Page 4 of The Last Lost Girl

“You called them?” I hiss, stepping toward her.

Ripley catches my arm and says, “Whoa.”

“Someone had to do something!” she replies as if she’s genuinely concerned. I don’t miss the devilish smile her withered lips suppress, but the officers do. They don’t know this witch crawled out of the darkest corner of hell.

She’s been looking for a reason to have us evicted for two years because her forty-three-year-old deadbeat son still lives with her – laying around, eating her out of house and home, and playing video games on the Wi-Fi her retirement savings pay for. (Her words, not mine.) Not that she’ll stop financing him if she manages to oust us and sends him into timeout at our place. She’ll just finance his lazy ass from across the hall, happy he’s out of her foam-curler laden hair.

Until now, she hasn’t been able to come up with a single reason for our kindhearted landlord to boot us onto the street.

Fear prickles the back of my neck, and I swear the hag scents it when she smiles deviously. Then she adds, “Ava, be a dear and come see me when you straighten this out. I picked up your purse and all that spilled out of it,” before drawing the door shut.

“If you steal a single dollar, I will gut you!” I shout, knowing she can hear me.

The older cop – Murphy – clears his throat. Loudly.

“Sorry,” I grumble.

“I have a neighbor like that,” Ripley whispers empathetically before Murphy suggests we go to the station with them. He looks at Belle the way everyone does when she’s Overshadowed. Like she’s a problem that isn’t his to solve – though someone needs to.

He’s afraid of her.

“We’re not going anywhere.” Belle’s chiming voice stops the men in their tracks as they start to lead us from the roof. Ripley’s hand falls slack, slipping from my arm. “You are going to return to your car. There, you’ll tell the dispatcher that you saw nothing amiss. That you questioned some of the residents who weren’t aware of any issue, and that no one other than maintenance or the building’s super can even access the roof.”

The men look stricken as their minds absorb her words, though their instincts sense the danger she poses to them.

The problem is that whenever Belle uses her influence, she gets weaker and a little piece of her light dims, giving the shadow more room. It’s gotten far too comfortable lately. And the second this ordeal is over, she’ll hate herself for expending what precious little she has left.

“Belle, stop. You don’t have to –”

She issues a sharp shush and twists to look at Murphy. Her eyes churn a molten gold as he stands there mesmerized, his gaze hollow and untrained. “Before you go, remove our handcuffs. Take them and their key with you.”

“Belle,” I beg.

“This is necessary,” she bites before locking eyes with Ripley.

Ripley unlocks my handcuffs as Murphy unlocks hers. Both sets of interlocking metal fall among the roof’s pebbles. The men stoop to retrieve their cuffs, as she instructs.

“Goodbye!” She wiggles her fingers as they stare at her with their mouths agape, completely at her mercy. Her hypnotism knows no bounds. And while it comes at a steep cost to her, it’s gotten us out of trouble more times than we should have ever needed it. Although trouble is very good at finding us, it seems.

The men mutter fogged goodbyes, nod politely, and trudge their way through the pebbles like their legs are too heavy to lift. Last to exit, Ripley closes the rooftop door, scraping it in its frame. We listen to their footsteps trail down and around to the bottom story, then hear the engine of their squad car rumble to life. Their cruiser pulls away from the curb and glides down the orange-lit street.

My sister heaves a shuddering breath.

I tense at the sound. She’s gone from fury and contempt to overwhelmed, exhausted, and ashamed in the span of thirty long seconds. It’s in this shift that she usually splinters.

Belle turns to me with tears already filling her eyes. My once-vibrant sister is crumbling and there is nothing she or I can do to stop her breaking.

Sadness settles over her shoulders like a heavy cloak. “I’m sorry. I was fine. Until I wasn’t.”

“I know.” I pull her in for a hug. Her tangled, golden hair tickles my skin. She smells like honeysuckle. Like home.

She holds me so tight I wonder if she’s hoping I’ll break with her. “I didn’t feel insane when you left for work.”

“You aren’t insane,” I try to soothe.

It’s what I always tell her, though I never mean it.

“Not now,” she agrees. “Not anymore.”

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