by Peter Giglio
“Aw, come on,” Chelsea says, “like you don’t know.”
“No, I don’t.” Hannah shakes her head emphatically. Then awareness slowly dawns. “Absolutely not,” she says. “No way!”
“Can’t you hook me up? I mean, hell, what good’s a superpower if you don’t even use it?”
Hannah turns and, looking down, takes a step back. Although she had already sensed something amiss with Chelsea, she hadn’t been prepared for this level of betrayal. She damns herself for not considering this possibility; that someone would try to use her ability for their own personal gain. Persecution had always been her fear. Maybe what Chelsea’s doing isn’t as bad, but that doesn’t erase the pain Hannah feels. An empty, hollow hurt that makes her feel more alone than ever before.
“Don’t freak out,” Chelsea says. “If you want me to put the albums back, I’ll—”
“No,” Hannah interrupts. “What good is a superpower if I don’t use it, right? Maybe I can get a cape and shit, and some tights.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Hannah closes her eyes and reaches a hand toward the security sensors.
“Are you doing it now?” Chelsea asks.
“Silence,” Hannah whispers. “I need to concentrate.”
“Oh, yeah, of course, I’ll shut up.”
Hannah stares at the back of her eyelids for a few seconds, then breathes heavily for the benefit of the gambit. “Shit,” she says. “That one took a lot out of me.”
Chelsea grins. “So, are we good to go?”
“All set.”
Triumphantly, Chelsea strides toward the door. “Later, bitch,” she calls out to the girl behind the counter, who throws a dismissive wave back. Then, just as she struts through the security sensors, an alarm shrieks, and Chelsea slams into the glass of the now-locked door, dropping to the floor.
Stepping away from the mess, trying not to laugh, Hannah shouts, “I’m not with her. I’m not—”
“Like hell you aren’t,” Chelsea protests, scrambling to her feet and pointing at Hannah. “It was her idea. Her idea!”
But the girl behind the counter isn’t listening to either of them. She’s already on the phone, reporting the incident. “Yeah,” she says, “two juvenile shoplifters—”
“I am not a thief,” Hannah insists, stepping toward the counter. Rage consumes her. She’s nothing like her father. How dare this girl accuse her otherwise? If anything, she prevented the crime. She’s the hero.
The girl behind the counter puts the phone down and shakes her head. “Save face with the cops, little girl,” she says. “But don’t expect me to buy your sob story.”
“Are you happy?” Chelsea shouts in Hannah’s face. “I told you I would put them back, but you lied to me. I thought I could trust you, but you lied! And now look at the mess you’ve made!”
Taking deep breaths, Hannah clenches her fists. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in everything mechanical—the lights, the stereo, a PC, the cash register, a stupid disco ball behind the counter…
Noel steps around the counter and gestures for Chelsea to give her the backpack. Reluctantly, Chelsea complies, and Noel searches the bag. When she slides the records out, she smiles, a modicum of mercy lighting her face. “If I owned this store,” she says, “I’d let you have these, but these aren’t mine to—”
Noel and Chelsea duck down as an explosion sounds overhead. Sparks fly down, and the antique chandelier plummets from the center of the high ceiling, smashing into a row of record racks. Glass shatters and wood splinters.
Chelsea shoots Hannah an accusatory glare. “Stop it,” she demands.
But Hannah isn’t finished. Although aware of everything happening around her, her mind alternately tunnels through a network of wires and circuit boards.
The sound of a needle running across vinyl screams through the speakers, then the stereo behind the counter catches fire. The disco ball spins at a maddening pace, catching glints of firelight and casting a wild dance of orange pinpricks across the store.
Breathless, Noel reports the emergency to a 911 operator, her voice hysterical, and Chelsea weeps, her eyes filled with terror. “I’m sorry,” she shouts. “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me, please!”
Exhausted, Hannah slumps into a plastic chair beside the counter as Noel douses the stereo with white foam from a fire extinguisher. Chelsea huddles on the floor, her head bowed.
“Don’t you ever fuck with me again,” Hannah says.
Chelsea looks up, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I won’t, I promise, I…I won’t.”
Noel dumps the spent extinguisher on the counter and heaves a sigh. “I don’t know what you freaks are up to,” she says, “but the cops’ll be here any minute.”
Ashamed, Hannah buries her face in her hands. Just like her father, regardless of pure intentions, her actions have drawn the police. Is it possible her father really was a victim of misunderstanding? she wonders. No, she scolds herself. He was a guilty man if ever there was one.
She has to pull herself together; stay calm and play stupid. Her cover can’t afford another episode in which she loses control.
And one more thing is definite.
Hannah’s forever finished with friends.
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.
