Prologue #3
“I love him,” a woman shouts. Her voice is scratchy, as if she’s been crying, but she doesn’t seem sad. When I’m sad, my voice is small, quiet. Hers is loud and earth-shattering. I don’t recognize the voice, and I can’t see who it belongs to. She must be standing on the porch.
Hidden.
Who is it?
I want to move. To see.
But a whisper inside my head warns me to stay where I am—out of the way.
“You should have known better,” the lady says. This time her words are meaner. They’re more deafening, as if someone turned the volume up. Her words crack through the air with the sting of a whip.
Daddy would never hurt anyone.
“I never wanted this to happen, but you left me no choice. You ruined everything.”
That’s the last thing she says before I hear the click-clacking of her shoes and the door slams behind her, shaking the frames on the wall behind me so hard one falls and breaks.
Move, Lucia. Move your feet. Daddy’s dying.
With unsteady hands, I push up until my belly lifts off the floor and I’m on my knees. My fingers fold around the wooden railings and I grip it tight as I pull myself to my feet.
Then I start to move.
I walk the short hallway to the stairs. When I stop and look down at them, my head spins. There seem to be a hundred steps, even though I know there’s not.
When I finally touch the first one, it’s cold against my skin.
Every time I lift my wobbly foot up and drop it to the next step, a bunch of tiny shakes race up my legs and make my teeth chatter.
I think I might fall, but I keep going. One step at a time.
The wood creaks under my feet, just like it does when I’m sneaking downstairs to eat ice cream in the middle of the night, hoping no one catches me.
I’m almost at the bottom.
Just one more to go.
I stand still for a moment, just looking at it. My toes curl over the edge, my knees shake with the kind of fear you’d feel jumping off a tall building. I close my eyes and then I move.
My foot hits the floor, and my eyes pop open, lips quivering.
I made it.
But my chest is tight beyond belief. Imaginative hands wrap around it, squeezing the bravery from me and replacing it with dread.
I move at a snail’s pace, the same way I do when I’m trying to sneak up on Daddy to scare him, but I know it’s not a game.
I just see red.
A big, glowing puddle of red all around him.
The blood makes my eyes go funny, and I remember my day out with Daddy last week. He took me to watch that movie, and we had to wear those weird looking glasses.
I remember him saying, “The glasses make the experience so much better, Lucy Lu.”
I stare at the bloodstains on Daddy’s yellow shirt. I’ve always considered yellow to be a happy color, but this version doesn’t make me feel joy.
The fresh lemon scent that usually wafts around the house has been replaced by loose copper coins, reminding me of hot summer days with change clinking in my pockets as I race ahead for the game stands at the town fair.
I sink onto the floor, careful not to put my knee in the blood. A book at school told me adults have eight pints of blood, and I wonder if Daddy’s is all on the floor as I stretch out my shaking hand to reach for his ankle.
It’s the only thing I think I can get to without getting messy. Mom always hates it when I get dirty. There’s nothing Clarrisa Rose Alvarez hates more than ruined clothes.
Tears sting my eyes as I look at his still face.
If I had stayed on that wall…would Daddy still be okay?
When I shake his ankle, he doesn’t make a sound.
Does touching someone’s ankle tell you if they’re still alive?
“Please, Daddy. Please wake up, I’m really scared,” I sob, but he continues to lie still and ignores me as I shake him.
“Tell me what to do. Tell me how to fix it,” I beg, but he doesn’t answer.
“I don’t want to play sleeping lions anymore.
You win Daddy, now please wake up. I need you.
” He doesn’t open his deep brown eyes, the same color as mine.
This is your fault, Lucia.
“H-Help,” I croak, though I know no one’s coming.
You did this.
Mom told you not to say anything. She warned you, and now Daddy’s dead.
I crawl on my hands and knees to the table near the front door. I don’t think my legs will be able to hold me up long enough to walk.
Reaching, I swipe the landline from the receiver and stare at the large buttons. They’re blurry, and I can’t make out a single one. I move my shaking thumb over one of the numbers, but before I can press it, the door handle twists.
Oh my God, is she back?
I drop the phone and crawl away from the door. My hand dips into a wet patch as I scuttle across the floor. Glancing over at it, I scream, seeing it coated in dark red.
The door opens.
The only thing I can think to do is shut my eyes.
Don’t hurt me, lady. Please.
The footsteps that move closer to me don’t sound as if they belong to a woman. There’s no click-clacking from before. These steps seem heavy and move quickly.
I know the moment they’re in front of me, even with my eyes shut, because someone’s hot breath fans across my face. I turn my cheek as soon as it hits me. It’s an unusually strong smell that I know I don’t like, hints of cinnamon and wood present.
A cold pinch presses against my neck before a stinging sensation branches out across my skin. I gasp. My eyes snap open, and then I’m staring into the dark eyes of a man, piercing and watchful.
I want to say, “Ow, that hurt,” but I can’t get my lips to form the words. They’re tingly and numb. A sudden heaviness washes over me.
His hand lands on my cheek as the needle leaves my skin.
My surroundings blur, but I do notice that I’m being lifted in the air.
For a second, I’m floating. We move and exit through the front door.
I know because my eyes squint against the harsh sunlight, and then I’m lowered onto a cushiony surface.
My head lolls back against something firm, but it’s not as snug as my bed. The air is stuffy and brand new at the same time—better than that mix of nature and spices.
Am I in a car?
I stretch out my hand. It aches with pins and needles, heavy and throbbing, but lands on something smooth.
I force my eyes open, blinking to clear my vision, but the images won’t stay still. I catch pieces of skin. Black squiggly lines twist around the man’s arm. Some lines are long. Some short. Each one curls at the end. The shapes I make when Daddy lets me hold the sparklers.
I start to count each swirl.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
I can’t see the whole picture, but I push on, counting the black blur of swirls on his arm, even though my body is seconds away from crashing.
Five.
Six.
A quick whoosh flows across my body. A seat belt clicks next, locking me in place. Seconds later, the loud roar of an engine fills my ears.
Where is he taking me?
Seven.
“Sleep now, little Lucia. It’s going to be alright.”
Eight.
The car door shuts at the same time my eyes do.