Page 23 of Worse Than Wicked
“Yes, well, I am Magnolia’s,” my aunt says. “It was my responsibility to protect her, so I did that. It wasn’t my responsibility to take care of that mess you brought to my house.”
“You’re right,” I say, straightening and picking up the lipstick. I wrap my fingers in a fist around it. “I’m sorry they hurt you. I never imagined they’d do that. I shouldn’t have led them here.”
She’s quiet a long moment. Finally, she says, “Thank you for your apology.”
She doesn’t offer forgiveness, and I neither expect it nor ask for it. I have a different request.
“Can you tell her something for me?” I ask. “I know this was your house before it burned, which means it’s really her and Sullivan’s house more than mine. But tell her not to come here. Not ever. Even when I’m not here, it’s not safe.”
“I will,” she says. “I’ll tell them both.”
“Can I ask you one more question?” I say, then go ahead before she can refuse. “Do you remember Dahlia?”
“The Delacroix girl?”
“Yes, her,” I say, relieved. “Were we friends? When I was a kid, was I friends with her?”
She’s quiet a moment. “I remember your mother saying that.”
“What happened to her?” I ask. “They sent her to boarding school, and she never came back. Why?”
“That’s something I don’t know,” she says.
“Okay. Thanks anyway. I’m sorry, Aunt C.”
“I know. Goodbye, Mabel.”
She hangs up, and I sit there staring off for a while. I could find her if I wanted, find where she went. Baron could, anyway.
But if I told him to find her, he’d want to know why, and I can’t put her in more danger. There’s no reason I need to know, anyway. She was a lifeline for me for a long time, but that line has been severed. When I left Cedar Crest, the hospital where I had to go when I had my mental breakdown, I couldn’t go backhome, and I couldn’t go to college yet because it was summer. I didn’t have the strength to find somewhere else to go, but I knew I had an aunt in Maine, so I drove all the way there without stopping. I showed up on her doorstep with nothing but Seeley Boots and my Prius, and she welcomed me in without question.
She must have known from my mom what was happening to me back here, but she never pushed me for answers, for rent money, for anything. She just opened the door. She said that’s what family does. So, when campus closed again the next summer, I packed up everything and came back. I couldn’t go home. They were there. So I came here, and I kept coming, and she kept a room for me.
And I led them straight to her.
That’s the worst part. I should have run again after they came to the ice cream shop. I should have never toyed with them. I just never thought they’d hurt her. I thought they’d come for me, that they wanted me and only me. So I don’t blame Aunt Cecily for her coldness. She’s not my mom. She’s not responsible for me, and she wasn’t even before I turned eighteen. I’m on my own, just like I always was.
I slip my hand into my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the dark angel. I imagine spraying it in a man’s face, watching him choke and gasp for air, fall to the floor. His face turns red and then blue as he convulses, spittle flying from his lips, his eyes begging for mercy as his hands claw at his throat. At last he goes still, his tongue protruding, the tip just starting to turn black. I smile.
Then I get up and go outside and bury the lipstick in the trash.
A while later, I hear tires on gravel, and I know Duke is home.
Seeley comes trotting in, tail up, and stares at the door expectantly.
The twins come through it together—Duke staggering, arm over Baron’s shoulder, barely on his feet; Baron half carrying him, gripping his arm to keep it in place.
I stand from the table, my heart stuttering in my chest.
“Go upstairs,” Baron orders. “Start a bath. Warm, not hot.”
“Is he—”
“Go,” he snaps.
I do. The upstairs bathroom is lovely, just what I wanted, with huge windows facing east, overlooking the ocean. A vintage clawfoot tub sits in the middle of the room, so you can soak in the bath and watch the sunrise. It has no curtain to block the view.
I don’t like shower curtains.
