He had an intense fear of the filthy insects. They were one of only three things that he’d ever feared. The other two were being trapped indoors . . . and abandonment.
Just thinking about any of those fears made his gut twist.
“No, seriously. my dishes were, like, done,” Hope told someone on the other end of the line.
Pause.
“No, I’m not shitting you. They were done and I didn’t do them. Trust me, I’d remember.”
A longer pause. Her tone went from incredulous to defensive.
“No, I haven’t been drinking.”
He listened from beneath her bed as she lied to her friend. He had just watched her pour a glass of red wine and down it in three gulps before pouring a second glass and picking up the phone.
“Look, I’m just saying. Someone did my dishes and I’m, like, incredibly creeped out. I mean, who would do that? And no one but my aunt’s lawyer and me even have copies of the house keys.”
Pause.
“And tell them what? That someone broke into Aunt Ester’s house and did my dishes? Seriously. Look, forget it. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
She hung up the phone and took a seat on the bed.
The mattress squeaked angrily above him.
She pulled off a pair of black tennis shoes. A moment later, they whizzed across the room, hitting the closet door.
Every nerve ending in his body was aroused by being so close. If he were to reach out, he could easily seize one of her slender ankles.
“Like I could really forget cleaning that whole damn kitchen,” she muttered to herself. “I need new friends. Mine are complete dumbasses.”
More wine splashed into the glass, then her legs disappeared.
The mattress squeaked several times as she got comfortable. The television clicked on and she channel surfed, eventually settling on a reality show he was familiar with. Every once in a while he heard her chuckle.
She had a beautiful laugh.
After several minutes she switched the television off. Then he heard a click as she switched off her bedside lamp, bathing the room in darkness.
He squeezed his eyes shut and listened, lulled by the woman’s presence. When he heard quiet snores, he slipped out from beneath the bed. His heart hammering in his chest, he stared down at her and breathed in her scent mingled with the red wine.
He savored having so much power. Being the one who ultimately decided the woman’s fate. The whens, the whats, the hows. As a child he was powerless.
But he was far from powerless now . . . and he was still making up for lost time.
The muscles in his left cheek jumped. “Good-bye, Hope,” he whispered. “I’ll be back for you.”
He left the room and headed home.
CHAPTER 10
“TIME TO GET UP,” Miss Bitty said, her tone firm. “And don’t give me any lip, young lady. Solitude can be good, but too much is damaging. I’ve been around long enough to know.”
Allie lay buried under the covers, curled into a sweaty ball. She knew she’d been in bed for three or four days, but she was still tired. Since she’d been at the old woman’s house, she had only opened her eyes for a few minutes at a time, for food and to use the bathroom.
Every time she surfaced, there was a new dish on her bedside table. Fragrant soups with green stuff floating in clear broth, sour breads and herbed crackers, big colorful salads, chopped vegetables with bowls of dip, pitchers of water, mugs of tea . . . and sometimes, pills.
When she ate, she often heard voices down the hall, or the drone of a television set. A pan scraping against a stove top. The clatter of dishes being stacked in cabinets.
Sometimes while she slept, she heard footsteps in the doorway, the old lady slinking into the room, setting down food and watching her a bit before leaving. But whether Allie was aware of it or not, new food was always waiting when she woke.
“Allie? It’s time to get up, girlie.”
The old bat was still standing next to the bed.
Allie winced from beneath the covers, her head pounding. It felt like someone had kicked her in the skull while she slept.
What did the old woman want from her? Surely to put her to work. That was what foster parents were notorious for, right? Sitting on couches, eating bonbons, watching Jerry Springer while rent-a-kids mopped their floors and washed the windows?
“Did you even read my file?” Allie asked from beneath the covers.
“Yes, I did.”
“Then why the hell am I here?”
A slight pause. “I don’t understand.”
Allie didn’t respond.
“You can’t stay under there forever. Besides, you have two appointments today. You have to meet your therapist, then I have to take you back to the doctor.”
Therapist?
Her caseworker had mentioned she would need to see one. But, as far as Allie knew, only rich people saw therapists.
Maybe it was a ploy to get more information from her about her mother and brother. The sheriff had been awfully curious when he questioned her at the hospital.
Allie found it almost insulting that so many people were suddenly interested in her. Now that they realized she was the daughter and sister of murderers, she was finally worth their time. Where had everyone been all those years when she and her brother were suffering at the hands of their mother? Were they not worth saving back then? Did it really take people dying for her to finally be worth saving? It made no sense.
“How’s your stomach?”
Allie’s hands went to her middle, and she was surprised to realize the rawness had subsided. “Fine.”
“Good. Then, after your appointments, I’m taking you shopping.”
Shopping? “What kind of shopping?”
“We’re buying you some decent clothes to wear.”
Allie frowned from beneath the covers. No one had ever taken her clothes shopping.
Was this some sort of trick?
Still, she emerged from the covers, blinking against the morning sunlight filtering in through the window.