Page 33

Danger

I’m enraged. How could she speak to that man? And who the fuck is that guy? How does he know so much about me?

I only have one idea. The devil himself told him who I am.

The thought pisses me off further. Will I ever be free of him? When will my dues be met? I’ve paid the piper, and I want my freedom. Enough is enough.

I wander the hotel floors, taking the stairs and roaming more and more endless hallways, in search of something I’ll never find.

Isabella.

I’ll never find her, it’s obvious.

The devil hid her well. And I can never pay repentance.

So I wander. I move through the building with absolutely no purpose. My whole life is beginning to feel like this. Zero purpose.

“I’m guessing your girl told you the truth,” a dark and sinister voice says when I step outside to have a smoke.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” I move closer, wondering if I should beat him up now or later. I decide on the latter, wanting to know what he said to Monterey first.

He lights up a smoke. I bum one, and light mine up too. I inhale the smoke, letting it fill my lungs before releasing it. “Yeah, I’ve been called that before.”

“So, ruining lives is fun for you?”

He turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. “I’m just trying to understand you, is all.”

“Understand this, stay the fuck away from Monterey.”

He laughs a little as he sucks on the end of his cigarette. “She seems to always find me.”

“How do you even know about Isabella?”

His smile leaves his face and his eyes are haunted. “I know a lot more than you may think I do.” He stops talking, studying the ground a minute before he stares back at me. “Maybe there’s some people in this world who don’t want to be found.”

“Bullshit. I won’t believe that.”

He shrugs. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m gonna fucking find her.”

He squeezes my shoulder as he turns to leave. “I sure hope you do, but maybe you need a little nudge in the right direction.” He walks away and I’m left standing there, in the dark, wondering what on earth he can possibly mean.

Knowing full well I won’t get any answers out here, I head toward the race track, wanting to feel a little alive before I head back to the room. If I even head back there at all.

Maybe Monterey was right. Maybe I do hide away my feelings behind sex. But in my own defense, it’s all I’ve ever known.

Fuck. I’ve got all this energy and no way to release it. I full on sprint toward the track, knowing very well it’s a good mile or two up the road. I don’t care, though. As I run I let the wind rush through my hair. It feels good, using up this energy. I run faster, letting my muscles scream at me from moving too fast too quickly. I don’t care though, I welcome it.

I think back on my life. My mother, trying the best she could in a shit situation. A father so selfish he didn’t care about his own family. My thoughts wander through everyone I’ve ever known, landing on Isabella.

* * *

PAST

“Isabella, wait. Come back.”

“Daddy says we’re not allowed down here.”

“Then why are you still going down the stairs?” I whisper back to my little sister, breathlessly. She’s two years younger than me, and that means that I’m in charge.

Yet, she keeps moving. She keeps taking each step to the basement one at a time. Slowly. Her tiny feet hesitating, her little hand gripped to the banister for dear life.

I was fast asleep in my room, dreaming about what every twelve-year-old boy my age dreams about, Christmas presents. This year I’d been begging my parents for a quarter-midget race car like the one Jared has. My father said maybe this year.

I just hope Christmas falls on one of my father’s ‘good days’ and not a bad one.

At the bottom of the basement stairs, there’s a wooden door. It’s always closed. It’s forbidden to go inside.

We’ve been told countless times to stay out. It’s my father’s workroom. No one’s allowed. Not even my mother.

“Isabella, don’t.” She reaches the bottom of the stairs and waits, staring at the cracked open door.

A creeping fear now grips onto my shoulders, holding me back.

“We should see if the noise was Daddy. He could be hurt.”

I almost want to say good . My father deserves it. After the many times he’d hurt our mother, maybe it would be a blessing in disguise to have my father lying on the basement floor in pain. I can’t bring myself to walk away either. I want to see it.

Curiosity will win out.

“Ok, stay behind me.” I push my little sister behind my back with a swing of my arm. Even if my father’s writhing in agony on the floor, I don’t need Isabella near the man. Who knows what might anger him this time?

Somewhere off in the distance, I hear footsteps echoing from upstairs, like my mother might be padding around the kitchen. I hold my breath and open the door farther, not really sure what I’ll find inside.

It wasn’t what I expected.

“Dylan,” my sister says, slowly, unsure of her own voice, it quavering with every word.

It takes me a full second before I jolt into action. “Go upstairs. Call 9-1-1.”

My sister shakes her head, her breathing ragged as her dark curls bounce around her face. “No, I’m too scared.”

I grab my sister’s shoulders and lean down to look into her eyes. “You have to call someone.”

It isn’t my father lying on the floor soaked in blood.

It takes three full breaths to grasp what I’m seeing. There’s plastic lining the floors and walls. Bright crimson blood pools in a corner, seeping from a naked woman crouched on the floor. The smell of putrid, dank mothballs fills my nose and I twist my face up in disgust. I step closer. “Are you ok?” I ask her.

Her gaze is blank. It's like staring into a broken doll’s eyes.

She’s dead.

At least that’s what I’m thinking. When Law and Order shows a dead body on their show they always look like this. Like a puppet. Like a plastic shell with no emotion. Tingles race up my spine and my heart jumps around in my chest.

I look away. “Isabella, run,” I yell, turning on my heels to follow behind her.

I take one last glance at the woman dead in our basement, my eyes trying to adjust to what the actual situation is. Metal tools hang from the wall, like tools a doctor would use on a patient.

With one last ditch-effort, I help my sister out of the room and back to the staircase to head upstairs. I need the phone, and the only one I can think of is hanging above the kitchen counter.

We race upstairs, entering the kitchen at warp speed and my mother stands there, clear shock on her face. She’s pale, like she knows what we just witnessed.

“What are you two doing awake?” Her voice shows her mortification.

“Mom, basement, woman.” I can’t even make a complete sentence as I try to catch my breath. I point down the stairs and my mother’s cold eyes gaze down into the darkness.

“Stay right here,” she says as she moves closer to the door, leading down to the basement.

“No, Mom.” I don’t want her to see what I saw. I want to shield her from the memory of the dead woman with the blank stare that’s now permanently etched in my mind.

I grab her arm, and she stops.

“Dylan, take Isabella to your room and lock the door.”

We do as we’re told, and run as fast as we can. I slam my bedroom door. The darkness turns to madness in an instant. I’ve opened my window a little to let the cool air in from the rain.

My sister crawls beneath the covers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m scared.”

I hand her my favorite stuffed bunny, the one I always give her when my parents fight. “Here’s Mr. Whiskers. He’ll keep you safe.”

She hugs the bunny close to her chest. “Do you think that woman will be ok?”

A cold breeze filters through the room, giving me a slight chill to my bones. It doesn’t usually get too cold here in San Dimas, California, but this year around Christmas, it’s supposed to be the coldest year yet.

I don’t answer her right away because I know the woman is dead. There’s nothing anyone can do.

My mind fills with questions on how she died. What were all the tools? Was my father trying to help her?

My bones chill again, knowing that’s not a possibility. My father’s not a doctor. He works at the local college as a janitor. He started work there after he failed at a racing career.

“What was that?” Isabella’s eyes are wide at the sound of the front door slamming.

My father’s back.

He shouts. My mother shouts back.

Then, there’s a loud crash, and both Isabella and I stare at each other, both of us afraid to even move. “I’m going to check it out,” I say.

“No, don’t leave me,” Isabella whines.

“Shh, stay under the covers. I’ll be right back.”

The hard weathered floorboards creak as I take each step, reminding me that I should head back to my room. It’s safe there.

My mother told me to stay there.

But I keep moving, curious as to what the crash was. They’re no longer shouting as I continue my trek across the cold wood floor. I reach the end of the hallway, my heart beating frantically inside my chest. I have to keep moving, but fear has planted my feet into the ground.

I peek around the corner, tears filling my eyes because I just know something isn’t quite right. It’s never been this silent before after a fight. It’s never felt this wrong before.

My hands shake as I continue around the corner, wondering how I can get to the phone. I need to call the police. They need to know about the woman lying dead on the basement floor.

I end in the kitchen, and spy my mother lying on the floor, red blood leaking from her hairline.

Without even thinking about it, I rush to her side.

“Mom, Mom, are you ok?” I cry, trying to shake her awake.

“Leave her alone,” my father’s voice booms from behind me.

“Is she okay?” I stare up at the man and notice he’s aged by fifty years since I last saw him. Is it the alcohol?

Either way, the lines on my father’s face are deep and etched with disdain as I sit with my mother. She’s not waking up, and I glance over at the phone.

“Don’t even think about calling the police, boy.” My father’s words mean business. He normally has this tone on his bad days. On days when he’s so upset with the world and looking to take it out on anyone standing in his path.

I press my palm to the blood on my mother’s temple, trying my best to stop the flow.

“Did you go downstairs?”

Tears stream down my face, and I don’t realize Isabella is sitting beside me until it’s too late.

“Both of you get the fuck outta here,” my father yells, and I grab Isabella’s hand and rush back down the hallway, grabbing the phone on the way.

We make it to my bedroom, and I slam the door shut and lock it. “Call 9-1-1,” I tell her, tossing her the phone.

My sister is full-on crying and I don’t have the time right now to calm her down. I listen, shushing my sister’s sobs as she dials the phone.

I’m listening for footsteps. Listening for him.

And just as Isabella speaks into the phone, there’s a loud bang at the door. Isabella speaks faster as my father pounds and pounds.

“Please hurry,” she says to the 9-1-1 operator.

I hold the door, hoping my father won’t tear it down.

“Let me in, you two little shits,” he screams, and I know there’s no way we can open the door for him when he’s this angry.

I’m not sure if my mother is dead or alive, but I know I have to worry about Isabella and me now.

Isabella hangs up the phone, and goes and grabs Mr. Whiskers off the bed. “I’m scared,” she says to me.

I move closer to her, hugging her in my arms. “I know, me too.”

And before we can say anything else, my father busts through the cheap wooden door, and reaches for us.

“Isabella,” I scream.

She cries, and the look in my father’s eyes is one I’ll never forget. He reaches for us, his stare menacing and frightening. I put up a fight at first until his hand comes crashing down on my temple.

I blackout, and don’t really know what happened after that.

And when I wake up, Isabella is nowhere to be found.