Page 2 of Collect the Pieces

“How do we keep Margot safe when monsters like him are running around loose?” Momma says.

Fear chills me to a stop. Monsters? Real monsters? Where?

The shadows suddenly seem bigger. Scarier. Can the monsters get into the house?

“Such a nice boy. That poor family,” Daddy says. “Good God, he’s Margot’s age.”

Quiet falls over me. Who? What happened?

Momma’s harsh sobs cut through the stillness. “What are we going to tell her?”

“Margot understands death better than most children,” Daddy says.

Death.It happens to everybody eventually. Nothing to be scared of. Granny tells me that all the time. It still makes me sad every time I think of not seeing her one day.

My family helps other families say goodbye to their loved ones by making them look nice and celebrating their life, Momma explained to me.

I felt good about that until I realized kids don’t like to play at my house. Or play withme. They make fun of me for living withghosts and zombies. They whisper that my house is haunted. No matter how many times I try to explain that’s not true, they still say it.

Curiosity pulls me closer to the open door. The prep room. I’m not supposed to go in there.

Just a peek. Then I’ll sneak right back upstairs. No one will ever know.

My eyes go to the tall, shiny silver table first. A small body, mostly covered with a white sheet. On the counter next to the door rests a blue duffel bag stuffed so full the zipper won’t close all the way. Small, shiny black shoes sit on top of the bag. The kind of shoes my older brother James would call “dressy” shoes and only wear to church.

“We’ll need to start with a base layer to neutralize the bruising,” my mother says. “He’s so young.” She lets out a harsh sob. “I’ll go soft with the foundation. Those purple tones will be stubborn on his delicate skin,” she finishes on a whisper.

Daddy rounds the table and gently touches Momma’s elbow. “Darling, let’s take a break.”

She’s shaking her head before he finishes speaking. “No. He must have been so afraid. In pain. Terrified. Alone with that monster. I want to stay with him until…”

I slide my gaze back to the table. To the sheet tucked under a pale chin. Freckled cheeks. A wild mop of messy brown hair.

Recognition flips my tummy upside down. I gasp loud enough to draw my mother’s attention.

“Margot!” Her eyes widen and she hurries toward me, blocking my view.

“Is that…is that…Hoyt Harris?” The boy who lives down the street. We play together in his backyard and walk to the bus stop together. His mom is nice and makes us oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips instead of nasty raisins. Hoyt never makes fun ofme and isn’t scared of my house. He even lets me play with his Hot Wheels and doesn’t think it’s weird that a girl likes cars.

“What are you doing down here?” my father asks, his voice low and calm.

“I heard noises.” I tilt to the side, trying to peer around my mother, but she rests her hands on my shoulders, stopping me. “Who is that, Momma? What happened?”

“You should go back to bed, Margot.”

Curiosity, too painful to ignore, pushes me out of my mother’s grasp and I hurry toward the table.

Hoyt. But he doesn’t look like the same boy I play hide and seek with. The boy who can never contain his laughter while he’s supposed to be hiding.

But he’s not laughing now.

Or even breathing.

He’sstill. So still he looks like a life-sized doll.

My nose tickles and my eyes burn. “Why? What happened?”

“You know how we always tell you not to go anywhere with strangers?” Daddy says.

---