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Marcy the hag.
Huddled on the filthy floor, her head buried down, arms wrapped around her body, knees drawn up. Her pretty red blouse streaked with dirt. Crying so deeply that it made almost no sound. Crying the way people do when the sobs hurt like punches.
Dahlia sat there. Frozen. Kind of stunned, really. Marcy?
Marcy was way too self-conscious to be like that.
Ever.
Unless . . . What could have happened to her to put Marcy here, on that floor, in that condition? Until now Dahlia wouldn’t have bet Marcy had enough of a genuine human soul to be this hurt.
The bathroom was filled with the girl’s pain.
Dahlia knew that what she had to do was nothing. She needed to sit there and finish her business and pretend that she wasn’t here at all. She needed to keep that stall door locked. She needed to not even breathe very loud. That’s what she needed to do.
Absolutely.
— 5 —
It’s not what she did, though. Because, when it was all said and done, she was Dahlia Allgood.
And Dahlia Allgood wasn’t a monster.
— 6 —
She finished in the toilet. Got dressed. Stood up. Leaned her forehead against the cold metal of the stall door for a long ten seconds. Reached back and flushed. Then she opened the door.
Turning that lock took more courage than anything she’d ever done. She wasn’t at all sure why she did it. She pulled the door in, stepped out. Stood there. The sound of the flushing toilet was loud and she waited through the cycle until there was silence.
Marcy Van Der Meer lay in the same position. Her body trembled with those deep sobs. If she heard the flush, or cared about it, she gave no sign at all.
Dahlia went over to the left-hand bank of sinks, the ones farther from Marcy. The ones closer to the door. She washed her hands, cutting looks in the mirror at the girl. Waiting for her to look up. To say something. To go back to being Marcy. It was so much easier to despise someone if they stayed shallow and hateful.
But . . .
“Hey,” said Dahlia. Her throat was phlegmy and her voice broke on the word. She coughed to clear it, then tried again. “Hey. Um . . . hey, are you . . . y’ know . . . okay?”
Marcy did not move, did not react. She didn’t even seem to have heard.
“Marcy—?”
Nothing. Dahlia stood there, feeling the weight of indecision. The exit door was right there. Marcy hadn’t looked up, she had no idea who was in the bathroom. She’d never kn
ow if Dahlia left. That was the easy decision. Just go. Step out of whatever drama Marcy was wrapped up in. Let the little snot sort it out for herself. Dahlia didn’t have to do anything or say anything. This wasn’t hers to handle. Marcy hadn’t even asked for help.
Just go.
On the other hand . . .
Dahlia chewed her lip. Marcy looked bad. Soaked and dirty now, small and helpless.
She wanted to walk away. She wanted to sneer at her. Maybe give her a nice solid kick in her skinny little ass. She wanted to use this moment of alone time to lay into her and tell her what a total piece of crap she was.
That’s what Dahlia truly wanted to do.
She stood there. The overhead lights threw her shadow across the floor. A big pear shape. Too small up top, too big everywhere else. Weird hair. Thick arms, thicker legs. A shadow of a girl who would never—ever—get looked at the way this weeping girl would. And it occurred to Dahlia that if the circumstances were reversed, Marcy would see it as an open door and a formal invite to unload her cruelty guns. No . . . she’d have reacted to this opportunity as if it was a moral imperative. There wouldn’t be any internal debate over what to do. That path would be swept clear and lighted with torches.
Sure. That was true.
