective, you look just like your mother.”

  The jab, meant to push at old wounds, was exactly what Kit needed to collect herself. “You don’t know my mother.”

  “Ah, but I do, even if it is only through Marin’s dusty memories. And might I take this opportunity to add . . . it’s fascinating to be privy to the secrets people will keep. Even from those they love.”

  The Third feed off negative emotion, and if you reveal even the slightest hint of it, Scratch won’t hesitate to use it against you.

  Remembering, Kit said, “I’m not interested in knowing anything Marin doesn’t want to share with me herself.”

  “Suit yourself,” Scratch said, its smile oily. “Her cancer’s still in remission, by the way. She beat it back, and now she’s tougher than ever. She’s always had a hard time of it, though. It wasn’t easy for her with Shirley as a sister, you know.”

  “Get out of her mind,” Kit said evenly.

  But it was too late. Scratch had access to Marin’s innermost thoughts, and because Kit had given it her tears, it knew her dark worries as well.

  “You couldn’t possibly remember this,” it continued, breaking up its syllables like footsteps over fall leaves, “but Marin and your mother fought like junkyard dogs. For sisters, they couldn’t have been more different. Isn’t that strange when such disparate people come from the same family? Your mother, the aristocrat. Marin, the Everywoman. They stood toe to toe when they butted heads. Marin always wondered if that was what all sisters did, or if it was only them.”

  “Stop it.”

  “You remind her of her mercurial sister with your flightiness, your careless nature.”

  “Marin loves me.”

  “Marin loved Shirley, too . . . she just didn’t like her very much.”

  Kit ignored that. “My aunt is not Lost, and you can’t have her.”

  “I don’t want her,” it said, looking directly at Kit. “And I don’t need a vice in order to possess you. You gave me your tears of your own free will. It’s like giving me a key to your house and letting me riffle around. I can tell you all about you now. Would you like that?”

  No.

  “Sometimes it’s good to get an outsider’s perspective on these sorts of things,” it went on, winking. “Though I can hardly be called an outsider now, can I?”

  Using Marin’s fingers, bending them back so far they should’ve cracked, it began to tick off things it now knew about Kit. “You love your work, and you’re good at it. You strive to live by the motto drilled into you by your patrolman father—”

  “Don’t talk about my father,” Kit said through gritted teeth. She was trying to stay calm, but Scratch wasn’t making it easy.

  It feigned affront, and benevolence. “Of course not. Besides, your time would be better spent talking to Marin about him.”

  Kit frowned, unsure of what was behind the insinuation. But Scratch had already moved on, intent—as Grif said—on confusing and keeping her off balance. “We’re talking about you, anyway, and what was it your doomed ol’ dad used to say? ‘Don’t just find the easy answer, find the truth.’ ”

  “You’re not going to make me doubt myself or those around me. I’ve created a good life because I’ve built it on the foundation of those strong family ties. I have it all—friends, beauty, love.”

  “No, you merely have the hope of love.” It held out its arms. “Now that Evelyn Shaw. She had love.”

  “You know nothing of it.”

  “Love is patient. Love is kind. Blah, blah, blah.” It smiled. “And how do you love, Kit?”

  “Passionately,” she shot back, displaying some of it now. If it knew her well, it should know she wasn’t going to just roll. “Wholeheartedly. Without restraint.”

  “I know how that feels.” It met her disbelieving gaze with wide-eyed innocence. “I do. That’s how I hate.”

  “Love is more powerful than hate,” Kit immediately countered.

  “Keep telling yourself that, sweetie.”

  “And you keep telling yourself that you’re relevant just because you exist. But you were created, not Chosen. You’re just a wrench in God’s cosmic tool belt that can be picked up or discarded, used for good or ill. You exist, but you’ve never truly lived, so you can’t speak to true passion. If you could, you’d know life is love.”

  “See that idealism? That’s what I love to hate about you. You wear all your soft spots on the outside, exposed and just waiting to be pushed. Your blind hope is like a giant bruise.”

  “Don’t say it like that’s a weakness.”

  “Oh, I know it’s a strength, and it’s just the sort I love to break. It’s fascinating how you refuse to harden yourself to life’s disappointments. No matter who dies. No matter who lies.”

  “You’re not going to turn me against the people I love.”

  “But Griffin Shaw and Marin Wilson have lied to you,” it finally hissed, leaning forward, giving up any pretense of subtlety. “You! The girl who loves the truth. But I can give you their knowledge. Allow me to slip into your mind of your own free will for just a moment and I’ll whisper their every thought into your inner ear. Use free will to choose something for yourself for once.”

  Kit raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to offer me an apple when you say all that?”

  “You want to know how your father died!” it asserted, angering now.

  “I know how he died,” Kit said coolly.

  “You know what they told you,” it said, and the arctic chill in its voice was only part of the reason Kit went cold. “You’re like your beloved Mr. Shaw in that way, haunted by an old mystery and by all the answers you’ll never have. But”—it motioned down Marin’s body—“I have answers.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” Kit said, and rose to gather her things. She didn’t want to think about her father or his death or what else Marin might know of it until she was well away from this room. And she had to get out now.

  Scratch didn’t lunge at her, or move to stop her at all, and it didn’t speak again until Kit placed a hand on the doorknob. “You want to know who he’d choose.”

  Kit froze.

  “If he could, that is,” it continued, knowing it had her attention. “In the depths of night, when he’s lost in his dreams and away from you, you wonder what would happen if you and Evelyn Shaw were both alive, and all things were equal. Who, then, would be the recipient of Griffin Shaw’s unconditional love?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, without turning. “That can never happen.”

  “But if you don’t learn the answer to that question, your dreams will lie dormant and mute. You’ll suffocate on your futile wish for true love, and like me, you’ll want to destroy the object of your affection.”

  Now Kit whirled. “I would never hate like you! I don’t care if you call it weakness, I’m going to stay soft and open and hopeful. I’m a child of God, you winged beast. I belong on this Surface, not you! And I have the right to love and be loved!”

  “But you won’t. Not ever,” it said, and though the words were almost whispered, Kit felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “I have your tears
and I’m going to come after all the good things in your life, and dismantle them one by one. I’m going to claw my way into your heart. And then, I will destroy everything you love.”

  “I’m not at your disposal,” Kit whispered. “I’m not Lost.”

  “Lost,” it said, shrugging, “is just the opposite of Chosen. And who has ever really chosen you, Katherine? Griffin Shaw? He’s so busy remembering a dead woman that he can’t even see you. If I were you, well, that . . .” It shook Marin’s head. “That . . . that . . .”

  Its eyes pinwheeled in their sockets until they stopped dead on Kit’s own.

  “That would just piss. Me. Off.”

  Kit fled then, but not fast enough. Scratch’s voice, ferried by hate and as chill as the center of the Forest, chased her down the hall. “Don’t get sick, dear. And for heaven’s sake, don’t get knocked out. Be careful of even sleeping too deeply. Because I’m here, and I can wait lifetimes to get what I want.”

  Kit whimpered, and though she was rounding the corner of the long hall, she was sure Scratch heard her. She, after all, still heard it.

  “Tick tock, Katherine. Tick tock . . .”

  Chapter Twenty

  When Grif arrived home, Kit was on the patio, asleep on a lounger meant for daylight and drinks. The air still held a hint of warmth from the day, and sweat sat on her brow, but she looked comfortable enough on the patio, the blue-green glow from the kidney pool reflecting faintly on her face. Her vintage sundress would have been fashionable in Grif’s first lifetime, and given the surroundings—if Grif allowed it—he could even pretend he was back in the fifties, home late from work, ready to kick up his feet and listen to ol’ Jimmy Durante on the box, or noodle a bit over the $64,000 question.

  But Grif kept his mind on the present, studying Kit a bit longer, hoping that the longer she slept the further she’d drift from her concern about Evie. Then maybe they could start over again.

  “Why are you staring at me?” Kit suddenly asked, without opening her eyes.

  Grif jolted. He’d entered the home without setting off the alarm, and she’d had the patio door ajar, so he hadn’t made a sound. “Why are you sleeping outside?” he asked instead of answering.

  Her eyelids lifted slowly, and she looked around like she was viewing a dream rather than waking from one. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Even in June the desert night can just whisk away the summer heat so that it all seems so far away. The temperature is exactly the same as the human body. I love that.”

  Grif tilted his head as she sighed. The light from the kitchen only revealed half her face, and her eyes—those clear windows to her emotions—had again fallen shut. There was a tumbler at her side, but it was still two fingers full, so he wondered if it was her first. She generally only drank for pleasure, but who knew after today? Maybe, like her eyes, she was using it to close her emotions off to him. Grif’s heart bumped at the thought.

  Kit had opened her eyes as the silence dragged on, and tracked his gaze to the drink. “I was hoping it would help me sleep. I’m overtired, but restless. Fatigue keeps dragging me under. Then it pulls me right back out again. But I can’t bring myself to drink it.”

  “You’re thinking too much.” Not that he blamed her.

  She nodded. “Yes. About Scratch, about Marin. You,” she added, without heat. “And, still, about those desperate kids who add fuel to their veins just so they can feel anything good at all.”

  Grif edged closer, and she focused on him. “I saw Scratch.”

  Grif dropped to the foot of her lounger, and she scooted over, then put her head in his lap and hugged him tight.

  “When?” he asked. “How?”

  He held her as she told him about her bedside vigil, and how Scratch had used the drug-induced sleep to both possess Marin and reach out to terrorize Kit. Her voice remained steady, but he could imagine how scared she’d been. And Jeap Yang had been right. The fallen angel would’ve circled back for her even before she tricked it into divulging information about Bella and her case. Nothing Kit did, or didn’t do, would’ve stopped that.

  “Jesus, Kit.” Grif ran a hand over her head, because what he was really thinking was, I should have been there.

  Kit nodded. “You were right to warn me about my darker feelings. Scratch said that’s how it would come for me now that it has my tears. It’s . . . waiting.” She said it matter-of-factly, but the tremor was there, between the words.

  “I’m sorry, Kit. I’ll talk to Sarge. See if there’s anything we can do.”

  Drawing up her knees, Kit lifted her hands and held them beneath her chin as if in prayer. “There’s more. I think it knows something about my father’s death. In fact, I think Marin does, and she isn’t telling me.”

  Grif jerked his head. “I told you. Its intent is to create chaos wherever it goes. It wants to confuse you.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though.” Kit pushed herself into a sitting position. “Someone took my father’s life, Grif. Someone took him from me. And nobody has ever discovered who the killer really is. Don’t you think that’s a strange lack of concern for a cop killing? Especially an officer who was the brother-in-law to the nosiest, most dogged newspaper editor in the valley?”

  He took her hands. “Don’t let Scratch’s words place a wedge between you and your aunt, Kit. You know that’s what it’s trying to do.”

  “If Marin knows something about my father’s death that she’s not sharing with me, then she’s the one placing a wedge between us.” Kit shook her head before he could speak. “You never knew my dad, Grif, but I wish you could have.”

  “Me, too,” he finally said, and gave her hands a squeeze.

  “Tell me about the Russians, did you find them?” She picked up the drink and took a sip.

  “I had a little chat with that Russian mobster’s wife.”

  Kit tilted her head. “And?”

  He shrugged. “She liked the hat you gave me.”

  Raising a slim eyebrow, she waited for more.

  “She spotted the navigation switch. I think she thought it was a weapon or recorder or something.”

  Pointing the glass at his head, she said, “So she took it?”

  Because she sounded amused, Grif said, “After propositioning me in the back of her limo. With her little rat-dog watching.”

  Kit made a face. “Those pocket puppies are the worst.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s all?”

  “About it.”

  They stayed quiet for a moment and he said, “But it all got me thinking. The krokodil . . . what’s the hardest ingredient to get a hold of?”

  Kit squinted as she thought. “Lighter fluid is easy, so is iodine and paint thinner. But codeine. That’s not so easy.”

  “Yeah, so I think we need to follow the codeine.”

  “Find the codeine, find the dealers,” Kit said, nodding. “That’s smart, Grif. You must be a P.I. after all.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So I’ll see what I can stir up tomorrow on that. But first, got something for you.” Kit jerked her head at the side table.

  Glancing down, Grif spotted what he’d initially taken for a coaster. It was a slip of paper, he saw now, and he stared at the line scribbled across its center. “An address?”

  “Mary Margaret DiMartino’s address.”

  Grif nearly lunged for the paper. “How’d you get this?”

  Smiling at his reaction, Kit pointed at herself. “Reporter, remember?”

  Though every instinct was telling Grif to run for the door and this address right now, he managed to stay seated. But he felt like his whole body was vibrating, as if there were bees inside of him. As if he were an active hive.

  Shrugging, Kit waved with the glass. “I needed something constructive to do after leaving the hospital. I didn’t feel like being . . .” She was going to say “alone,” Grif saw the word forming, but she changed it up and saved them both embarrassment. “Home. So I went by
the club to talk to Ray DiMartino.”

  “Kit!”

  “Oh, don’t scold me out of some old-fashioned, misguided, and impossibly sweet notion of a woman’s place.”

  Grif’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Besides, it turns out he really doesn’t know where Mary Margaret lives, but he did know her last place of residence.”

  “And he told you, but not me?”

  Kit batted her lashes. “Perhaps I’m more persuasive.”

  “How persuasive?”

  “That’s between Ray and me and the center-stage pole,” she said, giving a little shimmy in her lounger.

  Grif’s eyes narrowed into slits.

  “Oh, please.” She waved a hand, dismissing it. “Anyway, it turns out that Mary Margaret’s former landlord keeps all the forwarding addresses of her onetime residences, less out of altruism, I think, than nosiness.”

  “So you got the address from the landlord, and went to Mary Margaret’s new place?”

  “Yes. Well, her old-new place.” Kit shrugged. “She’s moved again. Luckily, the lonely bachelor next door was extremely friendly. I told him I was her niece. He said he’d been waiting for her to send someone by as he was collecting her mail, and could I please take it off his hands.”

  “And of course you were happy to oblige.”

  “It’s not my fault if people like to give me things. Look, I’m going to help you find the answers to yours and Evie’s deaths. Trust me. I understand how a lost love can haunt you.”

  “Which I suppose means you’re going to confront Marin about your father when she’s better?” he said, still suspicious.

  “Yes.”

  But how could he argue? He understood her need to know, too. “You know, Sarge said I might have something in common with the Lost—”

  “No way. You’re not Lost, Grif—”

  “But maybe I am. Maybe after living and dying, but never really moving on, maybe there’s a part of me that won’t ever be found again.” He frowned, not liking that, then shook himself free from the thought. “But here’s the thing. I always know where my feet are on this mudflat when you’re by my side. I know which way is up when you’re anchored above me, and I can locate myself when I touch you below. You ground me on this old mudflat, Kit. And I’m at peace when you’re near.”