Page 84 of Dark Ugly Places

She stares long and hard in my direction, then turns abruptly. “Good night, Martha,” she calls behind her and walks toward the stairs.

I log out of my computer and collect my things to go. Outside, the autumn sky is hazy with city light, the stars blurring like looking through amber. Somewhere nearby, a house has a fire going, the scent of the wood burning pungent in my nose.

Emmy texts me about dinner, but I tell her to just order pizza again. Before I drive off, I pop open the visor and touch my index finger to the little piece of Emmy’s hair nestled inside the pouch of fabric.

Killer.

The word hums deep within, and I know it’s from Nicola. A shiver runs through me as I sit idling in the Redferns’ driveway.

Killers, the both of them.

It’s time to have a chat with ol’ Nicola, so I call her forward, encouraging her.

“I don’t think Bambi had anything to do with this.”

Oh really? The evidence is right there. My daughter’s hair is in your hands. And what about the photograph? That’s clearly her in the passenger seat. She was there and did nothing!

I stare down at my fingers, now involuntarily stroking the little piece of hair, the long, fine tendrils that match Emmy’s.

See?

“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “Bambi had nothing to do with this. That wasn’t her that day. She’s got her own troubles.”

Because she knows what Redfern really is. Doesn’t she?

She’s got me there. But then again: “That doesn’t make her a killer, too.”

No. It makes her an accomplice.

Bambi Redfern is many things, but an accomplice to murder doesn’t seem to fit. Then again, keeping her husband’s reputation intact by hiding his true nature is exactly her M.O.

So, what are you going to do about it?

“Nothing, for now.”

You can’t play judge and jury by yourself, Martha.

I start the car and pull out into the road. “I can, Nicola. And I will.”

35

Nicola

It’s my twelfth birthday. We sing over a small homemade cake, no icing, my mother slightly off-key. When I close my eyes, I imagine a store-bought cake, tall and pretty, and my name written on the top in pink icing. I imagine little bows and swirls, maybe some piped frosting roses. My father cuts it into four pieces with two strokes of a kitchen knife, then walks away, taking his down into the basement.

“What’s gotten into him?” Janice mumbles.

My mother sighs, her eyes flicking toward the living room. She keeps her voice low. “He isn’t feeling well.”

“The sickness again?” I ask. My mother shakes her head as if to say Don’t mention that. Shame on you.

Of course, there are no doctors to call. No bottles of pills to feed him. Mom refuses to get him help. The embarrassment would be too great. And so, the invisible sickness lingers, affecting us all like a virus.

Downstairs, I hear him tinkering in the basement, talking in different tones and voices, and my stomach lurches. Something is coming, coming, coming for him. Maybe I could stop it, but do I really want to?

My mother catches my face and glares at me. “It’s just another day. You know, Nicola,” she says, her voice sharp.

Except it isn’t another day. It’s a very particular day for me. The memory comes swiftly, without effort. I will it away, but here in the dark place, there’s no room for resistance.