Chapter 11 Amelia
ELEVEN
AMELIA
The woman took the steps in a hurry, bouncing up them like a bright-eyed school child. Amelia gripped the rail and refused to match the rhythm. In the middle of the staircase, she stood at a crossroads with the devil she knew down below and the one she hadn’t met up above.
“I’m Mirabelle,” the woman said and loitered on the top step. “Sorry you were with the boys for so long. If I’d known, I would’ve gotten you sooner.”
In a polite gesture, she extended a palm, but Amelia refused that too and let the sleeves of Brian’s sweater swallow her hands.
“I’m Am—”
“Amelia. I know. He told me.”
Mirabelle’s red lips curled in a sly smile as she pushed through the door at the top of the stairs. It deposited them at the end of a long hall adorned with framed photographs and exposed wood beams up above.
Amelia trailed after Mirabelle and eyed the images they passed—black and white pictures of uniformed men, women with victory-rolled hair, leather-bound youths. This is someone’s home, she realized.
Mirabelle cut through a parlor tastefully appointed with woven rugs, furniture carved from dark wood, and a rounded stucco fireplace.
Pocket doors opened to a foyer equal in its warmth and splendor.
Its eggshell walls offset vibrant Spanish tiles lining the risers of a staircase that spiraled to a second and then third floor.
Up above, a stained-glass ceiling gleamed in jewel tones. It depicted wildflowers, vines, and vaguely humanoid figures rising toward a central sunburst as if ascending to the heavens.
Through the foyer’s arched windows, the sun expired in pink and gold. The same time yesterday, Amelia had stood in her father’s office. The hell he must be going through.
Mirabelle marched up the stairs to the second floor and down another hall. Her swaying hips kept beat to the tune she hummed. Amelia didn’t know what to make of her or how she fit into Emory’s strange underworld.
Somewhere the filter between mind and mouth dissolved, so she asked, “Are you his wife?”
Mirabelle stopped at a door halfway down the hall. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. I guess how you talked to him.”
“Smart girl. Not everyone gets to mouth off to Emory. You’d do well to remember that.”
Twice, Amelia had heard that; first from Liam and then Mirabelle, who didn’t follow the advice either. Then again, it wasn’t really advice, but a directive, maybe even a threat. They dipped into a bedroom, immaculately clean and filled with the scent of fresh-cut roses.
“Mother, sister, wife,” Mirabelle said and disappeared inside a walk-in closet.
“That’s who gets to mouth off. It’s a privilege not even Jack, his deputy, is afforded.
” She returned with an armful of clothes that she heaved to the bed.
“Obviously, I’m not his mother, and I’m sure as shit not his wife. ”
“Sister,” Amelia said, though it went without saying. The resemblance to Emory was obvious—jet-black hair, bronze skin, striking amber eyes.
“You got it.” Mirabelle plucked a few items from a dresser drawer and tossed them to the bed. “We’re about the same size. Everything should fit.” She gestured to an attached bathroom. “Get cleaned up. I set some things out on the counter for you, but use whatever you want, and take your time.”
With sweet smiles and soft touches, Mirabelle exuded warm hospitality. Perhaps she expected it to mask the bitterness of Amelia’s situation. Heap on the sugar so the horror goes down. Her overtures, however sincere, rang hollow.
“Do you live here?” Amelia asked.
Charming as the room was, it didn’t look lived in. With a few empty suitcases stacked in the corner, it had the liminal transience of a hotel room. It was a simple question, but apprehension occluded Mirabelle’s bubbly confidence.
“For now. It’s complicated. We probably won’t be here for very long.”
We. The word unnerved with how it forced Amelia into a collective she wanted no part of. Before she could pry any further, Mirabelle fluttered from the room, and her heels clicked down the hall in a rhythm that no longer pranced but prodded.
Amelia retreated to the bathroom and locked the door.
The space was blindingly white and pristine, probably hard to clean.
Her mom would’ve hated it because white exposed everything.
Not there, though. It smelled like bleach and the decorative soaps her Grandma Havick displayed during the holidays, the ones no one was allowed to use.
Mirabelle’s toiletries lined the counter in neat rows from tallest to shortest. She’d even arranged her make-up brushes like a flower bouquet in a faceted glass holder.
Her perfume bottles—not one or two, but three—sparkled in the glittering light.
Everything was as pretty as a picture and almost as perfect too.
Funny how things changed. As a teenager, Amelia bemoaned her tiny bathroom with its abysmal lighting and terrible water pressure. Back then, she’d thought it was a travesty. She would gladly take that shitty little bathroom over Mirabelle’s spotless one.
She flipped on the shower and peeled off Brian’s sweater and her purse beneath. In front of a dressing mirror, her wrecked reflection was almost foreign. No one ever expected to see themselves that way.
A red mark cut across her throat, and there was another on her cheek. Dirt caked the lesions on her wrists, and dried blood flaked from the gashes on her arms and legs.
When steam rolled from the shower, Amelia stepped inside and winced as water rushed over the cuts and scrapes. At least they’d heal with time. The ache in her chest might never. It grew heavier as she watched the water turn pink with blood that circled the drain.
I’m alone.
No, it was worse than that. Alone meant left with strangers or forgotten in an empty room. That was the least of it. She was lost. Her phone was at home, and her hand-me-down purse had stuck with her all the way. No one would find it in the motel room or with a busted strap on the side of the road.
To the outside world, Amelia Havick perished in the blaze. They’d print her name in the newspaper and call her death a tragic loss.
She should’ve read the tea leaves that warned her. If she’d ditched the party, her mom would have too. Because of her, her mother was likely dead.
And Brian. He’d be alive if they’d kept driving. Instead, he’d died in a weed-infested parking lot. His parents would bury him six feet deep and never recover. Their friends would remember him for his book-smarts but never his bravery that saved her life.
It should’ve made her sad. Somewhere it did, somewhere far off, like a silhouette on the distant horizon. But a haunting chill prevailed, and Amelia relished how it numbed.
Head against the tiled wall, she stood beneath the shower until the water lost its warmth. Only then did she wash her hair and soap her skin.
Out of the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel, combed the knots out of her hair, and brushed her teeth.
In the bedroom, cool air invited goosebumps as she evaluated the clothes on the bed.
They were mostly dresses that would cling to her figure or show off her legs.
She wanted to hide in Brian’s sweater and go unseen.
Amelia ran her fingers over a white, summery sundress, something her mom would have picked out for her. She closed her eyes and conjured her mom’s voice and the honeyed scent of her favorite perfume.
Remember, remember. Memories would fade, surrendered to time. One day, she’d forget. Gone. Poof.
Amelia opened her eyes and scanned Mirabelle’s room. The harlequin bedspread and embroidered pillows, so colorful and bright. Fresh-cut flowers in crystal vases, so joyful and pretty.
Her breaths came hard and fast. It wasn’t fair. Glass lamps and beaded shades, the light so supple. Her stomach roiled. She’d be sick. And the exquisite clothes meant for her to wear. They weren’t hers, though. She didn’t ask for it, didn’t want it.
Amelia’s nails dug into her palms. Remember, remember. It was already fading, a dandelion wish in the wind. No, no, no.
Poof. Gone. Goodbye.
With a giant swell of emotion, Amelia came undone.
She swung her arm across the nightstand. The vase of powder pink roses crashed to the floor. The petals scattered, and water seeped along the hardwood’s grain. Her throat burned, and tears stained her cheeks. Amelia swung again. The lamp exploded against the wall.
Dark satisfaction filled her up and begged for more. God, it’d feel so good to destroy these beautiful things, to smash them into a million little pieces.
Before she could swing again, Mirabelle bounded into the room. Her baffled gaze darted to Amelia, who stood breathless on the other side of the bed. With guilt written on her face, Mirabelle reached out a hand and guided Amelia to sit on the bed next to her.
“My brother will be back later and wants to talk to you,” she said and ran her fingers through Amelia’s damp hair. “I could do your makeup. I’m decent at it. I do it for my girlfriends all the time. I know I always feel better when I feel pretty.”
With a roll of her shoulder, Amelia unburdened herself from Mirabelle’s touch.
“I don’t want to be pretty for him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m pretty.”
“No, that’s not…” Mirabelle frowned at her hands wrung in her lap and shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought it’d make you feel better. I’m only trying to—”
“Whatever you’re trying to do for me, don’t. I just want to go home.”
Home. It slipped through Amelia’s lips thin and quiet.
“Please just tell Emory I want to go home. I need to find my mom. He listens to you. Please.”
Mirabelle eyed the open door and chewed her bottom lip.
“I can’t. I may be his sister, but I don’t make decisions. I know none of this makes sense, and I’m sure Emory will explain, but things will get better.”
“You don’t know that!” Amelia cried and flew to her feet.
In her perfect bedroom with glossy hair and beautiful things, Mirabelle’s life was neatly put together.
The fucking gall to say things would get better.
“You don’t know anything about me. My dad is looking for me, and when he finds me, Emory will pay for what he’s done.
He kidnapped me and had my friend killed.
What kind of person are you that you can stand by while he does terrible things? ”
Amelia stood tall, but the pride in taking a stand dissipated as Mirabelle slinked toward her, eyes ablaze with her own rage.
“You’re what, twenty-two, twenty-three? I hear you’ve lived a real nice life, and I bet you think your father will swoop in and fix this.
Well, I got news for you, baby. Your daddy can’t stop what’s coming, and just because Emory saved your life doesn’t mean he won’t put you in the ground without a second thought. ”
Amelia clutched the towel knotted at her chest and shuffled backwards.
“Careful.” Mirabelle pointed to the shards of glass a few inches from her bare feet. “You think Emory’s a monster,” she said, her anger doused temporarily. “I heard you say it. He’s right, though. You don’t know what a monster truly is. Our other brother. He’s the real monster.”
“Is he what’s coming?”
Mirabelle contemplated the twin gashes on Amelia’s cheek and throat but skirted the question.
“I just meant that things have gotten dark. More violence, more death. Emory’s trying to figure out why so he can stop it. If he were truly a monster, do you think he’d bother?”
Though rhetorical, Amelia still declined an answer and asked another question of her own.
“Where’s your other brother?”
Fear splintered Mirabelle’s facade of strength.
She drew a long breath and whispered, “I don’t want to talk about him.
I shouldn’t have brought it up.” She snatched a black, long-sleeved dress from the bed and chucked it at Amelia.
“Get some rest before Em gets back. You two have a lot to talk about.”
Amelia shook her head. She had nothing to say to Emory, not unless he knew where her mom was or would let her go home.
“I don’t want to talk to him.”
“You have to.”
Mirabelle scooped up the other dresses from the bed and leveled a look at Amelia that entreated her to comply.
“I won’t tell him anything.”
She only meant to test the waters, but Mirabelle dumped the clothes in the closet and laughed at her expense, that she’d be so foolishly brazen.
“That would be a mistake.”
“He can’t make me.”
“He can and he will.”
“I’ll only tell him if he lets me go home.”
That was a lie, of course. She wasn’t telling him anything, but Mirabelle ignored her and started for the door. The finality fire-started something in Amelia. That woman didn’t call the shots. What could she possibly do? Amelia tried anyhow, frenzied in her desperation.
“My mom, my dad, they need me. Please. I have to go home. I have to.”
Somber tranquility washed over Mirabelle. Only bad news was delivered that way. It wasn’t news to Amelia, though, just the brutal truth that Mirabelle breathed to life.
“You can’t. There’s nowhere for you to go back to, nowhere that’s safe. Only here.”
Amelia unraveled with a gasping cry. Don’t let them see you this way, her dignity warned, but grief battered the walls she’d built. They came tumbling down and so too did Amelia as she fell to her knees. Mirabelle followed her to the floor and pointed to the suitcases in the corner.
“I have a life too, a place where I belong outside of this.” She gestured to the bedroom that apparently wasn’t her own. “So do Emory and Jack. We’re only here because something is happening that we don’t understand, something that will tear us apart if we let it. We can’t let it.”
Cross-legged, Mirabelle sat like a mirror in front of Amelia with enormous sorrow in her eyes. Whatever her past was, she bared a bit of it on the floor, a peek behind her mask of painted smiles.
“It scares me,” she admitted and nervously glanced at the door. “The men—Emory, Jack, Liam—they’ll never admit it, but it scares them too.”
Amelia nodded sympathetically, and her heavy heart slowed its beat. The shadow lifted from Mirabelle, the light in her eyes no longer dim.
“I need to finish dinner before they’re back. Rest. I’ll bring you food in a bit.”
Mirabelle pushed from the floor with a sudden call to duty. What exactly was her duty? Make their meals, tend to menial tasks? Amelia didn’t ask about that or what the mothers, sisters, and wives did, or if mouthing off was their only “treat.”
On her way out, Mirabelle stopped at the door. “Amelia, you’re not as alone as you think.”