Page 5 of The Last Lost Girl

But both of us know she will be again, and soon. Perhaps tomorrow, or in an hour. In five hours or five minutes.

I feel helpless. Hopeless. And I don’t know what to do next. Even leaving her alone to go to work is too dangerous. Yet, one of us has to provide. Rent is due next week, as are the utility bills, and we need to eat. Belle needs shoes – desperately. I’ve checked the thrift shops every day for two weeks, but not a single pair has been donated that will fit her tiny feet.

Bile burns my throat when I think of losing everything we’ve scraped for.

She pulls away and tugs at the hem of my crop top, a smile finally teasing the corners of her lips as she reads my shirt. “Lifeguard. That you are. I just hate being the one you’re always pulling from the water. I hate being a burden.”

I tip her chin up and wait until her golden eyes meet mine. “My sister is not and never could be a burden to me.”

“Liar.”

“When I was younger and thought I was your burden, did you tell me I wasn’t?”

She sighs.

I quirk a brow. “Were you lying then?”

Her eyes glitter. “Absolutely not.”

I laugh. “Now you’re the liar.” If it wasn’t for Belle… My throat twists into a knot.

She saw me standing alone on a street one day in the early afternoon, noticed my peculiarity, and watched to see if someone would come to help me. I don’t remember that day or much from when I was little, and she said I had no idea how I got there or where I came from. No memory of a home or parents. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a mercy. If my mind decided that forgetting is far better than remembering.

She took me in, even when she didn’t have enough for herself. Worked to feed and clothe me, and above all, provided joy. Now it’s my turn to do the same for her. And I will try my best. I just fear my best won’t be enough to keep her off the ledge tomorrow. Especially when she leans in and softly whispers, “The Second Star is almost here. It’s pulling me home and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to resist its gravity.”

“Then let me help you,” I beg. Looking over her shoulder, I scan the dark tapestry, trace the patterns of the stars, and see nothing unusual. Nothing like the twin stars she painted in the star chart that is our ceiling.

Then I mentally berate myself for looking. Stars can’t suddenly appear.

“We can resist it together.”

My eyes flick to her two shadows, gentle and harsh, then circle to my feet…

Where no shadow is cast at all.

three

The shrill blare of the smoke detector mounted to the ceiling between my bedroom and Belle’s startles me awake. The incessant thing’s batteries are probably going bad.

I rush to the door and run into the hall, ready to grab the broom and knock the button to shut it off, when the acrid scent of smoke hits my nose. “Belle!” I yell.

The door to her room is open but she’s not in it. I catch myself against the frame before taking off to look in the other places where she might be. I find her in the living room on her knees, rocking back and forth. A small pile of splayed books lays on the hardwood floor in front of her.

Belle grips my friend’s Zippo lighter in her hands. Hungry flames curl and finger through the pages of the open book she’s burning.

I rush to the kitchen, fling open a cabinet, and grab the deepest pot we own, then rummage for its lid. The rest of our pots and pans form an avalanche that stops just shy of my toes. I grab the tongs from the utensil holder and rush to her. The tongs are long enough that the flames don’t burn me when I toss the burning book into the pot and smother the flames with the lid.

Belle’s eyes lift to mine. I expect to find the shadow staring back, but it’s not. It’s her. Her golden eyes are drowned in tears.

Holding out my hand, I demand, “Give me his lighter.”

“It’s mine,” she weakly argues.

“Did you change your name and not tell me?” I snap. “Devin’s initials are engraved in the silver, Belle. Don’t start.”

He’d thrown the thing in my bag because he forgot it was in his pocket and didn’t want to get it wet. I didn’t realize she’d pilfer my things the second I fell asleep. I hold out my hand expectantly.

She flicks the cap down and slaps the metal rectangle into my palm. Her eyes slide to the end table where we keep our lighter. It’s a cheap, orange plastic thing that burns your thumb every time you flick its sparking wheel, but it does produce a flame. And it’s mine the second this ordeal ends. I’ll drown it in the toilet reservoir, I swear to God.

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