never liked that guy anyway, he’s just the muscle—
No Jacques. No Lilly. Kira found herself alone in a barely furnished room: a toaster, a mini fridge. A card table with three folding chairs and two empty wine glasses, the world’s most boring still life. No phone. A closed laptop sat on the counter. She wanted to take it, but it would only slow her.
Dishes and glasses were stacked beside the sink. Might as well be graffiti, Jacques was here. By his obsessive neatness shall ye know him. A space for a microwave over the countertop, but no microwave. A space for a full-size refrigerator, but no fridge. The house was incomplete, unfinished.
The air was nearly as hot here as in the closet. No air-conditioning. The smell of gasoline from the garage tickled her nose. She didn’t mind. Better than Rodrigo’s burned skin.
She pulled open the cabinets. No pistols. But a knife block with a half dozen black-handled knives. She grabbed the second-biggest steak knife and ran.
Into the garage. No cars. No vans. The gas smell was stronger here, stronger than it had been two days ago. A different life. A different girl.
She saw why now. One of the tanks was uncapped. She stepped toward it, thinking of setting fire to the house. Burning Rodrigo alive while he was locked in a closet.
Maybe a different girl but not that one.
Not yet.
Even in here his screams penetrated, faint, desperate.
She turned away from the gasoline. By the garage door, a motorcycle and a bicycle, a mountain bike, nice fat wheels. She didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle. The bike it would be. She didn’t want to hold the knife while she rode, but she couldn’t bear leaving it.
She tugged at the door handle. It stuck. She pulled harder. Harder.
Up it went, rattling its rails. The night air swept into the garage, a steady warm breeze. Free.
She hopped on the bike, felt the seat dig into her. She didn’t have shoes, but the pedals were flat, rubber. She stepped on them—
The handlebars twisted and she fell. Dropped the knife. It bounced off the concrete floor, nearly sliced open her face.
A Kryptonite lock ran through the bicycle’s front wheel and around the frame. She’d missed it.
Maybe they’d taped the key to the wall or something. She looked. Nope.
She screamed in frustration. No bike.
She picked up the knife, ran into the night…
Found herself at the end of a cul-de-sac. What? The road and neighborhood looked weirdly American, suburban. She didn’t see how they could have held her here, all these people, why there hadn’t been any noise—
But who cared, the neighbors could call the police. She sprinted for the next house—
And put her left foot in a hole. Her ankle gave, twisted sideways. Her bad ankle, the one she’d hurt playing soccer. She screamed as she landed awkwardly on the pavement. Which wasn’t pavement at all. But dirt.
Her ankle. It hurt. Why hadn’t she found her shoes, why hadn’t she looked for them? Why hadn’t she looked at the ground instead of running blindly like a four-year-old?
She picked up the knife, stood carefully, leaned on her right leg. Slowly she eased her weight to her left. It was wobbly, loose, but it held. Sprained. Badly. But not broken. She could hobble. For a while.
She limped toward the neighboring house, wondering why her scream hadn’t brought anyone outside.
Then raised her head to the sky, brilliant with stars. A country sky.
The houses, dark. The yards, dirt. The driveways, empty.
How many more clues do you want?
A real estate development gone bad. She thought that only happened back home, that movie The Big Short, Margot Robbie in the tub, rose skin and perfect, Christian Bale in a suit, weird and fat.
A ghost neighborhood. For a ghost girl.
The dirt street ran up a low hill, houses on either side. Kira saw no electric glow, no evidence of anyone within shouting distance. She shouted anyway. “Help!”
“HELP HELP HELP!”
Her voice fell into the night. No answer. Not even a cat meowing or a dog barking. This place was empty.
Okay, move.
She limped up the street, keeping the weight off her left leg as best she could, dragging the foot behind her. She looked for a stick, a metal rod, anything to use as a cane. Nothing. She wanted to run but made herself go easy. She had no idea how far she needed to go. If she pushed too hard she might tear ligaments in the ankle and wind up crawling.