The Weight of Blood (89)

At first Kali seemed to ignore him, then stopped short. “What?”

Jules let out a gasping scream, wincing at the light piercing her eyes.

“Sweetheart, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

The unfamiliar voice made her flinch. She slumped over, her head throbbing, trying to make sense of the searing pain in her right shoulder.

“Uhh, uhh,” she moaned. “Brady?”

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”

Jules tried to sit up and the room spun, the white hospital lights blinding. She was lying on something hard. The floor? No, a board. The room bumped, her right shoulder flaring, cutting through her foggy brain.

“Brady?” she croaked, her throat raw from screaming.

“Hon, can you tell us what happened?”

Maddy!

The sight of Maddy standing in the ballroom doorway, drenched in white paint, flooded her vision. Then, the blood. There was so much blood. The support beam had split Brady’s head open. Brains on her dress . . . her arm hurt. The pain, the pain . . . tears hiccupped.

They’ll blame it all on me. They’ll say I did it and they’ll hate me.

Unless . . .

Something thick and bitter slid down her throat. She swallowed and cooked up some extra-fat tears.

“Maddy did it,” she cried. “Maddy . . . she attacked us. She attacked my friends and me for no reason. My boyfriend. . . . Oh God, Brady.”

The exhaustion melted into her, too hard to stay awake. But she had to say one last word.

“Why do they . . . she hate us so much?”

Her body shook hard, her skin arctic cold. She wrapped her arms around herself but didn’t feel the relief, only hot pain. She reached to touch the sore spot and came up empty.

Her right arm was gone.





Twenty-Seven


June 1, 2014

WENDY PARKED THE car in front of Maddy’s house, staring up at the tranquil candlelight flickering in the windows; a complete opposite of the chaos surrounding them as screams echoed into the night. Neighboring streets were flooded with smoke and flames. Wendy could taste burning rubber and copper on the back of her tongue. Or was it blood? The knot in her belly tightened. She switched off the engine and walked up the cracked driveway. The front door opened with one turn of the knob.

“Hello?”

A wooden cuckoo clock ticked on the wall. Wendy took in the home—the mahogany dining table with lace tablecloth, the dark green carpet, shelves of endless videotapes, a TV she’d only seen in old movies, a ruffled apron draped over a chair. Shadows danced on the walls, the candles burned to near stubs. On the floor near the kitchen sat a pair of black kitten heels covered in mud and white paint.

She’s here.

“Maddy?” she called out, her voice peaking.

Wendy cautiously made her way through the dark house, unsure of what to do when she finally found Maddy. Talk to her? Would she listen to reason?

Her ears perked at the tiny cry above.

“Maddy?” she whispered.

Wendy crept up the stairs, anxiety multiplying in the silence. She approached the attic door, a faint glow around its jagged frame. It creaked as she pushed it open.

Maddy sat on the floor cross-legged, a ball of white hair rocking and sobbing over the body of Mr. Washington. She held his head in her lap, petting his face, his eyes open and vacant, mouth frozen. Maddy sniffed and glanced up, tears streaming down her painted face.

“You,” she hissed, and the room seemed to darken.

Blood dripped out the side of Mr. Washington’s head.

Wendy stood speechless. “Maddy, I . . .”

Maddy’s hand shot out, gripping the air, and an invisible rope looped around Wendy’s throat, hauling her up. Wendy gasped, feet frantically kicking the air.

“Maddy, please,” she choked, clawing at her neck.

“You tricked me. You all tricked me.”

Wendy shook her head. “No. No. It was Jules—”

“My papa’s dead because of you!”

“Maddy,” she wheezed. “Please . . . I . . . I was trying to help you.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did I ever ask for your help?”

Wendy coughed, tears springing, her vision fraying at the edges. “Maddy, please,” Wendy begged.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she hissed. “It’s because of you that I’m this strong. If it wasn’t for you and your friends, I wouldn’t know what I could do.”

Legs dangling, Wendy struggled to pry the invisible fingers digging into her esophagus. “Please Maddy. Please don’t kill me.”

“Oh, so now you’re begging me?” Maddy seethed. “I begged, too, once. Begged for you all to leave me alone. You didn’t listen to me, so why should I listen to you?”

Wendy couldn’t think of an answer. She could only cough out a “Please.”

Maddy stared for five long seconds before she closed her eyes and lowered her arm. Wendy dropped to the floor, gasping and coughing.

“He’s dead,” Maddy sobbed, patting her father’s face. “And it’s all my fault. He was only trying to protect me.”

The muscles around Wendy’s neck ached as she scooted away from the blood pooling on the floor.

“Maddy . . . I’m sorry. I . . .” Wendy’s hand brushed against something metal behind her. A gun sat inches from her fingertips.