Bewitched (Betwixt & Between #2) - Darynda Jones Page 0,48
I felt the most pull, came from was toward a basement window.
The rectangular pane had a vertical bar over it and sat at ground level. No light seeped out.
I filled my lungs with crisp New England air, got down onto all fours, and tried to peer inside as the knees on my jeans soaked through. I saw a lot of blackness and little of anything else. After reciting the Lord’s Prayer, because it was the only prayer I could think of at the moment, I shined the light from my phone inside.
A small face stared back at me with a haunted expression.
I yelped and fell back onto the wet ground.
The window opened out, though just barely. The bar kept it from opening too far.
I crawled back to a mop of brown hair that looked like it hadn’t been washed in days—I knew the feeling—and huge brown eyes looking up at me.
We took each other in for a long moment, then I asked, my voice low, “Are you Clara?”
Reeking of fear, she glanced back over her shoulder, then nodded.
My heart broke for her. “I’m Defiance Dayne. You left a message for me about a lost dog?”
She nodded again.
“This isn’t about a lost dog is it?”
Her grip tightened around a stuffed turtle, and she shook her head.
I tried to see inside, but it was too dark. My light simply didn’t reach that far, and my effort only seemed to distress the girl. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”
“My dad,” she whispered. “He’s mad at my mom and won’t let us leave the house. He has her in his room and . . .” Tears pooled between her thick lashes. “And he’s so mad.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did you call the police?”
“My mom already tried. She wrote a note on a pizza receipt to get help. The cops came, but Dad was holding me behind the door. He threatened to kill us all if they came in. So, my mom told them I did it as a joke, and that she was fine and would give me a good talking to.” She hiccupped with emotion, trying to stay brave.
“Oh, my God.” Why would the cops not insist on seeing Clara? I reached a hand through the narrow slit, and she grabbed it and held on for dear life. “Okay, I’m going to get help.”
“Please, don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Wait,” she said, a tear finally escaping its cage. “If the cops come back, he’ll kill us.”
I got onto my stomach and reached through the bars with my other hand to wipe away her tears. “I have a friend who is very good at this stuff. He’s a policeman, but it’s okay. He’ll know what to do. Can I call him?”
She thought about it—hard, by the way her face scrunched—her tiny brows knitting before she finally nodded her consent. “But you won’t leave me?”
“Never,” I promised, hoping I hadn’t just lied to her. The chief may need me to move away from the house.
I took back my hand and called him.
“Daffodil?” he said, his voice thick and groggy. “What’s wrong?”
I explained the situation as quietly and succinctly as I could.
“No sirens,” I warned. “No lights.”
“Got it. I’ll call the police chief in Peabody. He’s good people. And I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
Uh-oh.
“I want you away from that house right now.”
“I can’t do that, Chief. I promised Clara.”
“I don’t care. I want you away from there or . . . or I’ll have Ruthie put a hex on you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
A grin fought its way to the surface. “I’m not scared of my grandmother.”
“Then you don’t know her as well as I do. Please, daffodil.”
“I’m in the back, Chief. I’ll be the one soaked head-to-toe, turning blue, and shivering from hypothermia if you don’t hurry.”
“I’ll arrest you,” he said, lobbing his last Hail Mary.
“Chief,” I tsked him. “What makes you think I don’t have a thing for handcuffs?”
“Damn it.” He hung up, but I’d watched enough TV to know what happened next.
If the cops came in with guns blazing, despite what the chief advised the Peabody department to do, this would turn into a hostage situation. I had to get Clara out. Now.
I studied the bar. Hinged on the top, it was bolted to the wood frame above and below the window to keep someone from opening it as it swung out. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a wrench, or a hacksaw, or plasma cutters. But I might have a tire iron. Didn’t most cars