Sam raised his eyebrows, a look of surprise on his face.
“Are you telling me you haven’t actually spoken with your mom? How do you know it’s really her you’ve been texting?” Sam asked.
The question hung in the air, and the worried look on his face terrified me.
My heart lurched in fear. “I mean, who else could it be? How could it be someone else? And if so, then that means…”
I thought about my mom, how she’d never texted me in the past. Once, when I talked to her about texting Marcy, she’d looked at me like she had no clue what I was talking about. The point was—I’d never known my mom to text before now.
I looked at Sam, a surge of fear running through my body. I stared at the cell phone on the bed. “If it’s not my mom talking to me, then who is it?”
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Perched on the edge of the bed, hands shaking, I held the phone out to Sam. “Read the texts,” I told him. He took the phone, swiped through the messages.
“They seem normal,” he said, shrugging.
“But nothing about this is normal. Something is seriously wrong,” I said. I took the phone back from him. “She wouldn’t just up and leave like she did, without even saying goodbye. And it’s not like her not to answer my calls, and I’ve never known her to text,” I rambled. I was exasperated. “I’m calling her,” I decided.
For what seemed like the fiftieth time this week, I called my mom and got no answer. I lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. Thought about my mom. I needed her. I needed to know what was going on. Right now.
Sam was up pacing, thinking. My phone chimed. A text message!
We both sat down, staring at my mom’s name flashing on the phone’s screen. I opened the message.
Mom: Marianna. I'm at the new shop. Can’t talk. What’s going on? George called me and said you took off. I’m worried about you.
I let out a sigh of relief. It had to be her. Who else would know I’d run off so soon? I started texting her back, telling her the truth about my whereabouts. But Sam grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t,” he warned. “We need to think this through.”
I nodded. “Okay. What should I say then?” I asked.
“Let me do it,” Sam said. I gave him the phone begrudgingly. I watched as he pecked at the keypad.
Marianna: Sorry if I worried you. I’m in Ohio, hanging out with my friends. I had to get away. Needed to come back home for a day or two. I’m only staying the weekend, promise. Mom, I’m worried about you too. Can you please call me? Pretty please? I really want to talk to you. I miss you.
Sam clicked send on the message. We waited. And waited some more.
The mom I knew would sense my desperation and call me back immediately, regardless of how swamped she was.
But my phone didn’t ring all night.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
The only good thing about waking up this morning was doing it in Sam’s arms. He was spooning me from behind when I opened my eyes and realized where I was—New Orleans. I looked around the hotel room, with its fancy roll-top desk and old-fashioned wallpapered walls. Rolling over, I stared at this boy who I’d known for such a small amount of time. Already, I was crazy about him. More so than I ever was with Jaime. And if it wasn’t for him being here, I think I would have completely freaked out.
Sam needed a haircut. His bangs were drooping in his eyes and the sides of his hair curled up over his ears. He was sleeping with his glasses on, which I found endearing. He looked vulnerable. As though sensing my eyes on him, he woke up, startled like I was at first.
We both remembered at the same time—my mother was missing. “What should we do now?” I asked, wiping sleep from my eyes. He sat up, took his glasses off, and wiped the smudges off the lenses with his shirt.
“We look some more. We show the photos of her that you have on your phone. Show them to the hotel staff and all the store owners near the hotel. Just because no one’s seen her near Jackson Square doesn’t mean they haven’t seen her around the hotel. Maybe she left, or maybe she had a good reason for lying…all we can do is keep trying. Eventually we’ll figure this out, I promise.”
I loved his positivity and self-assuredness. He had a way of making me feel better when even I couldn’t make myself feel better. We got dressed and wandered down by the pool. They were serving a complimentary breakfast in a neat little cottage—waffles, hardboiled eggs, Danish pastries, and sweet sausage links. We filled up two plates and Styrofoam cups of coffee, taking our food out to the pool area.
There were two middle-aged women lying on rafts in the pool. I stared at them, nibbling my food. Finally, I got up and went to the edge of the pool. “Excuse me. Have you perhaps seen this woman?” I asked, holding out the small pic on my phone. They both had on sunglasses. Clearly annoyed to have their sunbathing interrupted, they sat up on their rafts, peering at the tiny screen. Neither of them had seen her.
I sat back down next to Sam. He gave me a sympathetic look. We finished eating, and wandered around the hotel lobby and exercise areas, asking everyone we could find. I even went to the front desk again, although this time I was forthright about my reasons for wanting to know about my mother. “She hasn’t been here at all,” the empathetic man behind the counter said, after checking the computer screen again. My heart dropped.
From there, we left the hotel, setting out on foot again.
***
After spending the whole day searching and asking, I’d reached the conclusion that my mother was not, and never had been, in New Orleans. I was frustrated beyond belief. But I held onto that frustration, avoiding the real emotion underneath…sheer terror. Where was my mother?
“We should go home and file a missing person’s report right away,” Sam said. We were back in our hotel room now. He’d ordered room service, but I couldn’t eat. I didn’t know what to do.
“So, she never called you last night. Has she texted any more today?” Sam asked, trying his best to stifle a yawn. We were both exhausted after walking what felt like a hundred miles today.
I took out my phone, checking the text alerts and notifications. I had a few text messages from George, telling me to come home soon and please be careful. More messages from Meg and Marcy. Nothing from Mom.
The last text message was from an unknown number. I opened it, immediately seeing Lou’s name in the text.
Lou: This is Lou. Your stepdad gave me your number. I’m worried about you. He said you’re visiting friends in Ohio, but I also noticed that Sam wasn’t at the store yesterday or today. Are you with him? I’m not trying to be nosy, but you really can’t trust that guy.
“Ugh!” I shouted, pissed off beyond belief. Lou, that little creep…nosing around, as though what I did or who I was with was any of his business! It disgusted me!
“What is it?” Sam asked, reaching for the phone. I tried to pull it back, keep it from view. But it was too late; he already knew something was up. I let Sam read the message. “Douche bag,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Lou is the least of our worries right now,” Sam assured me.
“Yeah, but what if he tells my stepdad we’re together? He might figure out I came here!”
“I wouldn’t worry. We’re getting ready to go back anyway, aren’t we?” he asked.
I thought about it. Yes, we had to go back. It made me sad, leaving New Orleans without my mother.
“Yeah. I think we should go ahead and book our flights home for tomorrow. We need to get back there, find out the truth about Mom’s whereabouts.”
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Flying home without my mother left me feeling defeated. The flight back was somber, not happy and hopeful like the trip over. We didn’t arrive to Flocksdale until nearly seven p.m. It was storming when we got there—big shocker. The weather fit my mood completely.
We rode in Sam’s Cobalt. Silence filled the air. Instead of taking me home, he
surprised me by pulling over in an abandoned parking lot near the plaza. “What’s wrong?” I asked dully.
“You’re sulking is what. I don’t know what to do to make it better. I feel so…helpless,” he admitted, staring at me across the seat.
I reached for him, finally letting myself cry. Tears rolled, soaking the front of his faded black t-shirt. “I just wish I knew where she was,” I whined, trying not to snot all over him.
“Do you want to go ahead and go to the police?” he asked. I thought about it.
“No,” I finally answered. “But I do want to go somewhere else. Will you drive me to Baumans Lane?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, but then put the car in gear.
“I don’t know which one it is…” I said, as we rolled down the quiet street.
“What are you looking for? Can you at least tell me that?” Sam asked, his voice filled with irritation. It had been a long ride home, and I was sure he was ready to get back himself.
“Wendi Wise lives somewhere on this street. I need to know where. I need to talk to her.” I wiped smears of mascara from my cheeks. “Her life went to shit in this town, and now it’s happening to me. I saw her face at that crime scene the other day. She looked worried.”
“I think we were all worried and upset about Christa’s death…” Sam said gently.
“No, it was different. She had this look in her eye. Like something bad was happening in Flocksdale all over again. Like history repeating itself.”
Sam nodded, pulling out his iPhone. He searched up the yellow pages and found Wendi’s address in under a minute. “It’s right here,” he said disbelievingly.
“Where?” I asked, looking around.
“We’re parked right in front it,” he said, his voice strange and nervous.
“Well, if that’s not a sign, then what is?” I asked.
We got out, locking up his car. We walked up a flagstone pathway, and climbed the stairs to the top floor. We knocked on a shiny green door.
At first, I thought nobody was going to answer, but then I saw movement in the window curtains. A minute later, Wendi herself answered the door.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, suspicion evident in her tone.
“Christa’s dead and my mom vanished. And I live in the House of Horrors. My stepdad was related to that girl named Samantha…” The words came out in a rush—a long string of statements clinging together through my nervousness and distress.
“Come in, Marianna,” she said.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
“What I’m about to tell you will blow your mind.” Those words—Wendi’s words—were enough to send shock waves through my very core. She encouraged us both to sit and went to the kitchen, filling up two glasses of iced water. I took a sip, my hands shaking so hard that the ice rattled steadily against the glass. She sat down across from us in a cushiony armchair. I noticed that she didn’t look like her picture. Sure, her hair was long and black, but her face looked older, wearier. This girl had been through some shit. “I’m certain your stepdad’s involved,” she said. I raised my eyebrows, nearly dropping the cold glass.
“How can you be so sure?” Sam asked, his voice the opposite of mine. He sounded calm and steady.
“Well, first of all, his name isn’t even George Laudre. He changed it as soon as he was old enough, before he went to law school. His mother was my best friend, Claire. She went to prison for her role in the tragedies, but she killed herself a few years after she was released…after she’d given birth to George.” She made the motion of a blade slicing across her wrist. “Knife to the wrist.”
I was flabbergasted. “What is his real name then?”
“George Castillo, of course…That was Claire’s last name, and her own mother’s married name. But Claire’s mother was the sister of Hank Garrett, the main asshole who ran the trafficking ring. He’s one of the fuckers who tried to kill me, and successfully killed dozens of others,” Wendi explained. I shuddered, fighting off waves of nausea. Wendi went on, “I didn’t know who your stepdad was when he came to town…but after doing a little research, I discovered that he was Claire's baby. He was only five years old when he walked in and found his mother bleeding to death in the bathroom. I doubt he remembers much. He was raised in foster care, but stayed in contact with Claire’s sister, Samantha. She was his aunt, and she’s the one who bequeathed him the house.”
“Do you think George killed Christa?” I asked. I don’t need a history lesson—I need answers. Like, where the fuck is my mom? “Do you think he hurt my mom?” I asked before she could answer my first question.
“Honestly, I don’t know. But I’ve been watching him and your house. That’s how I knew who you were. Ever since my husband died, weird things have been happening in Flocksdale again.”
“Like what?” Sam asked skeptically.
“Well, for starters, Christa wasn’t the first girl to disappear. The Bromy sisters went missing last year.”
“Yeah, but everybody knows the Bromy twins ran away. Their dad was a well-known drunk…they wanted to get away from this town, and who could blame them?” Sam argued.
Wendi raised her brows challengingly. “I’ve called the twins’ mother in Randolph, and every other family member around. They’ve never turned up anywhere. These days, everyone has some sort of online presence. The sisters don’t. They also have no marks on their driving record. No trace of them anywhere.” I had no idea who these sisters were, but it certainly sounded like fuel to the fire for making a case against Flocksdale. “And now there’s a new relative of the Garretts in town. I think he’s definitely involved,” Wendi said plainly.
“But…” I considered, “he couldn’t have had anything to do with the sisters’ disappearances. We lived in Ohio then.”
“How long have he and your mother been married?” Wendi asked, pressing me.
“Only a year. But they started dating a year before that. Of course, he didn’t live with us then…but he had his own place in Cincy,” I answered.
“Before you came to town…this wasn’t the first time I’d seen George. Jonathan and I—before he died—we kept a watch on that house, and Samantha. She stayed out of the limelight, and supposedly found Jesus in prison. But George came to visit her often.” This bit of information surprised me.
“When George first told us he’d inherited the house, he said that he’d only met his Aunt Samantha once. What reason would he have to lie?” I asked, baffled.
Sam looked at me, confusion burrowed in the lines of his face. “Because he has something to hide,” Wendi said matter-of-factly.
I considered the facts—he’d lied to us about his relationship with Samantha and the evil house he was inheriting. He’d omitted details about the town’s frightening history and his familial ties to it. Then, a week after we moved in, my mom disappeared and a young girl was murdered. Plus, he lied about his name. In my book, there was no doubt. All signs pointed to George being a killer.
Chapter Thirty
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go home, to a murderer, and act like nothing’s happened,” I said, staring at Wendi blankly.
“It’s imperative that we find some sort of evidence. Remember—he’s the new judge in town. Nobody wants to believe a judge is capable of something like that. But at the same time, it wouldn’t be the first time in this town. The Garrett family consisted of judges, politicians, police officers…well, you get the point. People in this town may have moved on from the tragedies, but they haven’t forgotten. We need something to show them. I still have some friends in the police department. We’ll go to them, but first we must find out all we can,” Wendi said.
Wendi was right. If George killed Christa or hurt my mother, I needed to find out all I could. “Take me home, Sam.”
Sam looked at me, surprised. I knew he was scared for me, but there must have been something in my eyes—something letting him know I meant business, and my mind couldn’t be change
d.
I was going to find out all I could about George, and take his ass down.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Taking his time, Sam drove me home. It was pouring now, heavy sheets of hot rainwater stabbing the windshield in angry strokes. “So, if my mom never went to New Orleans, where is she? And if she didn’t go there, then why did Shelley say so? Surely, Shelley couldn’t be in on it too, could she?” I asked the fogged up window beside me. That part didn’t make sense to me. George could have easily lied, but Shelley had no reason to.
“Maybe,” Sam said while biting his lip, “someone called your mom and Shelley. Told them about the offer. Maybe there really was an offer, or maybe there wasn’t. But either way, your mom never made it to New Orleans. But Shelley still believed your mom went, and she got the texts just like you did.”
I mulled it over. It made sense. “But that means…someone’s taken her, or worse…” I couldn’t finish. Did George hurt my mother? If so, there was no need for involving the police—I’d kill the asshole myself. We were parked in front of the house now. I grasped my bag in my hand and leaned over to kiss Sam’s cheek. He looked sick with worry. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt me,” I assured him.
“It’s not that…I think Wendi’s a little crazy, if I’m being honest here…I think there’s a reasonable explanation for all this. I really do. I just don’t want you to go in there and freak out on him…” Sam said, chewing his lower lip.
I couldn’t believe my ears. He didn’t believe me. Not only that, but he was worried about what I might do. “Fuck off, Sam,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
House of the Lost Girls (Flocksdale Files Book 2) Page 8
