When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(45)

I have a duty. Like my mother. Run, she tried to warn me. I ignored her. But still, she tried. She was strong and brave. She stood up to the Bad Man. Performed some small act of rebellion that brought him to our home that final night. I’ve spent years wondering about it. It used to make me angry—why couldn’t she have done nothing, just continued with our little lives in our little house?

But now, with my own time winding down, realizing more and more that I will never leave this place, I understand her need to make some kind of stand. To feel, for one moment, like someone who mattered. Because the Bad Man loves to make us less. To dance his blade across our skin until we scream. Then he smiles, and admires his handiwork. And leaves even me whimpering, as I clutch at my ravaged arm.

My mother had a patchwork quilt of lines across her back. As a child, I would trace them with my finger. She never said a word. Now, of course, I wonder.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The footsteps, much closer now.

The house holds its breath.

He’s here. Standing on the other side of my door. His hand closing on the knob. One twist. The door will open. One step. He will loom before me, blade by his side, smile on his face.

Just like that, it will be my turn.

I should offer him dinner, I think wildly. Fix him a plate. Will he remember my mother? Recall that night? Or are we all alike to him? Just girls, disposable in the end?

I have to bear the pain, I remind myself. I will close my eyes, fist my hands, scream if I must. And then . . . it’ll be done. I’ll be gone. And my soul—will it be the color purple like Stacey’s, or silver like my mother’s? It will rise up, bring me to my mami and we’ll be a pack of two, again. Mamita and chiquita. Because I belong to her, and she belongs to me, and not even the Bad Man can keep us apart forever. I have to believe that.

I stare at the door.

Bear the pain.

Bear the pain.

Bear the . . .

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Footsteps. Starting up again.

The man, moving on, away from my door, farther down the hall.

I stop rocking. Hold perfectly still. If not me, then who?

I think of my mother again.

I know what I have to do next.



* * *



—

I CAN’T TALK OR TELL stories or whisper to some well-meaning police lady the full truths of this house. But I can slide slowly down the basement hall, quiet as a ghost, dragging my weak leg behind me. I am nothing, I tell myself. Just a small voiceless girl. And just like that, I vanish.

This time of night, the guests sleep obliviously on the floors above. I used to wonder at their blank, smiling faces in the morning. But all these years later, I understand. No one sees what they don’t want to see. And no one (except the blond lady?) has ever wanted to see girls like me.

I pass by closed doors. Some may have occupants, huddled in corners, biting their lips against their building terror. There is at least another maid down here, Hélène, who often works with me. There are other girls, however, that come and go. I don’t know anything about them, don’t even know if any of them are here now.

The Bad Man disappears around the corner. I move faster, the stone floor cold against my bare feet. My worn uniform is too thin for these tunnels, which are dimly lit and carved deep into the earth. This is the part of the house guests never visit. It is the realm of Bad Things and Bad People.

Monsters are real and they live in the bowels of the earth, where the darkness feeds their appetites and breeds their rages. But I don’t know how many fingers to hold up to tell the blond police woman that, so I do this instead.

A pair of heavy wooden doors looms ahead. Old and solid. Like this house, these mountains. I have been in this room before. I know it smells of candle wax and blood. I know it’s the house’s very core and the house itself wishes it didn’t exist. The day the Bad Man carved up my forearm, then left me curled in a pool of my own urine, I dreamt of pulling burning logs from the monstrous stone fireplace inside this room, then flinging them around this space.

The house would applaud, I think. It would smile as its walls caught flame. It would whisper “thank you” as it collapsed on itself and became no more.

But this room is fashioned from more stone than wood. The house might go. This awful centerpiece will never burn.

The Bad Man disappears through the partially opened doors. I place my hand against the wall beside me. I will my body to disappear into the shadows. And because the house is my friend, I can feel it wrap itself around me, offer what protection it can.

I hold very still, then hear the Bad Man’s voice.

“What the hell do you mean by this?”

The answering voice trembles, then finds itself. Mayor Howard. The master of the house. Of course, the Bad Man knows differently.

“The sheriff came by today. Some Boston detective, too. They’re asking questions—”

“Let them.”

“It’s not safe.” A woman’s voice now. Mistress of the house. Except once again, the Bad Man knows differently.

“Did they ask to search this place?”

“Of course not. They have no reason—”

“Exactly.”

“But they’re showing pictures.” The master again. “Jacob Ness, his rig. Rumors are his last victim is here, too, Flora Dane.”

“Ness is dead.”