Aunt Ani’s small white house rested between two taller dwellings like the littlest cousin of a big family. I lingered on the sidewalk for a beat too long. The arched window to the left of the door was curtained, obscuring the view of the breakfast nook. When I was kid, Aunt Ani replaced the table with a telescope, and we camped in the stationary bench seats, eating homemade waffles, to scan the skies. On cloudy nights, we aimed a little lower, and it wasn’t until we caught sight of the newly married couple across the street getting it on in their kitchen with the blinds open that Aunt Ani deemed our activity too intrusive.
And then there was the house on the corner lot with the wide side yard perfect for playing catch, and the gray gable roof that collected rain in inconvenient corners, and the dark-stained wooden columns that I’d once run smack into during a temper tantrum. The resulting gash above my eye needed a grand four stitches. The scar and the lesson in vigilance would never fade.
There was the porch light that Mom and Dad flipped on and off as a warning if I was getting too hot and heavy with someone after a date. There were the tacks right below the roofline where we hung our Christmas lights each year. There was the gate to the back fence with the tricky lock that snagged my homecoming dress freshman year and ripped the bodice. I ended up going to the dance in a vintage piece of my mom’s and looking better than the rest of the girls wearing designer gowns from the big mall half an hour away.
The house was rife with moments from the past. I stood slack-jawed as the wave of recollections engulfed me, riding it out with a blank stare in my traditional style of repression. Then the front door opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out.
“Can I help you?” she called across the front yard in a polite tone that suggested she might have already dialed the non-emergency number for the police station and was waiting to press the call button.
“I—” I used to live here. “No, thank you.”
She watched as I continued on my way. When I turned the corner, I heard the door close. The hinges still squeaked. And that was that. Autumn’s subtle fuss was unnecessary. I was fine. Or I would’ve been fine if my little sister had stayed where I’d left her ten years ago.
In town, I bypassed the bed and breakfast and stopped at the extended stay motel instead, where the neon vacancy sign flickered on and off. The lobby was cramped and hot, and it smelled of French fry grease. A gangly kid around eighteen or nineteen sat behind the front desk. In one hand, he waved a phone through the air in a bizarre dance to catch a signal bar. With the other, he fiddled with the brim of his trucker hat, worn backward to push his hair away from his forehead. When the bell over the door chimed, he glanced toward me. His mouth popped open, and he reached for the motel’s landline, his hand hovering over the receiver.
“Who are you?” he asked.
I dropped my backpack and leaned against his desk. The brass pin on his chest, layered with fingerprints, spelled the name Grant. “A potential guest. Is that how you greet all of your customers?”
“Yeah, but you look like—”
“Holly Dubois?”
He nodded. There were crumbs stuck in the scruff beneath his chin.
“She’s my sister,” I said wearily. “I need a room. Can you help me with that or are you just going to stand there gawking?”
“Sorry.” He shook the mouse of a clunky old computer to wake up the screen. “I have a regular with two queens or a corner room with a king. That one has a kitchenette, if you’re interested.”
“That’ll do.”
We went through the motions. I handed him my credit card, which looked brand new, and signed something that said I was liable for damages should I go on a bender and trash the room, then Grant took a keycard attached to a lanyard from the desk drawer, hopped down from his stool, and gestured for me to follow him.
“So do you know Holly?” I asked as he led me through the back door of the lobby and into the outdoor corridor of the first floor.
“Yeah, we went to school together,” he replied. “I graduated last year. Everyone knows Holly though. She’s kind of a bad ass.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Softball captain, homecoming court, student council.” Grant fiddled with the keycard, slinging the lanyard around his finger. “She was super nice to everyone too. Some of those girls can be really bitchy, you know? But Holly was always really cool.”
“Is,” I corrected.
“What?”
“Holly is super nice,” I said. “She’s missing, not dead.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Here you go.”
He swiped the keycard at Room 113 and flipped on the light switch for me. The room was musty but clean. A lone print of a sunny wheat field decorated the wall above the bed, which was big enough for roughly four of me. The window had a beautiful view of the parking lot. I turned my backpack upside down on the bed, dumping out my timid assortment of belongings, while Grant lingered in the doorway.
“Do you ever think about getting out of here?” I asked him.
He backed out. “Oh, sorry—”
“No, not the room,” I clarified. “I mean Belle Dame. You’re done with school, so why are you still here?”
Grant shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know. Where would I go?”
“College?”
“Not my thing.”
“Okay, then maybe just travel the world a little bit,” I suggested. “You know, see somewhere new. Don’t you ever get bored here?”
Grant leaned against the doorway, thinking about it. “Nah. If we get bored, we light something on fire. It’s the little things, right?” He dangled the keycard at me. “Anyway, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
He hesitated before he left. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything before. About Holly.”
“I know.”
“I really hope she comes home soon.”
“Me too.”
I crashed five minutes after Grant left, succumbing to jet lag and general exhaustion and lacking the motivation to pull back the covers of the massive bed. I woke fully-dressed to the streaky orange glow of sunset. As I rubbed crust out of the corners of my eye, my stomach rumbled. My last meal had been one of those prepackaged chicken dinners on the plane that always tasted like cardboard. I rolled off the bed and stretched, groaning as my muscles and tendons popped into place, then plodded into the bathroom.
The spotted mirror and yellow tinted overhead light did no wonders for my tired skin. Purple half-moons cupped my red eyes, and the smattering of freckles across my tanned cheeks had paled without constant attention from the Thai sun. Autumn was half-right about my hair. It needed a wash, but it also wasn’t the worst I’d seen it.
The feeble water pressure reminded me of the beach showers on the coast during tourist season as I rinsed off the tacky feel and camphoraceous smell of the plane that loitered long after you had disembarked. Thankfully, the artificial peach scent of the motel’s provided shampoo combatted it well. I used the entire tiny bottle, working it from the roots of my hair to the ends. I shaved too, a luxury that had gone by the wayside in Thailand. I tossed the disposable razor into the trash afterward and made a mental note to pick up a less fragile one from the closest corner store. Then I got dressed and headed out with only the keycard and a few dollars in my pocket.
Belle Dame was now in full swing for a late Monday afternoon. A trio of teenagers juggled ice cream cones and iPhones. A young mother gambled her sanity in exchange for quiet toddlers outside a baby boutique. Two bearded men hauled horse feed from a surplus store to the back of their pickup truck. An old Tim McGraw song pumped from the open windows of the Pit, which was already filling up with regulars. I stopped by the cafe for a coffee and a ham sandwich to eat on my walk back to Bill and Emily’s.
This time around, the spacious farmhouse was lively and energetic. An unfamiliar dog greeted me in the driveway, where Bill’s truck and Emily’s car were now parked. Three different b
icycles leaned against the side of the house. The shoe collection on the porch had grown, now topped off with extra pairs of kids’ sneakers. Loud overlapping conversation echoed from inside, and I recognized Emily’s less-than-dulcet tones. I knocked, heard no difference in the level of noise, then pounded on the front door. It swung open.
Emily looked older. The lines around her eyes were more prominent, and her light brown hair was streaked with gray. She wore a blue and white checkered top and high-waisted jeans. She had been drying her hands on a dish towel, but when she saw who was standing on her doorstep, the towel went limp between her fingers.
“Bridget.”
“Hey.”
The unnamed dog bulldozed by me to let itself into the house, pushing the door wider. Behind Emily, two elementary school girls jumped up and down on the couch, striking poses midair, while a third older boy shouted direction and judgement. The dog leapt onto the couch, knocking over one of the girls. Her head just missed the corner of the coffee table as she fell over with a crash.
Emily glanced over her shoulder and bellowed, “Enough!”
All three kids froze to look at her. The dog licked the boy’s face.
“Who’s that?” the boy asked, pointing at me.
“I’m selling cookies,” I replied.
“Ooh,” the fallen girl said, righting herself. “Do you have peanut butter?”
Emily pulled on the door so that the kids were no longer visible to me. “She’s kidding. The three of you go upstairs and get washed up for dinner. Fifteen minutes. And tell Ryan to come down and set the table. It’s his turn.”
I heard the kids scramble to obey Emily’s directions. As their footsteps faded up the staircase, Emily wiped her forehead with the dish towel. “What are you doing here, Bridget?”
“Don’t tell me you really have to ask that. And please don’t make me talk about this on your doormat. It makes me feel unwelcome.”
With pursed lips, Emily stepped aside to let me in. The house was, as it had always been, a mess. It was littered with stuffed animals, dog toys, magazines, laundry, and the general debris of living. A fragrant tomato sauce simmered in a pot on the stove while the mixer blended sunshiney cornbread batter. Emily eyed my shoes, which I hadn’t discarded at the door.
“How did you know?” she asked. “Weren’t you in Greece or something?”
“Thailand,” I corrected. “Autumn called me.”
Emily’s eyes flickered toward the ceiling. “Of course she did.”
“At least someone was courteous enough to tell me that my sister was missing.” I cleared a space at the kitchen counter and took a seat on one of the stools. Cracker crumbs fell to the floor, which the dog immediately vacuumed up.
Emily shooed the dog away and returned to the stove to tend to her sauce. “We have it under control, Bridget.”
“Oh, did Holly come home?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t have it under control.”
The wooden spoon splashed into the sauce, spraying tomato juice and herbs across the white stovetop, as Emily spoke. “What do you want, Bridget? What is it that you plan on doing here? Do you think you can do better than the police? You think that Holly is going to magically turn up because you’ve decided to grace us all with your presence?”
“Maybe.”
She brandished the spoon at me, reminding me of how many times she’d used the exact same kitchen utensil to smack me around when I was younger. “Holly isn’t you. She didn’t run away. We’re worried about her, and if you had a sympathetic bone in your body, you wouldn’t have barged in here—”
“My sister is gone,” I interrupted. “I didn’t come here to torture you, Emily. I came because I can’t hop from country to country and not know what the hell is going on here.”
“So for your own peace of mind then.”
“For Holly.” I dipped my finger in the cornbread batter and licked it off. “Autumn said she didn’t come home from school. What’s been going on with her? Have you noticed any trouble?”
Emily paused her furious sauce stirring. She looked me over, taking in my cargo shorts, tank top, and hiking boots. My hair was damp and frizzy from the shower. She seemed to be deciding whether my ten-year sabbatical from Belle Dame had altered me for better or worse. I awaited her judgement, tapping my fingers against the countertop.
“She’s been great,” she said at last. She ducked low to fetch a casserole pan from the cabinet beneath the sink, preheated the oven, and pulled a colossal bag of green beans from the freezer. “Everything’s been going well for Holly. Her grades are good. Her game is good. She’s been happy.”
“So then what do you think happened?”
Emily dumped the green beans into the casserole pan with a chunk of butter, sprinkled them with seasoning, and threw the pan into the oven. “The police think she ran away with a boy—”
“I didn’t ask what the police think.”
She fixed me with a stare. “I don’t know, Bridget. I just don’t. In truth, I’m terrified. I know Holly. This game on Wednesday. It’s a big one. There are a bunch of college scouts coming out, including one from UCLA. You and I both know how much she wants to play for them. She wouldn’t miss that game for the world.”
“Did you tell the cops that?” I asked.
She bustled off again, taking two mason jars down from a high shelf and filling them with ice. “I did, but I’m not sure it makes a difference.” She uncapped a bottle of gin, poured a healthy dose into each jar, and topped the liquor off with fresh lemonade. “Here,” she said, sliding one jar across the countertop in my direction.
I caught it. “Thanks.”
Emily took a long draught before continuing. “The police didn’t find any evidence of a struggle. Not in Holly’s room or her car or anywhere else in town.”
I traced my finger around the rim of the mason jar. “Autumn said it was like she vanished.”
Someone thundered down the stairs. I turned to see a teenaged boy with a shock of white blond hair. He stopped short at the sight of me sitting at the kitchen counter.
“Oh, shit,” he said. “You’re Holly’s sister, aren’t you?”
“Language, Ryan!” Emily rounded the kitchen counter to smack him with the oven mitts. “Set the table, would you?”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, balking beneath her attack. “Bill’s going to be pissed though. You know that, right? Isn’t that what the two of you were yelling about the other night?”
“Shut up,” Emily hissed.
“Okay!” As Emily returned to the kitchen to boil water for pasta, he looked at me from the corner of his eyes, leaned in, and whispered, “Just so you know, Bill’s going to be pissed.”
“Ryan!”
“I’m setting the table!” He ducked under Emily’s arm to collect plates and silverware, winking at me as he passed by. “Totally setting the table.”
I watched as he sauntered off to the dining room. “Well, he’s a handful.”
“We’ve harbored worse.”
“Like me?”
Emily’s gaze remained fixed on the pot of water waiting to boil.
“Is it true what he said?” I asked her. “Did you and Bill fight about me?”
“We had a disagreement.”
“You had a fight. About what?”
Emily’s shoulders tensed beneath her shirt. “Whether or not we should try to contact you about Holly.”
“I assume Bill replied with a wholehearted ‘no.’”
She dumped the box of pasta into the water and turned away from the stove. “You put us through hell, Bridget. What did you expect?”
“I—”
Another set of footfalls halted our conversation, but these were slower and heavier. I spotted the workman’s boots and heavy duty jeans before the rest of Bill came into view. He had yet to notice me, entranced by a button that had fallen off his short-sleeved collared shirt. Bill was a big man, topping off at around six foot six. H
is broad shoulders, beer belly, and profuse beard made him seem even larger.
“Emily, honey, can you sew this back on for me—?”
He looked up, spotting me at the counter.
“Here comes the boom,” I said.
Emily braced herself as Bill’s low voice rumbled through the room like a roll of thunder. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”
5
In the Heat of the Moment
“Bill—” Emily began.
Bill charged across the room, boxing me against the kitchen counter. “Get out of my house!”
“Get out of my face.” At this range, I had an up close and personal view of Bill’s oversized pores and dilated pupils. The synthetic musk of his aftershave mingled with the mild scent of lavender shampoo, like he’d borrowed Emily’s hair products in the shower and tried to cover it up with a manlier smell. Even clean, he appeared disheveled. The collar of his shirt stuck up at an odd angle, his fingernails were shorn to the nail bed, and his beard was long and scraggly.
“Bill.” Emily abandoned all matriarchal duties in the kitchen to intervene. “We were just having a conversation. There’s no need to—”
“I don’t want her here, Emily,” he barked.
Spittle landed on my cheek. I wiped it away. “I’m going to need you to step out of my bubble.”
But Bill didn’t take direction well. He leaned closer, our noses inches apart. I went rigid, staring into his muddy brown eyes as he spoke.“You haven’t changed, have you? That mouth of yours keeps running. How’s your arson habit coming? Burn any barns down lately?”
Thankfully, Bill’s size wasn’t conducive to agility. I crouched under his muscled arm, dodged his protrusive stomach, and positioned myself between him and the front door. “That was ten years ago. Whatever happened to forgive and forget?”
“Old habits,” Bill growled. He turned to Emily. “What did I say? I knew this would happen. Did you call her?”
Deadly Visions Boxset Page 60