Page 117 of Dark Ugly Places

“Is this …” She turns the tiny object over in her hand, her fingers shaking. “Is this my hair?”

I rub my fingers back over it, feeling the texture. The sticky edges, now dried, the long lock of matted hair.

She fishes in her pocket and whips out her phone. The flashlight carves a narrow beam in the darkness, her long shadow breached across its surface. She holds out her shaking hand into the light and examines the little black tendril.

Emmy pulls her hand back and looks at me. “This isn’t my hair, Martha.”

“Yes,” I say. “It is. That’s exactly what it is.”

She hands it to me again. “It’s just a piece of string. See for yourself.”

I take the tendril from her and hold it in the light. The ends fray into artificial strands. The weave winds too neatly. It could be her hair. It could be. It should be. I tuck it away quickly. Some things are better left in the dark.

“What does this mean?” Emmy says, switching off her light, her voice a low vibration in the pitch black.

The back of my neck begins to prick and burn. Nicola’s voice is a distant hum of vibration in my ears. It tickles deep inside, an inner irksome itch that cannot be scratched. You know, Martha, don’t you? You know, and you have to stop this.

“Nothing,” I say and stand up from the cool garage floor. “It means nothing at all. We have a plan, and we need to get going.”

I take Emmy’s hand and lead her over to the Beetle. “Get in. We need to hurry.”

She looks at me funnily for a quick moment. “What? I’m not coming with you?”

“You’re part of the decoy, Emmy. Remember? Two of us drove in. They need to see the two of you drive out.”

“I don’t want to go with her!”

“That ship has sailed, Emmy. Now get in the car.”

“No, Martha. I’m not going with her.”

It’s strange. I never thought it would come to this—taking the life of a young girl—but then again, this is the cleanest way. Emmy is the only person besides Bambi who knows me for me and not for Nicola. It’s a simple swap. A name change. Some new ID. Then everything belongs to me.

I shudder with a brief feeling of elation, the pure exultation of the moment springing through every nerve ending, even the dead ones. I’ve always wanted to live—really live—without the threat of one day going back, not ever to return. For a brief moment, I imagine how it will feel, one last second to stave off whatever small river of compassion might be within me for the girl so that I can do what must be done before Nicola senses too much.

My fingers curl around the screwdriver’s slender handle as I lift it into the air behind her. It will be quick and painless. She won’t even know what happened.

A noise from inside the house. Something crashes to the floor. Glass shatters, and Bambi screams. She can’t die. I need her. I’ve waited far too long.

My adrenaline pulses as I run inside and stop dead in my tracks.

52

Bambi

Bambi steadies her hand as she measures out the Macallan, aware of Martha’s instructions. She makes a double, then fills the tumbler a third time. Ice cubes clink against the crystal glass as she drops them in, splashing the liquor over the sides. She leans over it and inhales, inspecting the fragrance for any trace. The strong fumes of the whiskey are overpowering, but then again, Bambi never did have a nose for such things. She swirls the cubes around in the glass, dissolving some of the frozen water. She sniffs again just to be safe. Nothing.

Her heart racing, she flits to the kitchen drawer, checking the EpiPen is there one last time. She pulls it out, its weight comforting in her grasp, and sets it at the side of the stove as Jason comes in.

“What are you doing?”

She turns, attempting not to look startled. “Preparing a drink,” she says, trying to keep her voice even. “I figured you could use one.” Then, handing him the Macallan, she adds, “What did Graham say?”

“He says I’m fucked, that’s what Graham says.” He brings the glass to his lips and inhales. His eyebrow lifts, curious. “Is this the Macallan?”

Bambi nods. “Yes. Why?”

He sniffs it again. Bambi’s heart stops. Please, God—don’t sense anything. She smiles one of her smiles and goes to get the bottle from the liquor cabinet. “It’s a fresh bottle,” she says. “I just bought it.”