by Stella Hart
I smiled. “Because,” I said. “It’s time for someone new. Time to make room for Celeste.”
7
Celeste
“That’s the last box, right?” My friend Samara wiped her brow with the back of her hand, then smoothed back her dark curls.
I nodded. “Yup. Thanks so much for coming to help.”
We were out at my parents’ old house in Fox Chapel, sorting out the basement. The property had been up for sale since Mom’s death eight months ago, with no bites from any potential buyers. The agent had suggested months ago that I come and move some of the old things down to the basement just in case someone was eventually interested in looking at the place, but I’d only gotten around to it now.
Considering the relatively prestigious location on Riding Trail Lane, the property was worth a fair chunk of change. The house was a large two story red brick Colonial building with an arched limestone front door, gray-shuttered windows and tall brick chimneys. The perfect storybook home. It was set far back from the road at the end of a long, winding driveway surrounded with lawn, trees and shrubbery. Out the back was a spacious yard lined with arborvitae hedges and tall pine trees. Beyond that lay a nature reserve, packed with yet more trees, flowers and walking trails.
It was a gorgeous place to live, especially for a young, imaginative kid. Once upon a time, I’d loved it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t surprising that no one wanted it anymore—myself included—considering what happened here when I was young.
Flashes of blood on the snow outside appeared in my mind. Then another memory: a dark shadow disappearing into a thicket of trees behind the house. I pushed the thoughts away and smiled at Samara.
She winked. “No problem. I hardly ever get to see you these days. Plus there’s no way you can haul all this crap around with your back the way it is.” She drew her brows into a sympathetic expression and studied me carefully, dark eyes flashing with concern. “You’re doing all the PT stuff, right?”
“Yes, every day. It still hurts, but it’s getting a little better, I guess.”
Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed. “I hate seeing you go through this. It’s horrible.”
“I know. I’m sorry, I’ve been a really shitty friend to everyone since it started.”
Samara’s eyes widened. “No! That’s not what I meant. Celeste, you’ve been in agony. We’re all worried, that’s all. We hardly get to see you. But we know that’s not your fault. If anything, we should’ve come to see you at your place more instead of trying to get you to come out.”
I smiled gently. “My place sucks.”
“Well, I wish you’d take some of this old furniture and use it,” she replied, gesturing around us. The basement was filled with old chairs, coffee tables and similar items. “It’s no use just sitting here, and then at least your house would feel more ‘homey’.”
I pressed my lips into a wry smile. She was right. My tiny old Craftsman bungalow in the city had barely anything in it. My living room didn’t even have a couch, let alone a TV or any of those other usual trimmings. All it had was a little table where I kept my laptop when it wasn’t in my bedroom, and a few photos and other keepsakes on the fireplace mantel.
The place was ancient and rundown, but at least I had a decent amount of privacy. My only close neighbor was Cora, the nice old lady next door, and the rest of the property was surrounded by hedges, trees and grassy vacant lots.
“I guess I just wanted my place to be all mine. No memories from this place,” I said. “Even if I’m dirt poor.”
Samara nodded slowly. “Oh, yeah. I get it,” she said softly.
Out of all my friends, she was the only one who knew every detail of my life. I told her everything, and she’d always done what she could to help me. When I was sixteen and couldn’t handle my mother’s alcoholism (and subsequent terrible behavior) anymore, she convinced her parents to let me stay with them until I finished school, so I could get out of this house with all its toxicity. After that, I had to leave, seeing as her parents decided to move once she started college, but Samara was still always there to help me survive when I couch-surfed, worked crappy jobs, and lived in even crappier apartments.
Her face suddenly brightened. “Wait, weren’t you saying the other day that you get your trust fund soon? Like… tomorrow?”
I smiled. “Yes. And the first thing I’m doing is taking you out to a big, expensive dinner to say thanks.”
She snorted. “I doubt we’ll even have the energy for dinner tomorrow after tonight. Speaking of which.…” She checked her wristwatch. “I better head off. The girls and I have some last minute things to set up.”
“I still can’t believe you’re throwing me a party.”
“I can’t believe you can’t believe it. I force you to celebrate your birthday every year!”
“True,” I admitted. I cocked my head to the side. “So you won’t even give me a hint about what we’re doing tonight?”
She smiled and shook her head, brown eyes sparkling. “Nope, the location is a surprise. When you get to my place later, I’m gonna blindfold you and drive you to the party. You’ll love it.”
“I can’t wait.” I grinned. My shoulders were going to hurt horribly after spending an entire night out with my friends, but it would be worth it. “Anyway, thanks again for helping me with all this stuff. I appreciate it.”
“It’s cool. You shouldn’t even be doing this on your birthday, you know!” She picked up her purse and pulled out her car keys. “All right, see you at seven.”
She winked and headed up the basement stairs. I heard her car leaving a few minutes later.
Grabbing my baby pink jacket from where I’d slung it over a chair earlier, I finally headed out of the basement too. I absentmindedly trailed my fingers over a wall, then decided to go out into the backyard to see how the garden was faring with the current weather. Just like last year, the cold snap had started much earlier than usual, and even though it was only mid-October, the grounds outside were blanketed with crisp white snow.
While many plants withered in freezing weather, our back garden had always done pretty well. One particular flowering shrub that produced pale pink camellias had been planted over twenty years ago, well before I was born, and the blossoms pushed through every year. My father once told me that most types of camellias couldn’t survive this far from the southern states, but the particular variety he’d planted here were winter-hardy and survived even the harshest temperatures. Every year, even when the snow came down in thick drifts, those pretty pink flowers and their dense green bushes stayed alive, determined and resilient. They brought cheer to even the grayest, dreariest winter days.
My dad actually used to call me his Little Flower, and I knew he’d come up with the nickname when he saw me admiring the beautiful camellias one day when I was about four. I guess he thought I was similar to the flowers—strong and determined, filled with life and energy.
Oh, to be a child again. To be a little flower.
I smiled and reached out to touch one of the camellias, my fingertips trailing over the silky petals. A large, firm hand came down on my right shoulder a moment later. I screamed and whirled around, my heart pounding like mad.
“Celeste, it’s just me! Sorry to frighten you. The snow must’ve masked our footsteps.”
I put my left hand over my chest, taking deep breaths as I recovered from the scare. It was just our old neighbor, Bill, and his golden Labrador. Calling him a neighbor was probably a bit of a stretch, considering he actually lived a couple of miles away, but he’d come round to visit my parents a lot back in the day, seeing as he was close with my father. He was a sweet old man with white hair and weathered skin that crinkled even more when he smiled.
I always suspected Bill had a little crush on my mother, because he’d spent many a day tending to our garden after Dad died, making sure everything survived. He claimed it was just because he had a green thumb—and to be fair, he did—but it seemed obvio
us to me that he liked my mother and was concerned for her, especially after the drinking got really bad. She never returned his affections, though.
“No, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention to any sounds,” I said, smiling brightly as I knelt down to pat his dog. “Gosh, she must be getting on in years by now.”
He nodded. “Old girl is sixteen now. Still as energetic as ever. Typical Labrador.”
I gave her another pat, then rose to my feet again. “How have you been?”
“Can’t complain.” He was probably right about that—even though he seemed to live quite a simple life, I knew he was actually super wealthy. Mom once told me that he owned four gigantic houses. Four. And that was just in this state. I guess there wasn’t a lot to complain about when you could practically buy the world. “I came round because I was walking Luna and saw your car in the driveway. Thought I’d see how you are.”
“I’ve just been sorting through a few things in the house. The agent said I should get around to doing it if I ever want it to have a hope of getting sold.”
Bill nodded slowly and sighed. ”It’ll be a sad day when it sells. Your father was a good man. Best Chief we ever had. It’ll be a shame to see this house go to another family after all these years. ‘Course, I understand why.”
“Yeah.” I gave him a tight smile. “I see you’ve still been coming over here and helping with the garden, though. Everything looks nice and trimmed.”
“Yes, I have, although I might need to come again soon. There’s some dead foliage there below the flowers. But I don’t mind doing it. Luna always loved this yard.” He winked, then petted his dog’s head. “Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Nice to see you, Celeste.”
“You too.”
He started to walk away, then stopped in his tracks and turned back around. “Actually, if you aren’t too busy later, you should drop by my place for a quick coffee. I was going through some old boxes the other evening and found a few nice photos of your parents when they were young. Some vacation shots, even some party photos. I thought you might like them.”
“Oh, that’d be great. I’ll finish up here, then come round to your house in about an hour, if that’s okay?”
“Of course. See you then.”
He headed out of the backyard, and I walked back inside. After spending about fifteen minutes sorting through a linen closet on the first floor, I paused and frowned. I could’ve sworn I heard a cat meowing from somewhere nearby.
I didn’t hear anything for a minute or so, but then I suddenly heard it again. It sounded as if it was coming from somewhere out the back.
I went outside and slowly headed toward the sound, my heart pounding. The poor creature sounded like it was in pain. Cats were my favorite animal, so if a wounded little kitten was somewhere on the property, I wanted to help.
“Mrr-ow!”
The pitiful sound came again, from somewhere near the camellia bushes. I dashed toward them and knelt down. Perhaps the cat was somehow stuck in the shrubbery or frozen to the ground. “It’s okay, baby, I’m coming to help,” I said in a soothing voice. “Where are you?”
There was another meow, even closer, but this time it sounded slightly strange. Almost tinny. With a frown, I started to dig in the dead leaves that had collected below the bushes. There was a plucked pink camellia lying nearby, on top of a thin dusting of snow. I didn’t remember seeing it earlier, but I picked it up and kept looking around the foliage with my right hand.
My breath hitched in my chest as I touched something hard and pulled out some sort of black recording device. The recorder ‘meowed’ at me, and my heart began to thud painfully in my chest as I realized someone had lured me out here, using my love of cats against me. Maybe it was a joke, all part of my birthday surprise from my friends, but it wasn’t funny. I sprang up from my crouched position, intent on running back inside.
I never made it. I didn’t even get the chance to turn around.
Someone grabbed me from behind and closed their black-gloved hand over my mouth, pulling me tight against their chest. At the same time, their other hand crashed down toward me, jabbing a needle into my neck. It stung like hell, but I couldn’t scream. Whatever was in the needle entered my system and hit me right away, and then my mind was whirling, falling with my body.
My eyes struggled to remain open as I hit the snow. I barely registered the camellia dropping from my hand, but I could see it on the ground next to my face. So close I could reach out and grab it if I had even a shred of energy. But I didn’t.
My eyes closed, then opened again as I struggled like mad against the drug coursing through my system. I saw flashes of snowflakes and dead leaves, right by my head, and I saw a black boot, crushing the delicate pink petals of my flower.
Then I only saw darkness.
8
Celeste
I awoke to the sound of traffic and hard bumps in the road.
I couldn’t see anything except darkness. Panic and fear whiplashed through me, flooding me with adrenaline, and I tried to cry out, but my lips were sealed shut with what felt like gaffer tape. All I could do was make faint moaning sounds through my nose. I tried to move but quickly realized I couldn’t do that either. My hands and legs were bound with thick rope, and when I tried to maneuver my body despite the bindings, I immediately hit something. I was trapped. Confined in a car trunk, most likely, given the sounds I was hearing.
My skin crawled as I remembered someone jabbing a needle into my neck, and I was struck by the urge to reach up and rub the stinging area. But I couldn’t, of course.
My breaths began to come in short, sharp bursts as a coppery taste filled my mouth. Nausea made my stomach roil, and my head thundered with an ache which matched the worst flu I’d ever had. I tried my therapist’s technique of breathing deeply to alleviate my panic, but it was hard to do it properly in this cramped, curled position.
Why the hell was I here? Who did this to me?
All I could think was that perhaps this was part of Samara’s birthday scheme. She had mentioned earlier that she intended on blindfolding me so that I couldn’t see where we were going for my party, so it would come as a huge surprise to me when she finally let me see the location. But I wasn’t blindfolded, and the way I’d been drugged and stuffed into this trunk wasn’t something Samara would ever do. Maybe she’d asked some other friends to stage a faux kidnapping as a joke, and they’d taken it too far.
I dismissed that thought as quickly as it occurred to me. What kind of person would do this as a joke? Only a psychopath. Besides, Samara was a total control freak—she’d never delegate any major party tasks to anyone else. And she certainly wouldn’t let this happen to me.
The car kept moving, speeding along whichever road it was on. My eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, and it was enough to confirm that I was indeed in a trunk.
I moaned through my nose again as another wave of nausea rolled through me. Whichever drug had been administered to me came with awful after-effects. I wanted to vomit, but the tape would prevent it from going anywhere, so I had to stop it from coming up my throat so that I didn’t wind up choking.
I lay back, squeezing my eyes shut as my mind whirled, trying to figure out why this was happening to me and how long it would take for people to miss me. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since I was taken from the backyard, but Bill was expecting me for coffee at his place, and Samara was expecting me to show up to her place at seven for my birthday celebrations. People would know I was missing very soon, if they hadn’t already realized.
A rumble of thunder echoed overhead, and I thought back to this morning’s weather report. Rain in the early afternoon, possible thunderstorms, clearing up by mid-evening. It was already afternoon when I went outside earlier, so that meant not much time had passed at all.
The car went over yet another bump in the road, and I immediately perked up. I knew where we were. We’d just gone over three teeth-rattling potholes in short success
ion, then a fourth a few seconds later. God bless Pittsburgh and its crappy roads—I could tell from that annoying, clunking pothole pattern that we were on Dallas Ave, not far from Point Breeze. I used to drive that way every day when I was still running, and those potholes had pissed me the hell off every day too. Now I was thankful for them, because I had my bearings. We were in the city, heading north.
Maybe this was all part of a prank. This was the way back to my house, after all, so maybe Samara and the others had assumed I would find it funny for some strange reason. Yes, that had to be it. This was all a dumb prank, and I’d be home any minute now.
My positive mood quickly evaporated when we hit another set of potholes. These weren’t on Dallas—the others must’ve just been a coincidence. We definitely weren’t where I thought we were. It was just wishful thinking; my mind clutching at straws to stop the panic flooding in.
We could be anywhere.
My hopes of safety dashed, I let out a sob, as much as I could considering the tape plastered over my mouth. Then I began to kick my legs out in sheer frustration. Even though they were bound together, if I forced them out at a certain angle, I could pound them against part of the trunk, creating a clunking noise.
It worked. The car stopped only moments later, and I heard heavy footsteps approaching the back. Terror circled my gut, chilling me to my core, and I wondered why I’d thought it was such a good idea to attract my kidnapper’s attention this way. Idiot.
The trunk opened, and I was almost blinded by the pale gray afternoon sky. The air seemed to be shimmering as if it were about to rain, and thick clouds obscured the sun. Even though it was dreary, it was still far brighter than the darkness of the trunk, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust.
When they did, I finally glimpsed my captor. No, not him. It can’t be him. I didn’t know him, but he was handsome; impossibly so. Too handsome to do something like this. No one that gorgeous could be a monster. His eyes were a deep, captivating blue, and he was tall and muscular with a firm jaw and heavy brows. Dark thick hair, ruffled by the wind. He should be a model in a menswear campaign, not out abducting young women from gardens.