Page 7 of The Last Lost Girl

“I do,” I answer. A shiver scuttles up my spine as I take in the delicately pointed tips of her ears.

My sister is other. But whatever she is – fairy, elf, alien, witch, or something I have no words to describe – she’s mine.

“I didn’t mean to hurt our home. Or you,” she laments.

“I know. I know how much both mean to you.” I pull her in for a hug and she relaxes against my shoulder. My eyes flick behind her to all the book spines.

The same title in a thousand different fonts; the same story pressed into a million different pages.

Beautifully patterned end pages and watercolor illustrations bring the story that haunts my sister’s mind to life. I hate the story more than I’ve hated anything in my life.

The tomes lining our walls are her torment.

I would burn them all for her – outside of this building, of course – if it would erase the tale from her memory and clear it from her mind for good.

This is the first home we could afford, and since we moved in, Belle has stolen enough copies of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan from our area libraries and bookstores to fill the floating shelves that one-by-one began to appear on our walls. But the librarians and bookstores always replenish what she takes – quickly and efficiently. It’s why we have so many, and why she keeps taking them any time she sees the title.

The bibliophiles are as obsessed with having copies available for patrons to borrow or buy as Belle is about stealing them. It’s a vicious cycle that feeds our overflowing shelves and my sister’s righteous fervor.

My head swivels at the sound of someone pounding on our door and I resolutely swear that if Mrs. Jennings called the police again – or the fire department…

“Who is it?” I yell from just inside the door. No way am I opening it.

“Why aren’t the two of you down at the station?” Mrs. Jennings asks.

By the stars, this is not a prime-time crime drama.

“Go back to bed,” is my answer.

“Did she set fire to the place?” the she-devil squawks from the other side of the door. “Is she trying to kill us all instead of just herself now?”

I grit my teeth, because though she guessed exactly what Belle had done, what happens between our Pan-encrusted walls is none of her damn business.

“False alarm!” I yell back, internally beseeching her to return to her apartment and back to sleep.

Belle’s head slowly swivels toward the sound when she knocks again.

“I smell smoke,” Mrs. Jennings presses.

Belle abruptly stands and I know she’s about to make good on my earlier threat against this woman and gut her where she stands.

She stalks on silent feet to the door. I shake my head and put a restraining hand on my sister’s shoulder, grounding her again, then reply, “I burnt some rice. Everything is fine. I’m sorry to have woken you.”

A loud meow comes from the other side of the door, and Garfield’s hellish claws scrape down the low, wooden panel like they do whenever Mrs. Jennings comes to complain about something.

I don’t answer the door. Only Belle and I have ever crossed the threshold, and if I can help it, no one will even manage a peek inside. If anyone saw the walls lined with the same book, tangled with artificial vines and faded dried flowers, they wouldn’t understand.

Belle’s eyes track the meowing noises to the lower half of the door, and she stares as if she can see through it to Garfield, whom I’m sure is swishing back and forth rubbing against Mrs. Jennings’ legs since he’s no longer using our door as a giant emery board.

“I’m going to eat him,” Belle says. A menacing smile graces her lips.

My forefinger darts toward my sister. I keep my voice low. “No! No eating cats, or burning books, or… flying.”

Her smile falls in an instant.

Mrs. Jennings’ grumbles trail back across the hall, as does the sound of Garfield’s agitated whine. I’m still not sure if Belle will let this – or the cat – go.

For good measure, I add, “And no leaving me behind, Belle.”

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