Lost Girls(28)

“I never thought of that, but yeah, okay.”

I grinned. Molly always had a way of seeing the practical, logical side of things. I, on the other hand, always went for the emotional side. Maybe if I was more like her, I’d have been better able to control my anger and wouldn’t have left Janie so messed up back in Pasadena. Already that blue-haired Katy Perry look-alike was haunting me, her eyes black with fear, her hands shaking after I’d knocked her gun away. “Do you think Janie got hurt? Like maybe she needed to go to the hospital?”

Molly leaned back with a sigh. “One can only hope.”

I punched her in the arm. Not hard, though. Not like I would have if it were Kyle. She pretended like it hurt and flexed her arm, wincing and moaning. Then, when I acted repentant, she punched me back.

“How long before you have to be home?” she asked.

I sent Dad a text when Molly and I were in Starbucks to make sure it was okay if I stayed out past dinnertime. “About forty-five minutes.”

“You want to check out another girl on your list?”

“Should we? I mean, seriously, what kind of person attacks somebody who knocks on their door? What if all the other girls on my list are like this? Maybe this was a list of people I never wanted to see again—”

“If any of the remaining girls start a convo with ‘Hey, bitch,’ then we should probably turn and run,” Molly said. “Other than that, yeah, we should keep going. You want to find out what happened, don’t you?” She didn’t wait for my response. Instead, she flicked through those addresses on my GPS, picked one, and hit the go button. “Let’s see if Nicole Hernandez is home.”

I drummed my fingertips quietly on the armrest, fighting the hesitation that surged through me whenever I heard Nicole’s name. I didn’t know what had happened to her, but I knew she wouldn’t be home when we got there. She was a Lost Girl. Somehow that knowledge made her seem even more frightening than Janie.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Nicole might be the Big Trigger that changed everything. She could push me over the edge. But I’d been living on the edge since I came home and I was tired of it.

I stared out the window as a computerized voice gave us directions. I pretended Molly and I were on a quest, looking for the missing Orc sword that had killed an Elfen queen, plunging the kingdom into darkness. I imagined we drove down a winding road that led through web-infested forests, that goblins watched us behind picket fences, and trolls lurked inside every doghouse. It was a strangely comforting fantasy, made from familiar memories of long nights Molly and I had spent together as pre-teens, planning our own excursion into Middle-earth.

But this was nothing like The Hobbit—it was more like The Bourne Identity, and I didn’t want to be Jason Bourne, some guy with a secret past who suddenly knew how to kill people. I just wanted to be myself, the old me, the girl whose worst secrets were the fact that she might flunk geometry and that she probably wouldn’t get the lead role in the upcoming ballet production.

...

We reached Arcadia and rolled to a stop in front of a stucco ranch-style home. There were only two lights on here—the porch light, as if whoever was inside was waiting for someone to come home, and a flickering light downstairs, maybe a fireplace, where the owner sat, trying to keep warm despite the chill and the rain. Molly and I were just about to get out of the car, both of us with our fingers on the door handles when I spoke, saying what I couldn’t hold in any longer.

“Janie had track marks on her arm. Just like mine,” I said.

Molly blinked. Twice.

“She said nobody was buying her drugs anymore, but it sounded like it was somehow my fault. And she told me to ask my ‘own girls’ if I had questions. But who are my girls?” I thought about Lauren, sporting a tattoo on her neck that matched mine—but she had adamantly refused to tell me anything about Phase Two. I doubted she’d be much help with any of my other questions, either.

“I don’t know,” Molly said. Rain streaked my windows, casting eerie shadows on her face, making it look like her face was melting. “Maybe some of the other girls on your list?”

I wasn’t convinced, but I nodded anyway. We got out of the car and walked up to Nicole Hernandez’s house. I was still hoping to find answers. And quietly praying that this time I could have a conversation that didn’t include me slamming my fist in someone’s face.

...

It was a nice house with short, clipped grass and orange daylilies and a fence covered with pink bougainvillea. Brown shutters hung on the windows, but they were ornamental, since no one needs shutters in California. A stone walk curved from the curb, past short, squat palm trees, and rain dripped from all the foliage. Everything about the house whispered something, soft and repetitive, something that should have been sweet but somehow put me on edge.

It was like it was saying, come home, please, please, come home.

I pressed my finger on the doorbell, wishing I could turn around and run, no longer wanting to know what was behind Door Number Two. Molly took my hand in hers, holding it, probably trying to give me courage. Or maybe she was trying to stop me from punching anyone.

The door opened and a tormented-looking woman stood before us. Dark circles colored the skin beneath her eyes and her cheekbones were sharply pronounced, as if she couldn’t eat or sleep. Long, narrow fingers toyed restlessly with the sweater that hung crooked on her shoulders, the buttons fastened wrong. An ache emanated from her, a bone-sharp loneliness that made the night feel even colder than before.