Shadowshift (12 page)

CHAPTER 21

Fighting a losing a battle against curiosity, Tina tries to take her mind off Hannah by texting Kevin. Banal things like
I think we need more bread
and
I hate doing laundry,
and he responds politely, mostly with emoticons. Smiles and hearts, because he’s sweet, Tina thinks. But she can tell her petty observations are starting to annoy him, and they should be. He’s back on the frontline of his career, probably struggling to catch up after a week away from the office. A week he took off to help her put her life in order. He’s doing what he’s supposed to.

Why can’t I? she wonders.

Because, she realizes, she needs to know what’s going on with Hannah. The sudden change in the girl’s outlook is only half of it. Tina’s more than ready for Hannah to have friends, and she has nothing against Chelsea, who reminds Tina of herself at that age, but she can’t help thinking Chelsea’s not the right kind of friend for her daughter. Although Tina routinely hopes Hannah will do something wrong—wave a little flag of rebellion, at least—she isn’t ready to see her little girl in trouble, and one thing is almost certain about Chelsea.

She’s the kind of girl who looks for trouble.

So, despite several promises she’d never snoop through her daughter’s things, Tina steps into Hannah’s room with one purpose in mind: to find the journal that Hannah religiously writes in every night. If insight exists, it will likely be gleaned in those pages.

Not long into the search, Tina turns to the dresser, the most obvious place for a young girl to hide secrets. When she slides the bottom drawer open, she hits pay dirt. But something next to the journal captures Tina’s interest instead, a familiar ear poking from the side of a dirty cloth. She moves the cloth aside and finds the figurine her grandmother gave her.

Anger roils at her core.

She snatches the relic from the drawer and is shocked to find a slash of black tape across the cat’s eyes. This is much worse than anything Tina expected. Her daughter, having taken the one material possession Tina cherishes, is sending one hell of a demented message. Did she know Tina would come looking for her journal? Is this some kind of joke? No, the act is too cruel for Hannah’s sense of humor. The whole thing smacks of something Chet might have done, and that bothers Tina more than anything.

Is Hannah becoming like him?

Tina doesn’t open the journal; instead, she yanks the tape from the feline’s eyes. And, immediately, she knows she’s made a terrible mistake.

Electrical current races up her arms, and the figurine becomes cold and malleable, a shapeless gray mass, growing at an alarming rate, wriggling like a worm in her hands. Screaming, she releases the slimy lump and backs away, watching the thing pulse and writhe like some sort of hellborn slug.

Before long, the indistinct blob morphs into human form. Then, with incredible speed, the body lying on the carpet becomes clear.

Chet.

Just as he looked on the last morning he left for work, in his red polo and khaki shorts, but far more damaged. Older. Haggard. Like he’s spent the last six years in a concentration camp. Perhaps he’s dead.

This can’t be happening,
Tina’s mind screams.
This must be a nightmare!

She pensively leans toward him, placing her hand beneath his nose. When she feels his hot breath and notices his rising chest, she creeps backward.

Chet’s eyes shoot open. Cold and angry. Lightning fast, he pushes himself to his feet.

Tina runs into the hallway, screaming, trying to remember where she put her phone.

Halfway down the staircase, she senses him at her back, her sinuses assaulted by a fetid locker-room stench. One socked foot lands askew on a slick stair, and, losing balance, she tumbles, her arms shooting forward, instinctively bracing for impact. Headlong, she smashes into hard wooden stairs, and a crack rings out as pain blazes through her right leg.

Slap, slap, slap
—her body slides to the entryway landing, and, despite the agony consuming her, she manages to twist and look up, meeting Chet’s narrowed glare as he makes his languid, purposeful approach. Whatever humanity once lit his eyes has died. He’s no longer a man, Tina realizes.

He’s all monster.

A wicked grin cracks his weathered face as he crouches next to her and runs a coarse hand along her cheek. Her breathing comes in short, torturous bursts, and she feels herself beginning to fade away. But, through maddening waves of sharpening brutality, she pushes against shock, fighting for consciousness. She must stay awake. She needs to protect her family.

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m not angry.” The soft quality of his tone—a Mister Rogers voice, she thinks—disturbs her.

“Leave,” she gasps. “Leave…and don’t come…don’t come back.”

Appearing to pay no attention to her, he glances around the house. “Looks like you’re doing well for yourself,” he says. “So, where are we? Where did you bring me? Someplace nice, I hope.”

“You’re not welcome here.”

He rises, then moves into the living room. Soon, she hears tumult from the kitchen—drawers pulled open, the rifling of papers. Then silence.

“I’m warning you, Chet, get…get out of here…leave.” Her vision grows cloudy, and she feels herself drifting. Still, she fights, slapping a palm against the floor, trying to push herself up. Pain stabs her thigh, radiating into her midsection, and she drops back to the floor as a hazy form swims into her gaze.

“Six years,” he says. “Longer than I thought, and Missouri? What the fuck? Is Kevin Logan the hillbilly you’re fucking?”

“I…I thought you were dead.”

“I always knew you were a dirty whore,” he growls, “an unfit mother to
my
daughter.”

“Go to hell!”

“Sorry, I’ve already been there, and I’m not going back. So, where’s Hannah? I’m anxious for us to get as far away from here as possible.”

“Leave…leave her alone. You’ve already done enough to hurt her.”

Chet laughs. “I don’t guess she told you, did she? She’s special, like I am. We’re the last of our kind, a noble race that will one day rise and lay waste to fools like you.”

“You’re…you’re full of shit. I’m warning—”

“Do you really think you’re in any position to warn me? You should see your leg. God, it’s
really
fucked up—but, of course, you did it to yourself. You’ve always created your own tragedy, Tina. Poor little Tina. Woe is you.”

Faintly, Tina hears her cell phone ring upstairs. When it chimes a second time, Chet dashes up the stairs. The sound of the bedroom door swinging open, slamming against the wall. Heavy footfalls. Then she hears Chet answer the phone.

“Yes,” he says, “this is her father.” His voice grows louder as he clomps down the stairs. “Oh my God…yes…that’s terrible…yes, please bring her home at once. The address here? Wait, give me a minute.” Tina catches a flash of his red shirt as he passes, then she hears the rustle of papers from the kitchen. “Okay, we’re at sixteen-forty Maryland Avenue,” he says. “Yes, that’s right…no, not far at all. Okay…okay, Henry. Sorry about the trouble…you bet…thank you…see you soon.”

Struggling to understand the conversation—asking herself, Who’s Henry?—Tina falls into a deep, dark sleep.

* * *

Chet stares at his pallid reflection in the mirror. He came in the bathroom with the intention of taking a piss, because the urge had been strong. But when he’d stood over the toilet, nothing would come out, and the harder he pushed, the more his flaccid penis ached.

While it makes sense he’s dehydrated, six years without water should have killed him. And he can’t fathom why his smooth face isn’t wild with growth. He soon grows weary of trying to reconcile his confusion. After all, applying ordinary logic to true magic seems like a losing proposition.

Seeing his reflection now, he wonders if he’s already lost. He looks appalling. Gaunt. Diseased. Dead. And whatever confidence he’d tormented Tina with has vanished. He’d been fueled by instinct in those moments, getting the lay of the land, sizing up his situation. A situation that now seems bleak.

One minute, he was falling through a dark, seemingly limitless void. In the next, he awoke on a foreign floor, looking up at his wife. The passage of years feels like weeks to Chet, who knows his next move in general terms—grab Hannah and run—but he doesn’t have a plan.

In his mind, the mirror becomes fogged, and the hazy reflection in the glass turns eighteen. A young man, about to rob his father and dash for Cincinnati. Razor blades gleam from yesteryear’s sink, inviting him to lay waste to his greatest enemy.

Himself.

And he feels boundless anguish, knowing what he remembered then, if only for a moment; that he is the villain of his life story. That he, by his own hand, destroyed every fiber of decency his beloved mother attempted to give him. That flash of awareness hadn’t been strong enough to birth cutting moments when he’d been eighteen, and it hadn’t inspired a change in course.

So what about now? he wonders.

The power to end this nightmare for everyone, including himself, belongs to him. He can save Hannah from further suffering. She never did anything to deserve what’s coming—a life torn between competing identities. With a few deep slashes, he can finally rest, and Hannah will be free to carry on with whatever life she chooses.

Then Chet’s mind leaps forward, to the conversation he had with some fucker named Henry, who was concerned because his brat and Hannah were caught shoplifting.

Stealing…

The cold past shatters, and Chet grins.

…the apple never falls far from the tree.

Ending his life isn’t the answer. It never was. He made the right decision when he was eighteen, because Hannah wouldn’t have been born otherwise, and he’s making the right decision now. Sheltering his daughter and cultivating her talents are his true charges, regardless of his past mistakes. For her, he can be the leader he never had, giving her a fighting chance to realize her potential.

But Tina holds insurmountable influence. As long as she remains in the world, she’ll never stop fighting for Hannah to be normal…boring…something she isn’t.

Chet pushes down on mounting rage. His effectiveness has always relied on calm, steady nerves. Now is not the time to lose control, particularly with the solution so clear and simple.

He strides into the kitchen and selects a long knife from a wooden block beside the oven. Clean. Sharp. Far more effective than the crude steel he considered opening his veins with as a teenager. But this blade isn’t for him. A few deep slashes are the answer, but the wounded flesh won’t be his.

Action must come swift. Hannah will arrive soon, and it’s important she’s confronted with her father’s greatest gift the moment she enters this suburban prison for the last time—the gift of true freedom. Only then will she understand that the doorway to a
normal
life has been forever slammed shut.

CHAPTER 22

In the backseat of Henry Sullivan’s car, Hannah gazes out the window, fearful the record store episode will create a fresh rift between her mom and Kevin. While she knows each will understand her situation—wrong place, wrong time—she isn’t as certain her mom won’t hold Kevin accountable on some level.

Up front, Chelsea and her father shout blunt accusations at each other. Hardly a healthy father/daughter relationship, but that’s fine. These people aren’t Hannah’s concern, and she knows she’ll shed Chelsea forever the moment she steps out of this car. As for Hannah’s secret, the girl won’t dare whisper a word. She’s far too frightened after what she saw today. Not that fear is getting in the way of trying to redirect blame now.

“It was Hannah’s fault,” Chelsea shouts. “She put those records in my backpack and didn’t tell me about them.”

“Then why did the corrections officer grill you for two hours and only talk to your friend for twenty minutes? Why did they call me and not Hannah’s parents?” Jolting the car to an abrupt stop at a red light, Henry glances back at Hannah. “You seem like a nice girl,” he says. “Sorry you got caught up in this.”

Hannah wordlessly waves off the apology, then goes back to gazing out the window.

“You never believe me,” Chelsea screams. “Everything’s always my fuckin’ fault!”

“For Christ’s sake, Chelsea, they showed me the goddamn security camera footage!”

The light turns green, and Henry jams his foot into the gas pedal. The sudden acceleration causes Hannah’s stomach to twist and drop, and she swallows bile, hoping this ride from hell will soon be over.

Glaring at Chelsea, Henry asks, “Are you trying to tell me the cameras lied?”

Unable to articulate a rebuttal, Chelsea falls silent, and Henry reduces the car to a normal speed.

“Again, I’m so sorry, Hannah,” he says. “You aren’t exactly seeing us at our best. Are you okay back there?”

“I’m fine, Mr. Sullivan,” Hannah replies.

“Things are never good between us, Dad,” Chelsea mutters.

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my little girl,” he says. “She’s had a rough time since her mother walked out on us, and she could use a good friend like you.”

With that, the last of Hannah’s sympathy for the strange girl dies. No wonder Chelsea hadn’t appeared sad when she talked about her mother’s death. It was a giant lie. Just as her claim to find comfort in the history of previously loved possessions had probably been a lie. This girl has one true pursuit: forging a reality free of truth. And in that sense, her secrets loom larger than Hannah’s. Because, Hannah suspects, the secrets Chelsea keeps, she keeps from herself.

No one speaks for the rest of the ride, and after Henry pulls the car into the driveway, he steps out and helps Hannah wrestle her bike from the trunk. When the Cannondale’s tires meet the pavement, he flashes a pained smile, and she feels sorry for him. This man, she senses, does the best he can. He only travels for work to keep a roof over his daughter’s head and, of course, feed her addiction for all things vintage.

As Hannah starts toward the house, Henry says, “I understand if you don’t want to talk to Chelsea again, but I would appreciate if you would help clear something up, so that I can sleep at night.”

“I can try,” Hannah says.

“The horror show in that record store…all of the things that went haywire…”

Hannah braces for what’s coming next. What he saw is clearly fighting with his sense of reality. And, unlike the corrections officers, who dismissed the issue as electrical problems in the old building, he must suspect Hannah of her true role in causing the mayhem.

He continues: “Do you think…do you think Chelsea had something to do with that? Shoplifting I understand. I don’t like it one bit, of course, but I can deal with that. It’s just that…just that I don’t want to believe my little girl is destructive or…or dangerous.”

“No, Mr. Sullivan. I think it’s just like they said. Faulty wiring. Electrical problems.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I appreciate that, Hannah. Thank you.” He slams the trunk of the car, then says, “One more thing. Do you think your father would mind if I came to the door and spoke to him for a few minutes? I know he’s probably worried, but I feel like I need to apologize and assure him that none of this was your fault.”

“He isn’t home,” Hannah says, “but you can come up and speak to my mother, if you like.”

Confusion washes the smile from his face. “Oh, that’s odd. When I called your mom’s phone, your father answered. I just assumed that—”

“That’s not possible.” But even as Hannah speaks those words, her mind reels, considering the dark truth. Her father
is
in the house. She brought him here. What if, somehow, he’s broken the bonds of his prison?

“It will only take a moment,” Henry says. “I promise, then I’ll be on my way.”

Body tensing with fear, Hannah lets go of her bike, which falls to the driveway with a dull clang.

“What’s wrong, dear?” Henry asks. “Let me help you with your—”

“No,” Hannah says. “Please leave. Now is not a good time.” Trembling, she bends down and yanks the Cannondale upright, then begins trundling it up the walkway, afraid of what she’ll discover inside the house.

But hesitation spins her.

What if Kevin’s car is in the garage? Maybe he came home from work early. She’s never seen him answer her mom’s phone, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t. It’s not like she has studied Kevin’s behaviors for years.

“Did the man you talk to
say
he was my father?” she asks.

Henry nods. “Is something wrong? Do you need help?”

Then a brighter possibility blooms in Hannah’s mind. What if Kevin, because he’s proud of his newfound role in her life, couldn’t resist playing her father over the phone? Thinking back to the bookstore, and the plan that led her to Chelsea in the first place, she realizes that notion fits better, and a wave of relief swallows her concerns.

She says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Sullivan.”

“No need to apologize,” he assures her. “It’s been a difficult day for all of us.”

“I’d actually appreciate it if you come to the door and help explain things to my parents.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, smiling.

But his smile doesn’t last long. The slam of a door punctuates the still summer day, swinging Hannah’s attention to the Sullivan car, the source of the disturbance. Striding toward Hannah, Chelsea holds up her copy of
Midnight Mourning
. “Here,” she shouts, “give this shit back to your bitch mother! I was lying when I said she’s a good writer. She fuckin’ sucks!”

Face flushing red, Henry points a trembling finger at his daughter. “Get back in the car!”

“Fine,” Chelsea says, “I’ll tell her myself.” She pushes past Hannah and her father, then glides to the front door. She pokes the doorbell a few times, causing a hectoring symphony of overlapping chimes, then turns back to Hannah and her father, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Hannah doesn’t know what to do, and it’s clear the girl’s father is equally dumbfounded by the situation. Chelsea’s a force of nature, Hannah thinks, and just like it’s impossible to keep the wind from blowing, it’s impossible to stop crazy from doing any damn thing it desires.

Then again, what’s the harm? Let the girl show her true colors. It will only validate Hannah’s distrust, and she can smooth over her mother’s resulting anger. Not like she hasn’t done it countless times in the past.

When the front door swings open, no one stands in the entryway, and Hannah’s heart races.

One second, Chelsea strides confidently inside. In the next, her shrill scream rings out.

Hannah runs for the door, and Henry follows closely on her heels.