Page 54 of The Vanishing Place
Except for Anya’s whimpers, softer now, the hut seemed to be holding its breath, waiting in silent expectation. Slowly, Effie moved forward and reached out toward Anya. But she turned and snarled at Effie, her face wet with tears and snot, and Effie pulled her hand back. Without a word, the girl pressed her face to the floor, then stretched her arms out as if trying to hug it.
Effie turned to look at the body, the pungent smell scratching the back of her throat. The man lay on his back with his arms at his sides. His mouth and eyes were wide open, but there was nothing behind them. No life.
“Please.” Effie pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Please, no.”
Carefully, she knelt down beside him and slid a trembling hand behind his neck. His skin was cold and loose, the outer layer already sloughing from his bones. She lifted his head slightly, then peered under his neck. As she saw it, her body lost all sense of weight and solidness, and a sob escaped her.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed.
There at the base of his neck was a small purple splotch. A birthmark.
Four.
With her chest clenched like a fist, she leaned over and pressed her lips to his forehead, kissing the six-year-old boy that she’d left behind.I’m so sorry. Her heart ached and her fingers quivered as she closed his eyes—the empty eyes of a fully grown man.
“I’m so sorry, little brother.”
Forcing herself to think like a police officer, Effie scanned his body. But there were no signs of harm other than the shallow cuts to his chest, forming a crucifix. Trembling, she pulled her phone from her pocket—still without service—and started taking photos, capturing the lifeless mass of her youngest brother. Vomit burned the back of her throat as she zoomed in, snapping the religious symbol. With each photo, a thought tugged at her—there was no knife, no sign of the weapon that had been used to cut into him. Which meant someone must have taken it. That Four hadn’t done it to himself.
“Mum.”
Effie turned at the whisper of the girl’s voice. Anya was still curled into a ball, her cheek pressed against the floor.
“What did you say?” asked Effie.
She moved closer, but Anya shielded her face with her arm.
“Please,” breathed—begged—Effie. “I need you to tell me what happened.”
She shook her head.
“I know it’s scary,” said Effie. “And I want to help you. But it’s hard for me to do that if you won’t talk to me.”
“I’m not allowed to,” Anya said eventually, her words muffled by her arm. “He’ll punish me.”
“Who?” Effie stiffened. “Who will punish you?” She glanced behind her, her skin suddenly cold. “Four? Did Four hurt you?”
“I’m not allowed to talk to you.”
Effie looked at the bloodied shell of her brother—at the baby she’d fed and washed and rocked to sleep—then turned to Anya.
“Okay.” She paused, trying to think. “What if you just nod and shake your head? Would that be okay?”
Anya looked at her, but she didn’t move. She stayed coiled up like a fetus with her eyes glued on Effie. Finally, she nodded.
Effie adjusted her position on the floor so she was sitting next to Anya, shielding her from Four’s body.
“Did Four hurt you?”
Anya shook her head.
Oh, thank god.
“And was he dead when you ran away?”
A nod.
“Is this where you live?”
