A Deadly Influence (Abby Mullen Thrillers #1)(97)

She pushed the thought away.

“I’ve been remembering some things from my childhood,” she said. “From the cult.”

“Bad memories?”

“Some. It wasn’t all bad. There was a wildflower field . . . well, you know that. Where they grew the poppies. But it was beautiful.”

“I remember,” Penny said.

“You were there?” Abby asked, surprised.

“We all were. Hank and I took you there a year after we adopted you. We thought it might help. You were so unhappy.”

“Did it help?”

“Maybe, a little. It was a long process.”

Abby nodded, pacing the kitchen, tracing the chair with her—

—fingers. She glanced at Penny, who stood by the counter, humming to herself as she made dinner. She wasn’t paying attention. A perfect opportunity.

Abihail sneaked away, stepping softly. She paused by the stairs for just a second, listening. Hank was talking on the phone in his study upstairs. He talked a lot on the phone. Penny had explained to Abihail that it was part of Hank’s job.

She slid into the bathroom, leaving the light off, the door half-closed. When she closed the door, they always noticed.

Then she took out the green scouring pad from her pocket. She’d pinched it from the sink in the kitchen when Penny wasn’t looking.

It was perfect.

Penny and Hank didn’t like it when she washed her hands. She’d explained about the germs, and Penny had said that she was right but that twenty seconds with a bit of soap was enough. They didn’t understand. You couldn’t get rid of the really nasty germs like that. Some germs had to be scraped away.

Hank had told her that if they caught her scraping her skin with her fingernails again, she would be punished. But he’d never said anything about scouring pads.

She turned on the faucet and began scrubbing, the rough material peeling away the germs. She poured a large dollop of soap on it and scraped harder, soap running down her wrists, turning pink with blood. It hurt, but it was good pain, cleansing pain. She had to get rid of all the germs.

“Oh no! Abihail, what are you doing!” Penny’s horrified scream made her drop the scouring pad into the—

—sink.

Abby stared down at the sink. At some point she’d stepped out of the kitchen, walked over to the bathroom. It wasn’t the same sink; Penny and Hank had installed a new one since then. But there were still remnants of her childhood in that bathroom. Same mirror on the wall, even after all these years. Same tiles.

How horrified they’d been. She still recalled hearing them as she—

—lay in bed.

“We need to be tough about this,” Hank said, his voice angry. “We can’t let her harm herself. What if she cuts herself next? I’m going to tell her that there’s no TV for a whole week, and if we catch her doing that again—”

“Oh, stop that, Hank,” Penny said sharply. “Punishing Abihail won’t help. You need to be patient. You remember what the psychologist said.”

“That shrink is too soft. My parents were strict with me when I was a child, and I turned out just fine.”

“For heaven’s sake. Are you comparing what that poor child went through to your childhood?”

There was a long moment of silence.

“That damn cult,” Hank finally said. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to fix what they did to her.”

“It’s not about fixing her. It’s about giving her love. You just need to be patient.”

Their voices became softer after that, and Abihail had a hard time following the discussion. She was tired and was slowly drifting away, wondering what that word was that Hank had mentioned, the cult, and if the fire and the explosion from that night was the cult’s fault.

Abby massaged her forehead, walking back to the living room. She glanced up the stairs hopefully, but Leonor and Brian were still shut in her old bedroom.

“Abihail?” Hank’s voice came from the doorway.

She didn’t take the blanket off her face. She didn’t want to see him. Or Penny. She wanted to go back to her Family.

“I have something for you,” Hank said. She felt the weight of him moving the mattress as he sat on the bed. “To wash your hands with.”

That did the trick. She peeked from under the blanket. “What is it?”

He held a large bottle that contained gooey pink liquid. “It’s special medical soap. Antimicrobial. You know what that means?”

She shook her head.

“It kills germs extra fast. Much better than regular soap. And you need to use it with these.” He took out a large packet of what looked like white circles. “They’re made of cotton. See? You dab a bit on them, and then you start scrubbing. You don’t need to scrub hard, but . . .” He exhaled. “You can scrub as long as you want. Until your hands are clean.”

“Even a whole hour?”

He sighed. “I don’t think you need a whole hour. But you can wash them as long as you want. But no fingernails, okay? And only use these special pads.” He placed the bottle and the pads on her bed. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said meekly, and then, after a slight hesitation, she hugged him, her eyes squeezed shut.

The sound of a door opening upstairs shook Abby from her reverie. She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as Brian and Leonor descended the stairs.