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Teresa served pizza onto Maggie’s plate, and, like a barbarian, the girl picked up the greasy slice and shoved the end into her mouth. Teresa sat down at the opposite end of the table with knife and fork.
“I think we should invite that lady for dinner sometime,” Maggie said with her mouth full. She took another bite before swallowing the previous one. “She’s nice.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Teresa said. She cut her pizza into small pieces. “And I don’t think that would be appropriate. We hardly know her.”
“I know her,” Maggie said in a low voice. Teresa ignored her, and they finished their dinner in uncomfortable silence.
The rest of the evening passed without event. Maggie played in her room, which left Teresa with the opportunity to do some digging. She went to the garage and pulled down an old box with Derrick’s handwriting on it. She opened it and found his high school yearbooks.
“Ann Logan . . .” she whispered, sliding her finger down the index. She flipped to the first page mentioned and found Ann’s face among the line of smiling heads. Then she found Derrick’s. There was a heart around his picture, and when she saw the message Ann had written, she dropped the book.
I will love you forever. —Ann
She tore through the other three yearbooks and found similar notes in all of them. Except the last one. His senior picture only had a heart next to it. No love note. Even still . . .
They weren’t just a couple. They were high school sweethearts. Homecoming king and queen, no doubt. They were probably supposed to get married and have a family and grow old in the same godforsaken town they’d grown up in.
Together forever.
She put the books away and went back into the house. Upstairs she made an effort and checked on Maggie. The girl slept in the rocking chair in her room with a large book open on her lap.
The dirty old book had arrived hand delivered from the agency in charge of Maggie’s welfare shortly after she’d moved into the house. A cryptic letter from Maggie’s grandfather accompanied it. Both were written in another language, by hand, with heavy ink characters.
Teresa only knew who the letter was from because Maggie told Derrick, and Derrick told Teresa. It was Maggie’s only possession from her life before the Harts rescued her from an unknown fate.
When Teresa shifted the book to get a better look at it, Maggie stirred. The book slid to the floor where it landed and closed with a heavy thump.
“Maggie,” Teresa said in a soft voice. She touched Maggie’s shoulder. “Time for bed.”
Maggie woke up just enough to slide off the rocker and climb into bed. She hit the pillow face first and was out. Teresa covered her prone form and smoothed her hair away, surprising herself with the small gesture of affection. It seemed a natural action. Perhaps making an effort was easier than she thought.
Easy enough when the child was asleep—and Derrick wasn’t watching and analyzing and judging her every move.
She sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t trust her around Maggie. She saw it in the way he watched her. Almost as if he were looking for a reason to question her mental state again. To send her back to that hell. Back to Mountain View.
She shuddered and, with Maggie in bed, went to draw a bath. Nothing like near-scalding water to remove the chills from the day. The day-mares and the thoughts of the baby. Seven years gone. She slid lower into the water and closed her eyes, listening to her respirations and heartbeat in the muffled silence. When she finally sat up in the lukewarm bath, pale moonlight shone through the window.
Maggie’s voice came through the wall. Teresa got out and pulled on her robe. Maggie giggled and talked, as if responding to someone. Teresa looked at the clock as she passed through the master bedroom. After midnight. Derrick must have come home and awoken her.
Mother would not have allowed it. Let sleeping babes sleep, she always said.
Teresa crept down the hall, curious to hear what they were talking about. What was so important he had to wake her? She peeked through the cracked door. Maggie sat on the floor by a large plastic dollhouse Derrick had gifted her for no reason at all.
“The mommy goes in the kitchen. She likes to make purple Jell-O with tangerines.” Maggie dragged out the last word to a high note. Teresa heard a faint whisper, but it wasn’t a man’s voice. Maggie laughed. “No, silly. The daddy goes in the family room with the horses. I want a horse. If I had a horse, I’d name her Butterscotch and I would ride her to school. My grandpa had goats, but you can’t ride them. They might eat your shoes.”
Teresa pushed the door open an inch more, and the hinges creaked. Maggie jumped and looked up at her. No one was in the room. Kids had imaginary friends, still, didn’t they?
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“I had a bad dream and couldn’t go back to sleep.” She placed the doll from her hand in the doll house bathroom. “I dreamed about the lion man stealing my light again.” She cocked her head at Teresa. “Teresa? Why does the baby go in the basement?” She held up one of the littlest of the dolls.
Teresa knelt on the floor and took the baby from Maggie’s fingers. “She doesn’t. She goes in the nursery.” Teresa placed the doll in the little pink crib. It rocked back and forth.
“But . . . she said to move the baby stuff to the basement. Like you did.”
“She said? She who?”
“Tiffany. She’s right there.” Maggie pointed to the corner where the rocking chair sat.
No. It couldn’t be. It had been a dream. A nightmare.
Tiffany waved at Teresa with only her fingers, her eyes black spots on her face in the moonlit room. Her lips, pulled down into a disgusted frown, eased up at the corners into a sneer full of malice.
Teresa took a deep breath. “Maggie,” she said. “Would you please come with me?” She didn’t want to alarm the girl, and even though her pulse pounded in her ears, she fought the desire to snatch her up and rush her into the master bedroom. Tiffany’s grin only deepened.
“What’s the matter?” Maggie asked. Teresa flicked her eyes to the rocking chair.
“Just, please, come with me.” Teresa held out her hand. Maggie took it, her brows knit together with a blend of worry and curiosity. Teresa took Maggie to her and Derrick’s room and closed the door behind them.
“I thought it would be . . . fun . . . for you to sleep in here tonight.” Teresa indicated the king-size bed.
“But . . . I’m not tired. Tiffany—did you see her?” Maggie climbed onto the bed but didn’t crawl beneath the blankets. “Who is she?”
Teresa didn’t know what to tell her. The truth was more frightening than a lie. That was certain. Teresa touched her golden cross and cleared her throat. “I didn’t see her. Is she your invisible friend?”
Maggie’s eyebrows screwed up in confusion.
“Try to get some sleep, okay?” Teresa said before Maggie could say anything else. She pulled the covers back, and Maggie crawled beneath them.
“I’m not even tired,” the girl muttered.
Teresa turned off the light. A few minutes later, soft snores drifted from the mound of blankets.
Teresa went back to Maggie’s room, but Tiffany was gone.
“Please stay away from Maggie,” she whispered.
If anything happened to the girl on her watch, Derrick would send her back to Mountain View. Or leave her. She gasped and held back a sob. What would people think of her then? Unable to hold onto a child. Unable to hold onto a husband. Unable to hold onto her . . . sanity.