“Fine.” I throw my hands up in the air, so my complete surrender is clear. “We’ll both go. But forget the whole me sitting in the car with Dyl while you run inside. Actually, I don’t think it’s a great idea to bring her along at all.”
You’d think Smith might meet me halfway on this. But like me, you’d be wrong. “Yeah, well, it’s a worse idea to leave her here. Let me paint you a real quick picture. Teena and her guy of the week have a fight. She storms off. Most likely comes home to get drunk. And when she’s had too many, there’s nothing she likes more than tottering into Dyl’s room and playing up the grieving mother bit. Screaming. Crying. Shaking her fist at the ceiling. All while asking, ‘Why why why . . .’” Smith stops and takes a deep breath. “Half the time she passes out on Dyl’s bed.”
“Okay,” I say. “I get it. But . . . we can’t hide Dyl from her forever.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He sighs. “But for now, at least until we figure out what’s going on with her, I think we should keep Dylan close to us.” Springing to his feet, Smith holds a hand out to me. “Come on.”
I almost put my hand in his. It feels so natural, like an agreement that we are in this together. I even go so far as to stretch my arm out, before I remember and recoil. “Why don’t you lead the way?”
“Damn. I almost had you,” Smith says, flexing his hand so that I can see his torn and bruised knuckles. Then with a shrug, he grabs our plates and tosses them into the sink before heading back upstairs.
We find Dyl in the exact same position as we left her.
“Now what?” I ask, making sure to keep my voice low.
Leaning forward, Smith grabs hold of the comforter and whips it off the bed. “Now we—”
He chokes on whatever he was going to say next and we both stare in horror.
Dylan is wearing the same thing she’d had on when she disappeared: a threadbare Mickey Mouse tank top, paired with short black denim shorts. Curled on her side with her arms crossed over her chest, she looks so vulnerable.
But this isn’t what has Smith and me so shaken. No, that would be the red streaks slashed through with black, like lines of stitches, encircling her ankles, her knees, her wrists, her elbows, her shoulders, and—worst of all—her neck. There are probably even more we can’t see beneath her clothing. We both know instantly that each of them marks a place where she’d been chopped apart, and the black lines make it look like she’s been crudely sewn back together.
As Smith and I stare, unable to tear our eyes away, I hear this horrible high-pitched whistle, like a distant teakettle coming to a boil.
Smith steps in front of me, blocking my view. His hands curl around my head, gently applying pressure as if he knows that my skull is in danger of exploding. “Breathe in, Lennie. Come on now. Don’t freak out.”
It is only then that I realize the terrible sound is coming from me. I was trying to scream but a shrill whisper is all that can make its way past my closed throat. Shuddering, I make the horrible sound stop and try to take deep, calming breaths, but I choke on the air, unable to remember how to get it into my lungs.
“Breathe.” Removing his hands from my head now that it seems like it’ll stay in one piece, his magic touch moves lower, one hand pressing on my back and the other flat against my lower ribcage. “Come on, Lennie. Don’t do this. Breathe.”
My throat loosens enough for me to sneak a bit of air in and then a little bit more. The world comes back into focus, and that’s when I realize that the fingertips of Smith’s right hand are parked directly beneath my boobs.
“I’m okay,” I say, pushing his hand away and taking a step back. “It was only that . . .” I swipe the back of my arm across my eyes, not wanting Smith to see the tears there. “I saw the picture. The one of Dyl . . . after.”
“No way.” Smith’s response is immediate. “Who would show that to you?”
“A cop. He was asking all these questions. Then he just put the picture in front of me.”