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CHAPTER 27
BONITA, THE BLOND WOMANHAS named me. I try it on in my head. I wait to hear my mother’s voice whisper it to me. I do not feel beautiful with my scarred head and sagging face and dragging foot. Can a Stupid Girl really be Bonita?
I am humbled the blond woman gave me such a gift. As well as scared.
I am Stupid Girl. I can’t work my lips or tongue to tell the detective what she needs to know. I’m too weak to stand up to Cook, who will make Hélène and me pay for talking to the police.
I am nothing. Bonita, Girl—they are both the same. Broken. Though in my differentness, I do know some things others don’t. That the house has memory, feels pain. That colors are not just crayons, but moods and powerful expressions of their own.
That my mother is standing beside me, right now. I feel her presence as strongly as the scent of biscuits wafting from the oven. My mother is here, a sliver of silver gliding in and out of the light. She appears when I need her the most. When the worst is about to happen.
I hold my breath, rolling out more biscuit dough, then cutting it into rounds for the waiting cookie sheet. Like Cook, I pretend I don’t hear the argument raging on the other side of the kitchen door.
—
“DO YOU HAVEDOCUMENTATION FOR either of your maids?” the blond detective is demanding.
“What do you mean?” Mayor Howard. His voice is hollow with guilt. If I drew him, I would use reds and golds, with a core of darkest night. He loved his wife, but it couldn’t save them from the corrupt ambition at the center of their marriage.
The Bad Man is pure black. Mayor Howard... he has more color, though the end result is not so different.
“Birth certificate for Bonita—”
“Who is Bonita?”
“Sorry, your niece.”
“Her name is Bonita?” The mayor, genuinely confused.
“I don’t know,” the detective replies crisply. “But I’m pretty sure her birth certificate doesn’t list it as Girl.”
Silence. The stove timer chimes. Cook is stirring sausage gravy on the gas range while also eavesdropping shamelessly. She’s clearly distracted. I put on oven mitts, check the biscuits.
They are fluffy and golden on top. I pull the tray out of the oven, place it on the top to cool. I can’t speak. I can’t read. The entire world outside this house is terrifying to me. But maybe if I ever did leave, I could be like my own mother, making people sigh happily over plates of food. Cook has taught me enough, and maybe I have some of my mother in me after all.
I feel her again, brushing my shoulder. Does she like the name Bonita? Maybe I could use it instead.
My eyes burn, though I am much too old to cry.
From the other side of the doorway: “Of course we have the paperwork. My wife...” The mayor, choked up and angry. “My wife just died! For God’s sake, I don’t have time for this right now. Have you no compassion?”
Another male voice. The sheriff. I would draw him in shades of deep purples, blues, and reds. Big, like the Bad Man, but softer around the edges. Deeper. For good or evil, I’m not sure yet. But I like his voice. It sounds like a warm blanket, and our rooms in the basement are much colder than anyone thinks.
“Maybe we could wait,” the sheriff starts now. “We did find record of the suicide note on the office computer. Here—”
“No.” The blond detective again. She is a burst of oranges, yellows, reds. There’s no dark in her. Only searing light that will either blind or save. I both fear her presence and lean toward the flame.
My mother brushes my shoulder again. She is agitated today.
Something worse looms ahead. The mayor’s wife is dead, the police are still here, and more will be made to pay. Because I can’t tell the truth about the Bad Man, what really happened to the mayor’s wife, what happens to all of us.
I’m not Bonita.
I’m Stupid Girl once again.
The other female voice speaks up. I don’t understand the two female police. The blonde I met first has a hard, Northern clip. This one has a softer voice, rounder vowels. Of here, but not from here. I would color her in the shades of the forest, with sparks of fireflies. She is of the earth. Quieter, but sparkly in her own way.
“Mayor Howard,” the other police lady says now, “we understand this is a difficult time. But when you start talking about an illegal organ transplant, I don’t care how many years back, the safety of your staff becomes our primary concern.”
