Page 25 of One Last Regret

She is tall and lithe, her skin supple, her form graceful and sensual. Long hair the color of fire shimmers falls over her shoulders, outlining the swell of her breasts. Her face is covered by a mask, but this mask isn’t colorful like the others. It is pale and ghostly, almost translucent. Behind the mask, the performer’s eyes are painted in a pigment that is darker than black, twin holes that swallow all light.

I recognize this image. It has lived in my nightmares ever since I left my teaching position and began my new life as agoverness and an unofficial investigator of the mysteries that hide in the shadows of wealthy and dysfunctional families.

My sister steps toward me, and a soft cry escapes my throat. I want to run, to hide, to beg, to die, to do anything but stand there and wait for her, but it doesn’t matter what I want. Annie is in control.

The dancers move until they are no longer distinguishable from one another. Reds, greens, yellows and oranges blend together in a whirlpool of fire around us. The specter approaches until she is inches from my face.

She opens her eyes, and—

“Ma’am. Ma’am!”

I gasp and open my eyes. The performance is over. The street corner is quiet now as the spectators move to more crowded areas to continue their party. The voice calling for my attention belongs to a young man of around twenty-five wearing shorts and body paint designed to make him look like some sort of bird. His mask completes the motif with macaw feathers stuck into a beaked, plastic face.

“Are you all right? Do you need some help?”

I blink. “I… I’m fine.”

“You were screaming.”

“I… I was?”

“Yes. Hold on, let me get you some help.”

He reached for his phone, and reason reasserts itself. I can’t have it reported to Josephine that the children and I were interviewed by police for—

The children!

I look around, and my heart sinks to the floor. They’re not here.

“Oh God,” I whisper. I grab the young man’s arm hard enough to make him wince. “Have you seen two children?” I askhim. “A girl and a boy? They’re twelve years old; their names are Amelia and Gabriel. Have you seen them?”

He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. But I’m calling the police, and they’ll—”

I pull away from him and rush toward the crowd, ignoring his cries behind me.

Oh God. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

I should never have brought them here. I should have known better. Ididknow better. What the hell was I thinking? They’re so young! So many terrible things can happen to them!

My mind fills with images of all of those terrible things, and tears stream from my eyes as I push and jostle through the crowd, screaming their names and begging God not to let me find them dead or hurt.

A voice in my head taunts me.You’re begging God? Tonight? Here?

I ignore that voice. Now is not the time for me to succumb to whatever insanity possessed me during the street performance.

“Amelia!”

People laugh and jeer around me, and in my panic, I feel that they’re laughing and jeering at me. Every face is unfriendly, every voice mocking, and I am so alone. I’m so alone, and I’ve lost my children! I’ve lost the children!”

Finally, I catch a brief glimpse of Amelia’s face near the back of a cluster of college students. She’s on her knees, and she’s crying.

“Amelia!”

I push through the crowd, ignoring cries of anger and frustration from people I shove past. When I see Amelia again, only a few yards in front of me, I expel a huge sigh of relief.

“Amelia!”

I pick her up from the ground and carry her to an alley that is fortunately empty of drug users and amorous partygoers atthe moment. I set her down and ask, “Are you hurt? Are you all right?”

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