When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(68)

For an instant, I think I see his hulking shape loom ahead. My eyes widen. The Bad Man is here to kill me. But my detective and her fire will get him first.

Except when I flinch and press back against the wall, the dreaded demon turns out to be only a shadow after all.

The detective is at my shoulder, breathing heavily. My fear has spread itself to her.

I try to pull it together. Communicate, communicate—how can I explain?

Pictures beneath my mattress. I grab the thin mattress, toss it up. I should have a drawing or two. But the floor is bare, the pictures gone. The Bad Man got here first.

I whimper in sheer frustration. I need to talk, I need to tell. Hélène, Hélène, Hélène.

Once again, I think I’m going to be sick.

“Is this your room?” the detective asks.

I nod, rub my forehead. It hurts so much. The jagged scar feels like a red-hot poker, searing across my skull.

“Where are your clothes?”

I shake my head, still massaging my temples.

“You don’t have any clothes?”

I point to a small blue pile at the end of my cot, my old, threadbare uniform, which I wear at night.

“Personal possessions?”

I hold up two fingers. No.

“It’s freezing down here.”

Nod.

“Bonita, this isn’t right. How they’re treating you . . . this isn’t family taking care of family.”

I stare at her hard. I try to tell her with my eyes that they’re not my family. My mamita was my family. But the Bad Man shot her, and the bullet hit me—and when I woke up again, here I was. With a cracked skull and a drooping face and no voice.

Mrs. Counsel, standing over me. “She’s awfully young. Are you sure she won’t grow out of it?”

The Bad Man, hulking behind her. “The doctor said something about speech aphasia; the bullet damaged the speech/language center of the brain. She’ll never be able to speak, read, or write.”

“Hmmm. A mute housemaid. I don’t know.”

“Please, Martha. It’s perfect and you know it.”

I stare all this at the detective. I try, as hard as one person can, to beam my life story from my head into hers.

The detective takes my hand again. “Shhh,” she says. “Shhh,” and I realize I’m finally making a sound, from deep in my chest. Keening. I am keening and rocking and crying for the little girl who was gone before she ever had a chance. I’m mourning the life I’ve been trying to return to ever since.

I need the detective to understand. For someone to see me. For someone to hear me, and all the words that were stolen from my throat.

“I’ll take you upstairs,” she begins.

I jerk away. Shake my head furiously. Hélène, we must find Hélène.

She doesn’t get it. No one gets it. I’m on my own.

I limp once more for the hallway. I hear noise on the stairs behind us. The others coming to help—or maybe the mayor, having won the battle, coming to interrupt. I can’t worry about him or what he’ll do. Hélène should’ve appeared by now. Something is wrong and I’m the only hope she has.

Stacey. We never really knew each other. But I watched her die, and in that instant, we were sisters. I have such little family left. So I must do this for her, for Hélène. My sisters in death.

More doors, flinging them open wildly. I don’t know where the Bad Man is. If he appears, I hope the detective shoots him. If not, I will grab her gun and do it for her. But maybe one of these rooms has Hélène. She’s hiding, she’s frightened. She’s dead.

It’s all crashing in on me now. My last stand. My final chance. If I can’t make the detective realize what is going on . . .

Please, please, please . . .

The pair of heavy wooden doors at the end of the hallway. Guarding the big room, the awful room. Brimstone and blood.

I shiver. Then I grab the heavy handle and pull with all my strength. But it won’t budge. Locked. Of course. The room where Mrs. Counsel died. The room no one is ever allowed to see.

I whimper in sheer frustration.

“Hey now.” The detective, standing beside me again. “It’s okay. I can help. This room, it’s important? You need in?”

I nod frantically.

“I’ll get the key. This house is a crime scene. As a detective, I have the right to search.”

I feel fresh moisture on my cheeks.

“Are you scared?”

I nod.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?”

I shake my head.

She reaches out, touches my cheek. Her blue eyes are clear, her features hard. I know she means it when she says, “No one is going to hurt you, Bonita.”

I can’t help myself. I smile, my crooked, awful smile, all my drooping mouth has ever been able to manage. She doesn’t understand. And I’m still just a Stupid Girl. I take her hand. I press it against my cheek. I let her feel my tears. I let myself experience one moment of human kindness. Probably all I have left.

I’m going to die tonight. I fear for Hélène. But I mourn for myself and who I might have been.

Then, I take a deep breath. I straighten my spine. I pull away. I hold up two fingers.

No. She will not be able to save me. No one can defeat the Bad Man.