The Dead Girls Club - Damien Angelica Walters Page 0,40
her face. I didn’t catch the rest ’cause you were mumbling.”
He waits, open and curious. My thoughts tumble over each other. I was talking about the Red Lady? What did I say? What did I reveal? A sudden compulsion to tell him everything surges inside me, but I push it down. It’s too late for the truth. I’ve been lying for too many years.
“She’s … she was a story my friends and I told when we were kids. Not a big deal.” I take a sip of coffee.
“I almost woke you up because you seemed scared.”
“Scared?” My voice is nonchalant with only a glimmer of interest. It sounds convincing as hell.
“Yeah, you were saying ‘no’ and twitching around. You don’t remember it at all?”
“No. Honestly, she was just a ghost story, an urban legend sort of thing.” I can’t prevent the defensive tone. “I was talking to my mom last weekend about some of my old friends. Guess it stirred up memories.”
He cocks his head. “No other reason?”
“For the dream? No, not that I can think of.”
“Okay,” he says. “Just asking. Anyway, can’t remember if I told you already or not, but I’m going back to Mike’s today.” He pinches his fingers together. “We’re this close to finishing his kitchen, and I just want to get it done.”
While he showers, I put away the extra food. He kisses me on his way out, and I say, “Did I say anything else last night?”
“No. Nothing I could make out, anyway.”
I search for duplicity and see none. Guilt curdles on my tongue. This is my husband, for god’s sake. Yet I can’t help the suspicion. What else have I said? What else has he heard? As I watch him drive away from the kitchen window, I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass.
Red Lady, Red Lady, show us your face.
My arms landscape with goose bumps. I don’t remember dreaming about the Red Lady, don’t remember dreaming about anything at all. It makes me feel weak. I should be made of stronger stuff. I’ve been through worse. God, have I been through worse.
I finish cleaning the kitchen and take a quick shower. Grab my keys and GPS the address for the Lauren who doesn’t answer her phone. I cleared a couple hours from my calendar tomorrow afternoon, but Ryan will be at Mike’s for a while. My laundry can wait.
* * *
The neighborhood was probably nice once, but those days are long past. Even after my key fob chirps, I tug the handle of my car door, just in case. The apartment building smells strongly of soiled diapers and stale beer, and on the wall leading to the bottom-floor units, there’s a brown streak I hope isn’t what I suspect. The fluorescent lighting in here doesn’t do much to improve the gloom from the overcast day.
I knock on the door quickly, and from inside a woman says, “Just a minute!” I step back, arms stiff.
Her voice comes closer, the words low, but heavy with irritation. The woman who opens the door, holding a cell phone at shoulder level, is a gray-streaked blonde, about the right age. But the slight resemblance to Becca holds more to the coloring and build rather than her actual features. Pale skin, slim in a wiry way. Eyes pinched and sharp. Alert. No recognition. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure it isn’t her. But it’s been a long time. Who’s to say this isn’t how Becca would’ve aged if she’d had the chance?
“Yeah?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Lauren Thomas,” I say.
“You got her.”
“Originally from Towson?” I restrain the urge to wipe slick palms on my thighs.
Her eyes narrow. “What’s this about? You from CPS? If so, I already told the lady on the phone what I saw. Them kids are home alone all the time.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “I knew Ms. Thomas when I was a kid,” I say. “It’s been a long time, but I was friends with her daughter.”
“You got the wrong person.”
“I’m sorry to take up your time,” I say. But I don’t move away. “I’m Heather, by the way.” Nothing on her face save annoyance.
“Whatever.” Her cell phone is on its way back to her ear when she holds it out again. “If you find her, tell her to stop listing my address as hers, all right?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You ain’t the first person to come here looking for her.”
I jolt back a half step. “I’m not?”
She sneers and says, “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”