Page 67 of Dark Ugly Places

I smile confidently in a way a mother would smile. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs. Redfern. I will take care of you.”

Her jaw clenches like she might cry, but she doesn’t. Her face is motionless and stoic. There’s the slightest exhale from her, as if she might protest, but she doesn’t.

Bambi nods once, as if to herself. “You can start tomorrow.”

Inside, Nicola claws at me, trying her best to scratch her way through. I push her away, my teeth gritted. The place under my hair at the back of my neck is becoming quite raw. But the days are mine now, and she’ll have to learn to live in the dark.

28

Nicola

When I finally emerge, it’s Saturday morning. I burst forth, sitting up with a shock. There’s a heavy thumping in my temple, the feeling of a vice across my skull. Days without light, without pills, and I’m a walking migraine. I scour the nightstand and find a single rogue pain pill, which I swallow hastily, then search the upstairs for more. Nothing to be found.

I hurl myself downstairs, the pounding heavy with each footstep, and find Emmy eating cold pizza in the kitchen with Scotch nestled at her feet, sleeping quietly. She stares outside at the rain-soaked courtyard and muddy patch of lawn.

Scotch wakes and comes to me, his ears down, tail tucked. He sniffs my hand once, then relaxes, his tail wagging happily as he leaps into my arms. I kiss his little head, and he licks my arm sweetly.

“What’s going on? What day is it?”

Emmy stares at me, her expression blank.

“If you mean ‘good morning,’ then it isn’t really. It’s been raining, and you were yelling all night in your sleep. I had to get up at, like, 3 a.m. and shut your door. I thought the neighbors were going to call the cops.”

My nose picks up a familiar scent. Coffee. Dark. Old. Who cares. I go to pour a cup. “I was yelling?”

“Yeah. Super loud. And I would not drink that if I were you. You made it like three days ago. You said our coffee was shit, and we should buy better beans from now on. You haven’t made any since.”

I plunk down the cup, my head still a pressure cooker. “I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” I throw open the cupboards. Empty shelves stare back at me. A thin layer of dust and grime has formed over everything. The fridge, too, is bare. Bills and pizza receipts cover the countertop.

“How many nights have you—we—had takeout?”

Emmy chews while scrolling on her phone, distracted. “What? Are you serious? I’ve had takeout every single night this week. You haven’t been home for dinner once.”

I rub my eyes. Shit. I’ve lost a whole week. Martha went in for the interview on Monday. It’s Saturday. I’ve lost all five days.

I grab a seat next to Emmy at the breakfast counter, and Scotch settles beneath us.

Our eyes find each other. “Em, this is really important. I need you to tell me what I’ve been doing this week. Since last weekend.”

“What the hell, Mom? You’re freaking me out right now.”

“I’m not kidding. I need your help.”

Emmy looks me over. “Are you having a nervous breakdown or something? Is this about your medication?” She grabs her phone. “Should I call Nubia?”

My hand jets out and grabs her wrist. I shake her, not hard, just enough. “Emmy, listen to me! This is serious. I’m not having a nervous breakdown. I just need to remember, and the only way I can do that is if you help me. Do you understand?”

Emmy nods slowly, a piece of pizza in her cheek.

“Good. Now tell me what has been happening.”

“Well, you leave early and come home late. I text you, usually at lunchtime and then again around five, but you don’t answer until eight. When you get home, we don’t really talk much or anything. Sometimes you go straight to bed.”

“I do?”