Chapter 1 #2
Then, with his purring muffled by covers, I heard it. An out-of-place noise, a thud like that time Mr. T pushed the pot roast onto the floor. It was followed by a squeal, quickly cut off.
I grew still, listening.
Was it…yes. There were voices. They sounded far away, but it was probably because of the doors and walls, and because I was upstairs. They sounded like grown-ups. Men.
“Mreowww.”
Mr. T poked his head from beneath the covers and pawed at me.
“Shh!”
As quietly as I could, I climbed from the bed and padded softly to the door connecting my bedroom to Delia’s. With a turn of the knob, I pushed it a few inches open and peered in. My eyes widened as I saw the empty double bed.
Delia and Dani weren’t there.
“Mreoww.”
“Mr. T! Shush!” I hissed the words and the cat paused in the act of winding around my ankles. Then, unconcerned, he continued. My nightgown fluttered around him as he finished his figure eight and darted off, escaping through the hallway door.
I followed slowly, the sounds from downstairs growing clearer with each step.
Holding my breath, I peeked around the corner of the door jamb.
It was so dark, only the tiniest bit of light from downstairs making its way to the landing where our bedrooms opened off.
Mine was the very last one; Mom and Dad’s the first. I walked to it now, looking inside quickly to see if they were there.
The room was empty.
Trembling and unsure why, I took the final few steps to the top of the staircase, where I sank to my knees and peered through the painted wood spindles.
There was a spot on the landing where Delia and I had discovered we could sit back around a foot and the adults downstairs couldn’t see us spying on them past our bedtime, as long as we stayed super quiet.
I usually ruined it by giggling, though, or talking too loud.
I didn’t think I’d be giggling tonight.
On the white carpeted floor beneath me, Mom and Dad knelt beside one another. Dad’s hands were behind his head, and his eyes glared out of a face purpling with bruises and blood. A piece of silver duct tape covered his mouth.
With tears streaking her face, Mom clutched at Delia, pressing her face into her nightshirt. Beside Delia, Dani sat with her arms crossed over her chest, looking fierce and resentful. A strip of tape covered her mouth, as well, and I realized that she must have made too much noise.
Dani always was a big mouth.
What to do…what to do…THINK!
There were no phones upstairs, and the only way down was by the steps, passing by whoever was doing this to my family. Unless…maybe one of my parents had left a cellphone in their bedroom?
I started to stand.
“You can’t do this—” Mom began to speak, halting me.
“Shut the bitch up.” An arm waved, catching my attention.
I barely noticed when someone moved into my frame of vision and slapped a piece of tape on Mom’s mouth.
My eyes were full of the tattoo on the speaker’s arm: a ruby-red rosary winding around a muscular forearm like drops of blood.
It was much fancier than the simple wooden rosary the priest used that one time Delia and I went to church with Dani.
Then the man was talking again, his voice making me think of sandpaper.
Biting my lips, I turned and ran on icy feet to my parents’ bedroom, not waiting to hear what he had to say. I had to call the police, had to get help. These were bad men. Even if all they did was put tape on my family’s mouths and scare them—they were bad.
Good men didn’t do things like this.
My parents kept the chargers on their nightstands. Dad’s was empty; he must have his phone with him. Deflated, I turned to the other side of the bed and a shock of hope ran through me. Mom’s was there!
My hands shook as I detached the phone from the charger and dialed the emergency number. As a lady answered, I began to speak, then realized the men downstairs would be able to hear me.
“Wait…” I whispered.
I went to the walk-closet and shut myself inside, feeling my way carefully through the piles of shoe boxes and sweaters that had fallen on the floor until I’d reached the very back before sinking down and making myself as small as possible.
“Someone’s in my house,” I whispered once I settled. “They’re bad men and they have my mom and dad and sister downstairs, and I think they’re going to hurt them.”
A sound reached my ears as I spoke, a muffled popping sound, a little like popcorn.
“Are you safe?”
“I’m hiding in a closet but my mom—”
“Okay. Can they hear you, sweetheart?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Perfect. The police are on their way, so I want you to stay right where you are, and to be really quiet, like a mouse. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
“Mmhmm.”
“That’s good. I’m going to keep talking to you, so you know you’re not alone, but you don’t need to say anything unless it’s an emergency. My name’s Lenore, and—“
Lenore continued to speak, but the only thing I heard was the earlier popping sound, over and over. Pop pop…pop…pop. And then again. Pop pop…pop pop.
Like popcorn.
Like death.
I wake drenched in sweat, the hoodie twisted around my neck and my jeans climbing up my crotch. I roll off the bed and land on the floor in a gasping, shaking heap, tearing at the sweatshirt until I yank it off.
Ever since the night I’d ended up spending forty-two minutes in a pitch-black closet, only to emerge and find my family had been slain while I’d been hiding, I’ve had issues with claustrophobia. And darkness. The smallest, most random thing set it off.
The clock on the microwave over the stove reads two o’seven. I’ve been asleep since nearly eight this morning—almost a full night’s sleep. Good enough for me, anyway.
I’m still exhausted, though, my eyes burning and gritty with broken sleep. I press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and flop back on the floor where I fell, remnants of the dream that has haunted me for the past fifteen years resonating hollowly in my tiny apartment.
The fan I use regardless of the season circles sluggishly above, drawing my eye. I like the sound it makes, especially when I’m having trouble falling asleep.
That wasn’t a problem this morning, but it’s surprisingly difficult at other times, given how depleted working the night shift leaves me.
Thwap.
Thwap.
Thwap.
On the fourth revolution my brain engages.
The way I see it, I have two choices.
I can stay and allow the past to continue to haunt every corner I turn. I can keep looking for a rosary tattoo when I know damn well where it is.
Or at least where it was last seen.
Or I can pack my bags, give Cap my resignation, and point my battered old Explorer toward New Orleans, Louisiana. And finally…finally get my chance at revenge, even if it costs me everything.
The one thing I will absolutely not do is tell Cal, my foster dad, what I’m doing, though. His over-protective ass will pitch a fit.
My father’s former security advisor, Cal has been my guardian angel since my family was killed—well, as soon as he was able to get custody, anyway. This would not sit well with him.
Especially since it’s pretty obvious someone sent me that photo with the goal to get me down there…to Noir. I’m not a complete idiot.
Stay, or go.
Standing, I rest my hands on my hips and cast a glance around the four walls I’ve called home for the past nine years. It has its fair share of problems, but with Chicago’s housing market the way it is, I’m lucky to have a place that’s relatively safe, clean, and functional.
All one room save for the bathroom and two small closets, the apartment holds no mysteries. Secrets are scattered casualties to sacrificed privacy—the electric bill on the coffee table. The diary I scribble in when the mood hits me. The electric blue vibrator beside the bed.
Clothes are draped over every available surface, holding court with potted plants I struggle to keep alive. I touch the sharp leaf of a drooping spider plant, the corner of my lips lifting in wry admission of my own incompetence.
I’m better with people, and that’s not saying much.
Stay, or go.
My hands sweat, and I rub them on my pants, turning to look out the window at the gray city street beneath me.
It’s never still. Never quiet. There are always people walking, pausing at the intersection to send a swift glance up, then down, before jogging across. There’s always a horn tooting, always someone walking a dog who stops to take a shit on the postage-stamp patch of grass outside my building.
Chicago is the only home I’ve ever known, because I don’t remember Louisiana. I think my mind blocked it out.
Home has always been missing something, though. I don’t know what it is, precisely, other than it’s sparked by the memory of a rosary tattoo and the echo of a pop pop pop.
I look for it out my window in the streets that are never still.
I hunt for it under clothes and books and random receipts that litter every spare surface of my living space.
I chase it on every call, on the treadmill, in my sleep.
Stay, or go.
My movements slow but deliberate, I turn from the window and dig in the closet until I find the oversized duffle bag I’ve had since I left foster care. Setting it on the bed, I pick up the first item at hand and toss it in—my vibrator. Then I pack in earnest.
Go.