Saturday, November 18

7:00 AM

 

She couldn’t leave. Trina looked into the powder room mirror at the fresh purplish scar on her forehead just above her right eyebrow. Her jaw still hurt where he’d hit her. One hit, two blows – he’d struck her so hard she’d spun around and knocked her head into the kitchen counter. Fingering the jagged line, she remembered the terror when she woke up in the dark, her head throbbing, her heart pounding, her hand sticking to the pool of blood, her blood. She remembered listening, barely able to move, to breathe, wondering if he was still there, if he would follow through with his threat. And she couldn’t leave.

 

The economy was bad. Everything was bad. She’d lost her job. The accusations were false, no charges were filed, and yet the school had let her go. They said it was because of budget cutbacks.

 

Trina turned away from the mirror, disgusted. She hadn’t bothered combing the rat’s nest on her head in at least a week. She half contemplated chopping the mess off entirely and starting over. But that would mean going to the salon. She would have to leave her house during the day.

 

Whoever it was that had attacked her hadn’t returned to fulfill his threat. Still, A “For Sale” sign went up on her lawn two days later. No calls yet with any interest at even looking at the house, let alone buying it. Could her neighbors blame her for the economy? Deep down, Trina felt they did. Yet, where could she go. No friends over the age of twelve. No family she could live with. She was stuck.

 

She shuddered when she passed the curtains in the living room. They stayed shut now. She didn’t look out to check on the kids. That hurt the most, that she couldn’t take care of them, that she couldn’t make sure they were okay. She half thought of risking one peek, hearing little Bridget counting jump rope jumps across the street. Her heart went out to the girl. Even after everything, Bridget’s parents still let her out in the front yard alone. A six-year-old.

 

Righteous fury rose up in her and she took one step towards the blue material covering the portal to the outside world. She hesitated. What if they saw her? What if they called the police again? What if the mystery attacker noticed the curtains moving and decided to follow through with his threats?

 

Trina turned away from the curtain. Soon it would be dark. Soon, everyone would be asleep. And then she could go outside. She needed to get to the store. Thank goodness it was open twenty-four hours.

 

Something slammed against the window she’d just passed. Trina jumped and yelped, turning with wide eyes towards the curtains. Silence followed. Something else hit, sounding like a slap and a splat at the same time. She walked slowly back to the window and, peering through the tiniest crack between the two panels of material, she watched another egg strike her window, explode, and slide down in a yellow gooey mess.

 

Sighing, she turned away. It wasn’t the first act of vandalism. Or even the first in broad daylight. Once she’d left her car out in the driveway for only a few minutes while she brought in groceries. Her tires had been slashed. Another time, she’d accidentally left her back door unlocked when she went for a midnight run to the store. When she’d gotten back, her kitchen was a mess - ketchup squirted all over the walls and ceiling along with mustard and any other condiments in her fridge. Raw meat had been stabbed through with her steak knives, pinned to the walls and to the upholstery in her dining room chairs. Her couches had been slashed, a few windows broken, and a few of her paintings destroyed, torn and ripped to shreds.

 

That had hurt the most, her paintings. Destroy her house, fine. Even herself. But her work, her beautiful, hard, frustrating at times work... The thought of losing three of her best pieces, two nearly finished, brought fresh tears to her eyes. She never left the door unlocked after that. In fact, upon walking into the mess, Trina had turned right back around, gone to the local 24 hour mega mart, and purchased all new locks for her doors. She’d thought of getting a dog for added security, and for companionship. But even that was out of the question. If they could destroy her home, what would they do to the poor beast.

 

Trina walked slowly up the stairs of her once happy home, her feet dragging. She didn’t feel like working that day. She hadn’t felt like working in a long time. The school was only a part time thing. She rarely told anyone else about her real job, about her years spent at art school, about how she longed to teach art to children. Painting used to bring her such happiness. Now, she barely lifted a brush. She put her hand on the doorknob of the spare bedroom where she’d set up her studio. The light in that room was amazing, with the picture windows and the sky light. But she couldn’t open the curtains. The Harts lived behind her and had an excellent view of her studio from their deck. Their son, Tony, used to be a part of her Saturday crew. Her fingers fell from the door knob and she walked away, heading back into her bedroom, back to her bed.

 

“Let me sleep,” she said to herself, flopping down on the dirty, crumpled sheets. “Just let me sleep.” She didn’t. She simply laid there, unmoving from her original flop, her heart bursting with memories of laughing children playing on the monkey bars and racing after each other in a game of tag. She missed her kids. And nothing could ever bring them back.

 

*

 

9:23 AM

 

A new town. A new start. He looked into the rearview mirror at the love of his life, her head leaning against the window, her hand absently petting Dolly’s hair. She never went anywhere without her Dolly. It was the last thing his wife had given her. Mark fought the tears, swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. It had been six months. Would he ever think of her without feeling like his chest would cave in?

 

Forcing a smile, he called back to her, “Hey Sweets, how you doing back there?” She shrugged and began braiding dolly’s hair, setting the toy in her lap as an adult would do a young child. “You excited to be going to a new school?” he tried. She shrugged again. Looking up, she smiled weakly, an attempt to make him happy. Maggie did that a lot lately.

 

They came up to a stop sign and he turned around in his seat. “It’ll be great, you know. I hear there are a lot of kids in Uncle Bryan and Aunt Katie’s neighborhood. And you’ll be able to play with Bridget.

 

“She’s six, dad.” Her hands quickly wrapped a elastic band around the end of Dolly’s braid.

 

“That’s not too much younger than you, Sweets. Only three years different.”

 

At the next stop sign he checked the directions Katie had emailed him. The printout said “Left on Jefferson.” Jefferson what? Street or Avenue? He passed them both and then passed another Jefferson, a cul-de-sac. Jefferson Court. Katie had mentioned a cul-de-sac. Checking his mirrors, he eased the car into a swift u-turn.

 

“Just about there, Sweets. Is Dolly ready to meet Bridget?” He slowed down, his eyes intent upon the house numbers.

 

“Dolly doesn’t want to meet Bridget,” Maggie said, half whispering.

 

“Why is that?”

 

“Bridget’s six. She’ll grab Dolly by the hair. Dolly hates that.”

 

“She won’t grab her hair?”

 

“Bet you she will.”

 

“Bet you she won’t.”

 

“Bet you ice cream.”

 

“All right. I bet you ice cream that Bridget won’t grab Dolly’s hair.” Mark slowed the car at the beginning of the curve in the cul-de-sac, not quite sure how to park it. One car in front of the neighbor’s house had parked with its tires against the curb. But another along the circular arrangement of houses had parked with its front bumper against the curb, like a parking lot.

 

Pressing on the brakes, he wondered if that was even legal. He’d have to check with the boys at work once he got settled. Well, Captain Donnovan, anyway. Couldn’t just go up to a bunch of new faces and ask them how one is supposed to park in a cul-de-sac, could he? He’d be the laughing stock of the force. The youngest detective there, the newbe, asking about cul-de-sac laws and etiquette. He chuckled. The Captain, though. He could ask Donnovan. It was Donnovan who got him the transfer in the first place.

 

Before he could decide how or where to put his car, Katie rushed from the house, Bryan and Bridget on her heels. She waved to him and then pointed to the driveway. A few minutes later, the car parked in front of his sister’s garage, Bryan opened his door to a new home and a new life.

 

*

 

12:57 PM

 

Stupid, foolish parents. He pulled out his binoculars and pushed them through the blinds. No one ever looked his way. No one ever noticed. That’s how idiotic his neighbors were. He pointed the binoculars down the street to the cul-de-sac. A new little girl sat on the front stoop of the McCarthy’s holding a doll. The doll was dressed like her. He grinned, liking that. It always made him feel… good… to see little girls and dolls dressed alike. His smile faded as he watched her scoot over, making way for the man carrying boxes. Her father, perhaps. Probably.

 

The father did not bode well. Something in him, in his stride or demeanor, spoke of authority. He didn’t like authority. It would mess up his plans. Still, if he was anything like the rest of the yuppies in this suburban hell, he wouldn’t be a problem. The kid would stay with the McCarthys while daddy went to work. Katie McCarthy would let both girls play outside. Alone. He liked it that way. Liked to watch the little one jump rope.

 

Something caught the corner of his eye and he shifted his binoculars to the dark house across the street. His focus started at the overgrown lawn riddled with weeds and moved up, taking in the recent egging some of the older kids had delivered. Poor pathetic Trina. He licked his lips. The girl had guts, sticking around after the accusations. The front room curtains moved ever so slighlty. So, even Trina, cute, naive Trina, was curious about the new little girl. This would work out to his advantage.

 

*

 

5:00 PM

 

“Let go of Dolly’s hair!” Maggie practically screamed. Bridget held onto the doll regardless of her cousin’s hysterics, swinging Dolly around by her braid. Mark covered his face with his hand, half laughing, half crying at the absurdity of the scene. Bridget ran through the box strewn living room, giggling and his daughter ran after her, her face red. Maggie stopped when she passed him, giving him one telling, accusing glance before returning to the chase, finally catching Bridget and yanking Dolly from her grasp.

 

Tenderly stroking Dolly’s hair, she turned again on him and he instantly stifled any merriment. A single tear rolled down his baby’s cheek and he quickly scooped her into his arms, berating himself for ever thinking the predicament was funny.

 

“I’m sorry, Maggie,” Bridget said, her own tears coming now. “I didn’t mean it.” Bryan walked into the living room and lifted his own daughter. Bridget burst into a sudden fit of sobs. “I… didn’t mean … to make… Maggie… cry.” She wailed.

 

“Now now, Princess. I know you didn’t mean it. But you know better than to tease your cousin. Remember what we talked about? We have to be extra kind to your cousin Maggie.” He gave her a knowing look and set her down. Bridget continued to cry, her body shaking from the sudden emotion. Mark felt a pang, knowing that Bryan and Katie had had a talk with their daughter about what had happened. He held Maggie all the tighter, who in turn hugged him back with one fierce pull and then pushed away.

 

“You owe me ice cream,” she said, the tears subsiding, her cheeks wet.

 

“Yeah. I owe you ice cream.”

 

*

 

9:30 PM

 

Trina watched the lights go out in the McCarthy house one by one. With the cover of darkness, she could peer out her bedroom window now. But then, she had to be careful. She didn’t want to be seen. By anyone.

 

The new girl intrigued her. She seemed so sad. And so possessive of the doll. Trina longed to go over and ask the little girl her name, to get to know her and maybe be a comfort to her. But she couldn’t. Never again.

 

She half contemplated flopping back on the bed and forgoing the store that night. She could go the next night. But then, something caught her eye. Something dark, slinking around the side of the Morrison property. Yet, when she tried focusing on it, it wasn’t there. Had she imagined it?

 

“I’m going nuts,” she said. Giving into the urge to try and sleep, Trina pulled away from the window, her eyes taking in one last look at the McCarthy house. One light remained on. Then it too went out.

 

*

 

Sunday, November 19

6:20 AM

 

Bryan didn’t usually get up that early on a Sunday. Hell, he hardly ever woke up before ten if he could avoid it. Usually that happened only on Christmas or Father’s day. So, why was he so suddenly wide awake now?

 

He got up, careful not to wake Katie. She needed the rest. Especially now. His eyes moved down the shape of her body under the sheets, lovingly caressing her with his gaze. They stopped on her belly where only a slight bulge could be seen. They hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even Mark.

 

Maybe it was the new presence in the house that made him feel uneasy. Maybe. But wasn’t he supposed to feel better with a cop living under their roof? Wasn’t he supposed to feel safer?

 

He tiptoed out of the room, not bothering with his slippers. Closing the door, he walked down the hall to the girls’ room. Bridget and Maggie would share a room until Mark got back on his feet and found a place of his own. Bryan smiled, feeling this was a good thing. It would give Bridget some practice, get her used to the idea of sharing attention with a sibling.

 

His smile disappeared in an instant. Why was their door open? Ever since they’d gotten Bridget to sleep in her own bed three years ago, they’d made a habit of closing the door of her room. It gave her security. So, why was it open?

 

He quickened his pace, the hall getting longer with each stride. He didn’t remember there being that many steps between his room and his daughter’s.

 

His heart pounding, he reached for the door knob. A sound on the stairs startled him and he pulled back. Mark peered over the rail, his eyes mirroring Bryan’s. Something definitely wasn’t right.

 

“The kitchen door is open,” his brother-in-law whispered, carefully moving towards the girl’s room, stepping as close to the wall as he could. How could he be so calculating at that moment? Bryan wanted to shove the door open, to rush in and see if his baby was okay. But Mark held him back with a single look. Where did cops learn that look?

Using the sleeve of his pajama shirt, Mark pushed on the door. It squeaked slightly and swung fully open. Both men arced their heads around the door frame, their eyes instantly searching the room, Bryan staring at Bridget’s bed, Mark the sleeping bag on the floor.

The blankets and the sleeping bag rose and fell in sweet, soft rhythms, the breathing of deep childish sleep. Both men released an audible sigh of relief, reluctant to tear their eyes away from the room.

 

Bryan nearly toppled over as a sound erupted from the slightly cracked window in the girls room. Somewhere outside, a woman let out a blood curdling scream.

 

*

 

6:32 AM

 

Trina instantly jumped from her bed. Someone was pounding on her door. Urgent, furious knocks resounded through her entire house.

 

Not bothering with a robe, she left her room and raced down the stairs. If they’d wanted to hurt her, they wouldn’t be pounding on her door. Right? She hesitated in the entryway, her bare feet sticking from the instant sweat. They wouldn’t make so much noise. Would they? Her hand rested on the doorknob.

 

Something struck the door with enough force to shake the frame. Trina jumped back, her mouth open, her eyes wide. She left her hand in the air, still poised, ready to open that portal to her home. It struck again. And again. Finally, it stopped and all noise subsided. Almost all noise. She heard a woman sobbing.

 

Something had happened. Maybe to one of the kids. They needed her help. Trina didn’t think. She grabbed the lock and turned it. The door flew open before she could grip the doorknob. Mr. And Mrs. Morrison stood upon her porch, Mr. Morrison’s hand still on her door.

 

Mrs. Morrison looked at her with both shock and hatred, her splotchy red eyes boring into her. Why had the rotund woman been crying? Again, Trina thought of the kids, again thinking she could somehow help. Hope filled her heart, redemption like a light at the end of a long and dark tunnel. She could help. But how? She didn’t get a chance to ask. Mrs. Morrison took one step into her home and slapped her across the face.

 

“Where is my Billy!?” the woman screamed.