Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Noemi
"Shouldn't you be done?"
I whirl, pulse pounding, from where I'm counting the till at the end of a long day at Poor Yorick Books.
Uncle Marc is standing at the bottom of the staircase, frowning.
Today, when he opens the normally locked door leading from the second floor, he seems tired.
His hair is mussed, his shirt rumpled. His suit jacket and tie are nowhere to be seen.
"Yes. Yes. I'm just finishing up here." I gesture to the dated cash register, shivering. The summer heat has begun to fade and the cluttered bookstore gets cold at dusk, having no central heat.
Marc scowls at me. "Hurry up, Noemi." He checks his watch as he rolls up his sleeves. "Just leave the cash. If you're short, I'll cover it."
Hesitating, I look at the stairs. There are footsteps up there.
"Noemi!" Uncle Marc growls. "Quit standing there. Get your fucking coat and get moving. Don't make me come back down here."
I jump and shut the till, blushing. "Yes, Uncle Marc. Should we expect you for dinner?"
"No." He slams the door, locking it, and I can hear him trudge back upstairs.
"How was your day, Noemi? Oh really, how interesting!" I say sarcastically.
Grabbing my coat, I head out the front door, locking it as I go.
While he protects me from the worst of my aunt Kathleen’s anger and disappointment, Marc has always been dismissive of me and my wants.
He and my aunt Kathleen took me in at age fifteen when my parents tragically passed away.
And ever since then, I’ve been walking on eggshells.
My uncle's temper grew distinctly worse a few months ago. I guess his cushy job as city councilman isn't meshing that well with his new friends. Who would've thought that getting in bed with the freaking mafia would turn out badly?
Kathleen has been strange lately, too. She’s solicitous in a way she never was when I was a kid.
She never came near the bookstore when my parents were alive.
She and my mother fought like cats about that place, some old inheritance thing I was never told the details of .
But lately, she stops in just to check on me.
She never did that before and I'd rather she hadn't started.
Out on the sidewalk, I do the thing I've started doing every night this week. I look for my follower.
The blond man haunts the doorway of the vacant building across the street. Last week I decided that the next time I caught him at it, I'd march over and introduce myself. Or at least demand to know his deal. Brave words, from a girl who rehearses voicemails before she leaves them.
Tonight, the doorway sits empty. No broad shoulders, no pale hair catching the streetlight. There’s only a wedge of darkness and a city bus wheezing past.
By rights, I should feel relieved. A strange man has been loitering near my work. For now, he's gone. Instead, some dumb flicker of disappointment lands in my chest. Under the deflation, needles of worry pricks me.
A danger you can see is easier to keep track of than one you can't.
Hurrying around to the back parking lot, I see the front yard of the abandoned house that abuts the bookstore's property.
It's a sad affair; shingles worn and loose, paint peeling, what must have been a quaint picture window in the fifties now boarded up.
Now, there are two young women sitting on the split wicker loveseat on the house's porch.
And they don't seem like they are moving.
Each is slumped haphazardly to the side, mouth open, eyes rolled up. When I move closer to ascertain if they're okay, the blonde moves suddenly, making me jump. But then I realize that her arm, which she was propped up on, just gave way.
Are these two... dead?
Looking around furtively, I move across the weed-clad yard and up to the girls. My eyes study the house; the front door is ajar, but it normally is. I listen for a second for the faint sounds of movement.
I already have a panic disorder. The last thing I need is someone jumping out at me from behind that door. It'll probably send me to the hospital.
Again.
Won't Uncle Marc love that?
When I'm as sure as I can be that these girls are alone, as if dropped here by a freaking spaceship, I lean in to feel one of the girls' wrists.
This close, I can see they are young, no more than fifteen.
And they're dressed up like they're going out.
Smears of black eye makeup, tiny tube dresses, fairly exotic gold heels.
The girl has a pulse. Which, thank god. If I'd discovered bodies, I'd probably perish right here and now.
I shake one of the girls' shoulders. "Hey. Are you okay?"
Her head lolls back, her eyes wide open. Her pupils are the size of dinner plates. She seems... conscious? Like she can understand me? But she doesn't move a muscle, not even to blink.
"Okay. I'm going to call 911," I tell the girl. Letting her hand go is the most eerie thing. It drops, but she still doesn't move. Just keeps staring at me like I'm the only thing she can watch.
Weird. I reach in my pocket to grab my cell phone, but find only my wallet and my keys. Damn. I turn and look back at the store.
In my hurry to leave, I left my phone in the store. I do some quick math. I'll have to leave the girls here to retrieve it.
But I can be in and out in less than a minute. I feel bad leaving them in this state. Because both of them are similarly incapacitated, it seems like it's drugs, maybe? But girl code means you don't leave a fellow girl like this.
But what else can I do?
As I'm trying to game it out, a sound comes from inside the house. I spring backward, clutching my chest. A clean-cut college guy steps out onto the porch, narrowing his eyes.
"Get away from them," he growls.
I raise my hands, taking a step back. "Are they... your friends? Something is wrong with them."
He spits onto the porch floor. "I said scram."
And I get it. If I were anyone else, I'd look at me—five feet even and wearing a baggy beige dress—and I would naturally take control. I'm timid, keep my voice down, never make a fuss.
And this guy thinks I'm going to rain on his parade. You know what? He's right.
I keep backing away. "I didn't see anything. I'm going to go."
"Mhm." He walks over to the girls, smacking one in the face as if to wake her up. He never takes his eyes off me, though.
Yeah, I'm so calling the cops on this dude.
I get far enough away to turn and run back around the building, my heart pounding. Yanking my keys from my pocket, I realize that I'm trembling violently when I can't even get the key in the lock on the first try.
Willing myself to pick up the pace, I get in, glancing cautiously up at the stairs. I try to tread as quietly as possible as I move to the cash register. My phone is behind the little desk, still plugged in. I bend down and start dialing 911 as I head back to the front.
That's when two heavy sets of footsteps thunder down the steps. There is only time to duck behind a row of books before the door bursts open and quickly slams again.
"We can talk down here. Shop's closed," Uncle Marc says. I detect a slight tremor in his voice, but I can't see who he's talking to.
It doesn't matter, because as soon as a voice answers, "You sure?" I break into a cold sweat. The voice belongs to Andreas Vitelli.
"Yeah, yeah. Noemi’s the only one on staff and I sent her home early."
"I hear you want to talk about the girls," Andreas says.
"Yeah. Yeah. The girls." My uncle hesitates. I glance down at the phone in my hand, then shove it in my pocket. "More specifically whatever you're giving them that's turning them into... like, dolls? They're awake and shit, but they can't move or talk. It's freaking people out."
Oh. Oh no. Those dead-eyed girls on the porch? Sounds like whatever drug my uncle is talking about.
Andreas growls. "People? Or just you?"
There's a beat before my uncle answers. "Girls, young girls, are turning up in the hospitals and in the morgues on the regular. My colleagues on the council are beside themselves."
"And?" He sounds bored.
I poke my head around the corner so I can see better. Marc paces. "So, if this is you guys, your drugs, I can't... If my name is somehow associated with this drug—"
"We call it Gloss," Andreas says, laughing. "It's good shit as long as you don't dose a girl with too much."
"So it is your shit." Marc seems, for once, at a loss for words. It takes him half a minute before he’s talking again. "If it gets around that I have anything to do with this, I'm through. Not only will my mayoral plans vanish, but there's a high likelihood that I'll end up in jail, Andreas."
The older man lights up a cigar, letting my uncle choke on the silence. Finally, he tosses a match to the floor and says, "You called a meeting with me just to tell me this shit?"
"Well." Marc wrings his hands. "I couldn't exactly text you."
Andreas blows smoke right in Marc's face. "Well, since you brought this to me." He smiles and coughs. "I know you want something. What is it?"
"I—" he blinks. "What, you mean money?"
"Yeah, dummy. I mean fucking money. What would make you more comfortable? $15k? $20k? My time is very valuable, Marky."
My uncle has an almost mournful look on his face. "It's a line I can't cross. If the press gets hold of this at any point in the future—"
Andreas shrugs. "We need to talk about the girl.”
“What girl?”
“Don’t play dumb." Andreas's voice freezes me in place. "Your niece."
Every muscle in my body locks up behind the shelf. Me?
"What about her?" Something shifts in Marc's tone. Careful now, where a second ago he was only scared. "Noemi doesn't know anything. She runs the register, she reads her books, she keeps her head down. She's nobody. Leave her out of it."
"Relax." A wet chuckle. "She won't be your problem much longer. That part's already handled."
Handled? There’s a pause. I hear my uncle swallow from clear across the room.
"Handled how?" he asks. "Andreas. What does that mean, handled?"
"It means it's above your pay grade." The humor drains out of Andreas's voice like a coin down a grate. "You drag me down here to lecture me about my own product, you turn down my money, and now you want the details of arrangements that don't concern you. Remind me what you're good for?"
I clamp a hand over my own mouth. Beads of sweat break out over my brow. Whatever handled means, my uncle either can't stop it or doesn't know how.
“Now look here, Andreas. You can’t bring Noemi into this. That wasn’t our agreement.”
There is a moment where Andreas seems to be sizing my uncle up. A corner of his mouth kicks up. “Idiot.”
BANG BANG! Two gunshots ring out, muffled by the books and low ceiling. I squeak and cover my mouth, watching my uncle fall down, bleeding from a bullet placed right in the middle of his forehead.
Shit! Marc’s head turns slightly and I see red gore escaping, blood already pooling. He’s dead.
I gulp. My hands are already moving, the phone already up, my thumb already tapping.
The camera clicks. Once, twice. Two photos, one of my uncle, one of the man who just shot him.
I don't know yet whether I've just signed my own death warrant or saved my own life.
Maybe both. Either way, I'm the only person alive who knows they exist.
The little upload icon spins in the corner of the screen, sending both snapshots into the cloud. And then a gentle chime sounds.
The chime is the loudest sound in the world.
Andreas Vitelli whips around and growls when he sees me. "Fucking bitch."
As soon as he moves toward me, I turn and flee out the front door. Andreas fires once, misses, fires again, and it shatters the plate-glass front door.
I'm going to die.
Somehow, despite my growing panic, I manage to flee down the street, ducking into a convenience store. Lotto signs and beer brands in the window, a bulletproof case by the cash register. I run to the window, startling the older man organizing stacks of cigarette packs.
"Please! Help!" My voice comes out in a rasp. "911! They—"
The guy is already dialing as he gives me a skeptical glare. "You wait outside."
"I can't. They're—" I look behind me. "They'll be here soon. Please, can I—"
The door chimes. I look back, swallowing, as two dark-suited young men with slicked back hair enter.
One quickly grabs me by the arms. The other looks at the man calling the police and fires his weapon straight at him.
The plexiglass stops the bullet but crumples slightly, losing its clarity.
The man behind the counter may still be calling 911, but that thought is lost to me as the guy holding me gives me a shake.
"Dose her," he tells the other guy.
My heart pounds and I struggle in his grasp. "No! I won't tell—"
The guy grabs my head and pulls me close, then sticks me with a syringe. Then he shoves me back a few steps. I slap my hand over the stinging spot, my mouth opening and closing. "What are you doing? Are you crazy?"
The two guys exchange glances. "I hate how long it takes to kick in."
"I know. We should ask them to fix it to work faster."
I pull my phone from my pocket. "I'm call... ing... the... po... lice..."
By the end of my sentence, I feel like I'm stuck in quicksand. One guy leans in, bored. "Shut the fuck up. You're not doing shit. In a few minutes, you'll only be able to freak out and drool everywhere."
"Which can be helpful, depending on what you're doing," the other quips, like it's normal to be abducting and drugging girls in the middle of the day.
He's got jokes.
I feel myself start to crumple, my body no longer holding itself up. My mind flashes to the girls I saw on the porch.
Those wide, fearful eyes.
Oh god.
"Careful," one guy says to the other, catching me just before I fall on my face. "I think she's going to the auction. We could clean her up, right?"
"No!" I scream. But I don't actually; my mouth opens an inch. No sound comes out, just a stream of spittle. I have the odd sensation of my heartbeat slowing as the drugs rush through my bloodstream.
It's euphoric, in that it's distracting me from the very real danger in front of me.
"Maybe auction." One of them hefts my weight and starts to drag me toward the door. "If not, we can have a little fun before we move her to the Dollhouse."
Heat and the intense desire to vomit roll through me. Their hands grab me and one laughs, but I can't seem to swivel my eyes to look at him. "Oh yeah. She's definitely a doll now. Isn't that right, Sleeping Beauty?"
The other guy grunts a laugh. What in the hell are they talking about? My mind spins. These guys are insane.
And right now? They're walking out the front door, carrying me, not a care in the world.
Now I'm definitely going to die.