The Overnight Guest(50)

“Could be,” Santos murmured. “See you soon.” Finding the truck would be huge, but who they found inside the truck, that would be key.

Hopefully, Ethan Doyle and Becky Allen would be safe and the perpetrator apprehended. She prayed the two had nothing to do with the murders—Josie Doyle and both families needed a happier ending than that. But Santos knew that crimes as gruesome as this left behind more than just physical carnage. No matter what was found in that truck, the Doyles and the Allens would never be the same.



26


The girl peeked outside and could see the trees swaying in the wind, sweeping the gold and red and yellow leaves from branches. They scuttled across the grass, racing each other until they rested in piles in front of the window.

The room was chilly and the girl was restless. There was nothing on television and she was tired of drawing pictures. She eyed the box of books that sat in the corner next to the bed. She hadn’t touched them since the day her father had brought them. She was still angry that he hadn’t brought a dog like he promised. But now she was bored, and even a box of old books was better than just looking out her sliver of a window.

Once again, a moldy smell rose from inside the box when she opened it. Though she didn’t want to admit it, a flutter of excitement danced in her stomach. The girl liked books. Liked escaping into stories and pictures, and here was an entire box filled with books she’d never seen before. A bit of the iciness she felt toward her father melted.

“We’re almost out of food,” came her mother’s voice from across the room.

The girl continued to sort through the box. There were picture books. One with the illustration of a man holding an umbrella to cover his head while food fell from the sky and one with two hippos named George and Martha.

“This is it,” her mother said. “This is all that’s left. This and a little bit of peanut butter.”

The girl looked up from a book that showed a naughty little boy holding a purple crayon. Her mother held up a can of soup and a sleeve of crackers.

“He’ll come soon with more,” the little girl said. She wasn’t worried. Her father always came with groceries. She didn’t always like what he brought home, but they always had something to eat.

For supper they had the soup. Her mother let her open the can using the opener and pour it into the glass bowl and add the water. She even let her press the buttons on the small microwave to heat it up. “We’ll save the crackers for later,” her mother said.

They ate. The girl went back to the box of books.

The next morning, for breakfast, they each had three crackers. At lunchtime they each ate two with peanut butter. Still, the girl’s father didn’t come.

“Maybe he’s not coming back,” the girl said and took another drink of water. Her mother said it would help fill her stomach.

“He’ll come back,” her mother said but the girl could hear the worry in her voice. “He has to.”

For supper the girl ate two crackers with peanut butter and her mother had one. The jar of peanut butter was empty. They drank more water. That night the girl had trouble sleeping. Her stomach rumbled and she kept thinking about the remaining two crackers. What would they do when there was nothing left? What if her father didn’t come back? They would starve to death.

She crawled from the bed, careful not to wake her mother, and checked to see if the crackers were still there. They were. The girl wanted to snatch them from their plastic wrapper and eat them, but that wouldn’t be fair. She went back to bed and tried to sleep.

The next morning, her mother gave her both the crackers. “I’m not hungry,” she said. The girl didn’t believe her but still ate the crackers in small mouselike nibbles, trying to make them last as long as possible. Lunchtime passed, and so did dinner. Her father didn’t come.

The girl grew cranky. Water sloshed around in her empty stomach making her feel sick. “I’m hungry,” she complained. “When is Dad coming?” she asked.

“There is no food,” her mother finally snapped. “It’s all gone. There is nothing left.”

“Then you should go out there and get some,” the girl shot back. Her mother grew very quiet.

Out There. That’s what they called it. Don’t go Out There, her mother would say, your father will get mad, it’s not safe.

Her father would say, “There are bad people Out There. They will take you away from us, and you’ll never see your mother again.”

So they never left. They stayed in the basement with its concrete floors and cement walls.

But to her surprise, the girl’s mother walked up the stairs and stood at the closed door. She tentatively reached out and gave the doorknob a twist. The door was locked. Her mother came back down the steps and stood in the center of the room.

“What are you doing?” the girl asked, but her mother waved her away.

She stood there for a long time and then told the girl to find her a pen. “A pen?” the girl asked in confusion.

“Get me a pen,” her mother ordered sharply. The girl hurried to her art box, found what she was looking for, and then handed it to her mother. To her surprise, her mother twisted the pen until the outer plastic covering came loose. She tossed this to the table and examined what remained—the pen’s sharp tip and the tube filled with ink. Back up the steps her mother went. The girl followed. Her mother crouched down in front of the door and began to press the tip of the pen into the knob.