Page 64 of Dark Ugly Places

Do you want to?

The question lingers in the pitch black. I hear Ben’s deep voice and reach out for him, but I grasp only emptiness, only air. The place I’m in is a void, sheer nothingness for infinity.

Do you want to stop her, Nic?

I don’t know? Should I?

There’s only silence. The silence of me talking to myself in the blank space.

I feel myself losing time and getting confused again. Exactly when did Martha emerge for the very first time? Was it in this apartment we share, now that our life is in pieces? Was it after Ben died or before?

Don’t be stupid, Nicola. You know she came out long, long before.

Did she?

Yes. You know she did.

Tell me, then.

I can’t.

Why not, Ben? Why?

Because you need to remember.

27

Martha

Winding up into the hills, the roads turn narrow and tree-lined. Mid-morning light casts shadows across the windscreen. Up ahead, the road bends sharply as mansions set back from the main road loom like gigantic faces, watching me. Nicola claws into me, her fear palpable as I slow to check the house numbers. At 1900, there’s a massive stone gate. Behind it, the top floor and roof of the largest home I’ve ever seen peeks out. Out front, a large oak tree laden with silver lanterns hides the garage entrance. To the left, I spot the front door, which looks to be about ten feet tall and the color of polished steel.

I pull up toward the gate, where I press my thumb against a little keypad and wait. An eerie quiet surrounds the house, as if no one should be home. I peer inside the gate to the windows on the top floor, curtained and closed. A voice on the loudspeaker comes through, scratchy and with a foreign accent.

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m here for the interview?”

“Qué dijiste? Interview?”

“Yes, I have an interview with Mrs. Redfern.”

“Oh, sí!” I hear a rustle of something like a paper bag, light cursing in Spanish, then a loud beep in my ear.

The gate opens and reveals the lower floor of the house, which is much larger than I initially thought. The perspective from the road is deceiving—the house is enormous, extending up the hill and back, at least double the size of the others I passed. I crane my neck up to where the front door reaches the second floor, at least twenty feet of polished steel—large and grand—the entrance to a fortress. I note a subtle pattern etched into it—circles, incomplete, nestled into each other and intersecting like a maze. A small chime issues from out of nowhere, and I dart back as the lower half of the door—regular-sized—opens. A small, stout Mexican woman in her fifties stands in front of me. She sizes me up, a look of reserved skepticism, like she half expects me to be selling something. I muster up a smile. “Hello, I’m Martha.” I extend a hand and force myself to smile wider. “I’m here to meet Mrs. Redfern.”

“Yes,” she says and opens the door a little wider, avoiding my hand. “You can come in.”

“Thank you.”

Nicola pecks at the back of my neck, and I fight her off with a flick of my hand that looks like I’m adjusting my hair.

Inside, the cool air smells of fresh linen, lavender, and something vaguely sterile. I take note of the high ceilings and pale walls made of stone that looks like alabaster.

“You are Martha? The 11:00 interview?” She sizes me up again.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“This way.” She leads me into a sitting room decorated in pale blues, navies, grays, and creams, like a Williams Sonoma catalog on steroids.