Page 38 of How to Fake a Haunting

Four hours later, Bea shook me awake.

“Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Right, okay.” I groaned, and forced myself onto one elbow, studying her. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

“Great,” Bea said, and smiled a thousand-watt smile. Already the cuts and scrapes on her head were healing, and the bruise on her temple had faded to yellow.

“Is this bothering you at all?” My hand trailed to the bulky purple cast on her wrist.

“No. I kind of like it.” She held both arms out in front of her and rocked side to side. “It’s my mummy arm.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Can I be a mummy for Halloween?”

I chuckled. Lifting her out of the bed, I nudged her in the direction of the bathroom. “Halloween’s four months away, my dear. That cast will be long gone by then.” I’d have to check my own wrist to see if I was ready to peel off the gauze.

The rest of the morning was as peaceful as possible, lounging around my parents’ quiet, comfortable house.

Bea and I colored and watched movies while my father dozed beside us on the couch.

At noon, my mother insisted on making my lunch as well as Beatrix’s, flitting in and out of the kitchen like a butterfly, bringing us lemonade and cut-up strawberries and bowls of popcorn.

Dinner was no different, my mother catering to us both like we had matching concussions.

At six o’clock, Bea started getting antsy. Subsequently, I was on edge.

“Do you wanna play Favorite Thing?” she asked, but her mouth was screwed up, like she expected me to say no.

“I think you’re tired, my love,” I said. “Why don’t we go up and get ready for bed?”

“I don’t want to go to bed. I want to go home.” She said it dispassionately, as if it were any other Saturday evening.

“Oh, sweetheart, I want you to be able to go home too. But—”

“No,” she insisted, everything about her tone and expression saying it was critical I pay attention. “I want to go home. I know Daddy’s sick, but I won’t talk to him. I’ll let you do whatever you need to fix him. But I want my room and my stuffies.”

I scrambled to rearrange my face in a way that didn’t show my shock at how astutely Bea had read the situation with her father, as well as my unfair annoyance with her stubbornness.

Could I bring her home tonight? This last haunting had to have broken Callum.

He’d fled the house as if the devil himself were on his heels.

What had Callum said to Monty upon arriving?

Had he asked him to stay long term? I glanced at my phone, but there was nothing I could text Callum without sounding suspicious.

Besides, it was too soon, too dangerous for Bea to return.

“How about this?” I tried. “I’ll go over and see how Daddy’s doing. I’ll bring back whatever books and stuffed animals you need.” I smoothed her hair. “But I can’t take you home until it’s safe.”

Her mouth turned down, and she balled her hands into fists, a difficult feat considering the cast. “I want my room. And my books. And Love is still dirty. You told me you would clean her.” Each utterance grated on my already frayed nerves.

“I’m sorry I didn’t clean Love yet,” I offered. “I promise I’ll take care of it soon. And I’ll—”

“But I want to go home now!”

“Well, we can’t, Beatrix, we just can’t!” I exploded, then immediately felt terrible. To my surprise, Bea’s face didn’t crumble, but she held her ground, scowling at me, challenging me until I relented.

“Which stuffies do you want?”

She smiled, not a got-my-way kind of smile but a genuine, relieved one, and I felt more terrible still. “I want Waddle and Little Elephant and Asha and Wind and Hoots and Toby and Spike and Amaya.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to mentally match up the toys on her bed to the names coming from her mouth. “All right, then. I’ll see what I can do.”

She nodded and yawned, a bit of the poutiness coming back. “I’d like to get ready for bed now.”

I swallowed an impatient retort and led her upstairs.

By the time I’d started the second book, she was asleep.

Healing cuts aside, the concussion was still taking a lot out of her; Bea hadn’t gone to bed this early in a year.

Of course she’d been a little tough this evening, what with all she’d been through.

I tucked the covers around her tightly and placed her water bottle at the edge of the nightstand where she could see it if she woke in the night.

As I turned for the door, something stopped me.

If he comes back tomorrow, Adelaide had said, use this.

Don’t wait. We have to strike while the iron’s hot.

We started slow, but this is the grand finale.

Without thinking through what I was doing, I went to the closet and pulled the Prince Rupert’s drop down from the shelf. I slipped it into my bag, securing it in place with a sweatshirt. Then I tiptoed down the stairs to where my parents were watching television.

My mother sat up the moment I walked into the living room. “Did she fall asleep?” She saw my bag. “Where are you going?”

“To the house to grab a few things for Bea. And, well . . .” I sighed. “I need to see what’s going on with Callum, whether he’s willing to go into treatment or, if he’s maybe leaving altogether.”

I swallowed. I didn’t want my parents to think I didn’t have everything under control. But do you? An image of Callum’s bathroom mirror covered with blood popped into my mind. That, and the faceless thing beneath it. Stop it!

“Honestly, I’m hoping this is the end of things,” I added. “Callum and I . . . What he did to Beatrix. I can’t do this any longer.”

My parents exchanged a look.

“One of the EMTs submitted a report, right?” my father asked. “Someone will be looking into that.”

“Absolutely,” I lied. I hadn’t told my parents what I’d learned from Veronica Schumann, hadn’t wanted them to worry. If my parents—or anyone else who was paying attention—thought the DCYF report was still active, it would be all the less surprising when Callum finally left the house.

“Like I said, I’m going to see what’s going on. I might stay the night, if things get heated. To be honest, I think he might have already left. But can Bea stay here until I know for sure?”

“Like you have to ask,” my father said.

I pursed my lips. “It’s not too much for you? You’re supposed to get your rest.”

My father waved a hand. “Nonsense. You know, I read something on the ’gram that says grandparents who see their grandchildren on a regular basis live an average of ten years longer than their grandchildless counterparts.”

I walked to where he sat in his leather armchair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “That’s great news. And don’t call it ‘the ’gram.’” He smiled.

“We’ll take good care of that little pumpkin while you’re gone,” my mom said.

“I know you will.”

I walked out of the living room and into the foyer, where I passed a geometric mirror hanging above a small set of drawers.

I stopped, something nagging at my subconscious, and as I did, I thought I saw movement to my left.

In the mirror. As if my reflection had continued moving after I’d come to a halt.

My stomach gave a small but sickening lurch, and I turned toward the glass.

But there was only me, pale-faced and tired-looking.

There was no blood, no altered appearance.

Just a woman hoping to be nearing the end of something that had gone on for far too long.

Why, then, did I feel like there was something in the mirror I had missed? A portent? A whisper?

A warning.

You’re as bad as Callum, I thought, and continued through the foyer and out the door.