The Weight of Blood (91)

Maddy wasn’t making any sense. Wendy grabbed another letter from the stack, flipping over the envelope.

“Mireille Germain. There’s an address here. Saint Helena Island, South Carolina.”

Maddy blinked. “‘I will be where the low country meets the sea.’”

Maddy flipped through the stack. The letters were all from the same place. She wrapped a rubber band around them. Then she placed a hand over her gaping wound and closed her eyes. The wound began sewing itself shut with an invisible thread. Wendy lost all feeling in her legs and fell against the desk.

Maddy let out a staggering breath, staring at the letters in childlike wonderment.

“I’m gonna go find my mama. She’s been waiting for me.”

Wendy heard the rock-solid resolve in her voice, but the plan lacked believable execution. That’s where Wendy always came in handy.

“Does your dad keep any money in the house?”

“In the coffee can, above the stove,” Maddy answered, still enraptured.

Wendy snatched the letters out of her hands. “Hurry up. Take off that dress and wash up.”

Maddy nodded and did what she was told.

Wendy ran up to Maddy’s room, stopping short at the sight of Mr. Washington’s lifeless body. In the candlelight, she could see the various photos wallpapered around the vanity, a collage of laughing white faces . . . and felt nauseous.

I have to get out of here!

She snatched open what she thought was a closet door but found more faces glaring back.

“Oh my God,” Wendy mumbled, a lump in her throat, slamming the door shut. She grabbed a few pieces of clothing out of a drawer and stuffed them into a book bag.

Maddy emerged in a towel, her hair dripping wet, a large thick gauze taped to her shoulder. Without the paint and blood, she looked like herself again . . . small and mousy.

Wendy spotted Maddy’s sweater on the chair. She threw down the bag and yanked the T-shirt over her head.

“What are you doing?” Maddy asked.

Wendy shimmied out of her jeans and kicked off her sneakers.

“Here. Put these on.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be spotted a mile away in anything else.”

Maddy nodded, slipping into the jeans that hung on her hips, touching the fabric in wonder. Wendy grabbed a moldy-smelling dress out of the drawer. As she jerked it on, Maddy walked over to her bed, pulled a worn-down book out from under the pillow, and stuffed it into the book bag.

Wendy didn’t bother asking any more questions. “Let’s go.”

Her sneakers were a half size too big on Maddy’s feet, but she flip-flopped in them down the stairs. They rushed into the kitchen and found the coffee can exactly where Maddy said it would be. Wendy counted out the cash. Less than two hundred dollars. Maddy stood in the doorway watching, her hair already drying and frizzing around her face. She thought of the day Jules threw the pencil, the day that changed everything. Maddy’s hair had started it all.

“Where are your scissors?”

“Scissors?”

“We have to cut your hair.”

Maddy froze, and Wendy wondered if she’d have to convince her. But she marched across the room, pulled open a drawer, set the scissors on the table, dragged over a chair, and sat.

Wendy started chopping off huge hunks, cutting into the thickness, thinning it from the root. There wasn’t time to make it pretty. It just needed to get done.

A hysterical giggle escaped Maddy’s lips, tears streaming down her face. Wendy stopped, baffled by the reaction, taking a hesitant step back. Was she losing it?

Maddy gazed up at her and shrugged. “I’ve always wanted short hair.”

Wendy nodded wordlessly and finished the job, leaving Maddy with a short pixie cut.

In the distance, the power plant alarm went off. The second time that evening. Wendy had a gut feeling Maddy had something to do with it.

“Come on. We gotta go.”

Maddy stepped out the front door but stopped on the porch steps.

“Wait,” she gasped.

“What are you doing?” Wendy whispered. “We don’t have time.”

Maddy stared inside the home, taking in every detail. She raised her hand, paused one last time, and snapped her fingers. Every candle burst into tall flames, climbing to the ceiling, the curtains catching, the wallpaper crisping.

Wendy took a staggering step back, the air sucked out of her lungs.

Maddy closed the door on her old life and looked at her expectantly. Wendy gulped hard, trying to regain her composure as they walked to the car.

She opened her trunk, shoving the contents aside. “Get in.”

Maddy eyeballed the trunk, nibbling on her thumb. She scanned the street uneasily.

“Why . . . why are you helping me?”

Wendy shook her head. “I didn’t help you the right way before. Let me do it now.”

Behind them, flames began swallowing up the house. Maddy watched it burn, the fire sizzling in her eyes. She turned to Wendy.

“God doesn’t make mistakes,” she breathed, and climbed in.

Wendy absorbed her words for a moment before slamming the trunk closed. She jumped into the driver’s seat, checked the gas gauge, and sped off for the highway, flooring it all the way to Greenville.

FROM THE SWORN TESTIMONY OF LAURA COATES