All the Little Lights(120)

I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, my trembling hand covering my mouth. The blood told a violent story, and whoever had left it behind didn’t have much more to spare.

“Becca?” I called, my voice small. I cleared my throat. “Becca?”

Slick crimson made my hand slip over the knob as I tried to turn it, finally getting some traction long enough to get the door open. “Becca?” The light flickered when I flipped the light switch, the fluorescent rectangle above igniting one tube at a time. My stomach sank. Blood on the floor had been marked in and then used to write scribbles on the wall. Tears fell down my cheeks. “B-becca?”

I backed out of the garage door and the kitchen, then fumbled through the dark to the hallway, unable to recall where to find the next light switch. I reached around a doorway and swept my hand against the wall, finally lighting the way. I looked to the left. My bedroom door was open. To the right, one side was smeared with crimson, leading from Mrs. Mason’s bedroom.

My entire body shook, every hair standing on end as I forced myself to take a step toward Mrs. Mason’s end of the hall. The door was standing wide open, and I called for my guardian into the dark.

“Mrs. Mason?” I asked, my voice refusing to rise above a whisper. I reached for the wall, the light exposing more of the bloody mess.

Mrs. Mason’s purse was on her dresser, and I ran past it, checking the bathroom. “Becca?” I said, my voice shrill. I scrambled for her purse, dumping it out onto the bed. Change, a wallet, and makeup fell out, along with her phone. I swiped it from the bedspread and dialed the first number in her recent calls list.

“Hello?” Mr. Mason answered, sounding confused.

“It’s um . . . it’s me, Mr. Mason. It’s Catherine.”

“Catherine? You okay? What’s going on?”

“I just got home. I’m”—I ran across the room to shut and lock Mrs. Mason’s door—“I’m in the house.”

“Okay. Catherine . . . let me speak to Becca.”

“She’s not here,” I whispered. Even my voice was shaking. “There’s blood. There’s blood everywhere,” I choked out, feeling hot tears stream down my face.

“Blood? Catherine, let me talk to Becca. Right now.”

“She’s not here! She’s not here, and there’s blood trailing from her bedroom to the garage!”

“I’m hanging up, Catherine. I’m going to call the police. You sit tight.”

“No, don’t hang up! I’m afraid!”

“I’ll call the police, and then I’ll call you right back. I’m getting in the car. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

The phone went silent, and I held it against my cheek, keeping my eyes shut tight to block out the gruesome scene in the bedroom.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I counted. I counted to ten, and then twenty, and then a hundred, and then five hundred. At 506, the front door crashed against the Christmas tree, the ornaments and lights dancing with the branches.

“Catherine?” Mr. Mason bellowed, police sirens sounding in the distance.

I scrambled to my feet, sprinting down the hallway and into Mr. Mason’s arms, sobbing.

He hugged me, nearly panting. “Are you okay?” he asked, holding me at bay. “Becca?” he called.

I shook my head, unable to form a single word.

Mr. Mason trudged into the kitchen and saw the mess for himself. He ran into the garage and then the yard, calling for his wife. He came back inside, slipping and then falling to his knees. He looked at the blood on his hands. “What happened?” he cried. “Where is she?”

“I don’t . . . I . . .” I shook my head and then covered my mouth with my hand.

Two police cars parked in front of Mrs. Mason’s house. Their blue and red lights flickered in the front room, drowning out the soft white light of the Christmas tree.

A police officer knelt beside me. “Are you all right, miss?”

I nodded.

A second officer froze in the dining room. “We need to search the house, sir. I need you to step outside.”

Mr. Mason stood, turned on his heel, and made a beeline for the door, grabbing my arm and tugging me along with him. An ambulance pulled into the driveway, and paramedics jumped out. After a short search and seizure in the back, one brought two blankets while the other ran into the house.

“What did you see?” Mr. Mason asked, draping the blanket around my shoulders.

“I . . . nothing. I just got here.”

“From where?”

“Elliott brought me from—”

“Elliott was here?” he asked.

“He dropped me off. He walked me to the door, but he didn’t come in.”

“Where is he now?”

“He left. He was gone before I turned the light on and saw . . . Do you . . . do you think that’s her blood?”

He hugged me, and his words stuck in his throat for a moment. “Christ, I hope not.”

We stood by one of the police cars, huddled and shivering. One by one, the neighbors stepped out to watch the officers and paramedics travel in and out. More police arrived, and then Detective Thompson.

He eyed me as he walked across the front yard to the house, the police cruiser’s lights casting shadows on his face.