Page 50 of Hilarina and the Ogre

“He killed her, you know.” She had Trenton’s blunt way about her. That is, if Trenton had displayed traumatized serial-killer vibes. “His sister. Amelia.”

Hilary felt his hands go cold, and not just because he’d opened most of the windows in the house. “He has a sister?”

“No,” she said. “Not anymore.”

His eyes went toward the bathroom. He didn’t know what was going on, but instinct was telling him to get Trenton and get out. Gas chamber or not, it was better to go home. They could regroup after that. “I’m sorry,” he said, already turning. “We have to—”

She shoved it at him. She’d pulled the picture from her bag as if she carried one with her everywhere she went. And it said a lot that despite everything Hilary’s eyes zeroed in on Trenton first, and his first thought, seeing the roly-poly overly-serious five-year-old with the massive cheeks and hair slicked down to one side, was just how cute he was. Only then did he notice the baby on his lap, a little girl in a lacy white dress and an oversized bow sprouting off her head like a mushroom.

“Amelia,” the woman said. “My daughter. He killed my daughter.”

Hilary pushed the picture back at her, and when she didn’t take it, let it fall to the floor. “Sorry,” he said, more with reflex than real meaning.

Trenton was still scrubbing uselessly at his hair when Hilary burst back into the bathroom.

“It’s not coming out,” the boy said. “I think we’ll have to cut—”

“Never mind that.” He grabbed at Trenton’s wrist. “We have to go.”

Trenton started to ask why and stopped when he saw his mother in the bathroom doorway. “Oh,” he said.

Hilary tugged again. He should have headed right to the car, but something made him turn, going toward the boy’s bedroom instead.

It was pathologically neat, and so devoid of any personality it seemed completely unlived in. If not for the neat shelf of books and the clothing in some cheap plastic bins, Hilary never would have recognized any of it as belonging to his friend.

He grabbed the duffel from the floor of the closet. It had some gym things inside. Trenton’s spare Aikido Gi and a stick of deodorant. “Pack the important shit,” he said, jerking his head toward the books. “Just whatever you can carry.”

Trenton’s mouth opened, though he didn’t get the chance to speak.

The boy’s mother slapped the door frame. “You think you can run from it? He’s a killer. He kills babies.”

Hilary stuffed clothing into the duffel, forcing himself to be discerning. He took the things he knew best and whatever seemed the highest quality. But the duffel was small, and almost nothing fit. He had to duck under the woman’s arm to get back to the kitchen and still was followed.

“He smothered her,” she said to his back. “Only six months old, and he smothered her. That demon child was jealous because she was pretty. Because she was sweet, and he was—"

“So you’re the reason he thinks he’s ugly.” The words just came out—an accident. He well knew one wasn’t supposed to argue with crazy people. “But he’s not. He’s strong, and he’s handsome, and he’s not a killer.”

Trenton tried to grab his arm. “Let’s go. Let’s just go.”

Hilary pulled his arm free. “Where are the garbage bags?”

Trenton pulled open the one cabinet he’d somehow missed. “Here.”

“You don’t know!” the woman shouted. “Because he won’t tell you. But he killed her. Only six months—”

“If a six-month-old died in this house, it was your fault,” he countered. “He was only a baby himself. How could he be responsible for anything?”

She went white. Then she went purple. She flung herself at him.

If Trenton hadn’t caught hold of her, they would have both gone down together. Hilary was almost sorry they hadn’t. He kind of wanted an excuse to hit her, even if she was crazy.

“Hilary—”

“I just need a minute.”

He raced back to the room, re-focused, and began shoving things into garbage bags all while the woman’s shrieks filled the house. He wondered vaguely if the police would be called, or if the neighbors were already used to things like this and just ignored it.

He filled two bags—all he could carry—and headed back. Trenton was still in the kitchen, trying to restrain his mother so she wouldn’t hurt herself—his Aikido skills being stressed to breaking. His face was creased deeply with anxiety. His eyes were wet. “Hil.”