by Peter Giglio
“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.
CHAPTER 23
Pressing the blade firm against her throat, Chet holds the scrawny redhead girl close. All the while, he marvels at Hannah, who stands mere feet from him. How beautiful she’s grown. No longer a little girl; rather, a young woman who will one day become a goddess. She is worthy of his suffering, and he wants nothing more than to cleanse her eyes of fright forever. But not today. Today she will hurt. Healing can begin tomorrow. For now, he needs to deal with the loser standing next to her.
“I have no interest in you,” he tells the man. “Simply lay your car keys and phone on the coffee table, step away, and your daughter doesn’t have to die.” Then, to the quaking girl in his clutches, he whispers, “Calm down, dear. This knife is sharp, and sudden movements may prove fatal. You don’t want to die today, do you?”
As a whimper of understanding leaks from the girl, the man drops his phone and keys on the table, then takes a step back, holding his hands up like someone at gunpoint.
“Where’s Mom?” Hannah wails. “What have you done to her, you bastard?”
“Calm down, sweetie. I’ll take you to your mother soon, but first we have to deal with our guests. It would be rude to air our family secrets in front of them.”
The girl’s father cries, “Please…please let my…let my daughter go.”
How pathetic, thinks Chet. Here this man stands, showing his shame, weeping like a child in front of his own daughter. This is not a man. Men remain calm, calculating, in control. And that’s why Chet knows he’ll win in the end.
He’s in control.
Every struggle, every failure, has led him to this moment that scholars of his kind will one day write down in history books. The dawn of his species’ rebirth, and he’s the architect. Of course, he’ll have to find suitable cattle for Hannah to mate with, thus producing generations of half-breeds. On the other hand, Hannah herself is a half-breed,
and she’s remarkable, so that concern casts little doubt on Chet’s burgeoning plan.
Staring down the whimpering man, Chet asks, “Can I trust you?”
“I…I don’t understand. I only—”
“I asked a simple question. Can—I—Trust—You? The answer is either yes, or it’s something else. And anything other than yes, I’m afraid, is no. So…can I trust you?”
“I don’t even know…don’t even know…”
Chet digs the blade into the girl’s neck, silencing her gurgling cries by clenching his hand across her gaping mouth. In one fluid sweep, he slashes the knife across her throat. Letting the body drop, he charges the shocked man without hesitation, plunging the blade into his chest. Still clutching the handle, Chet yanks the knife up and back, and a gruesome sucking sound bubbles from the man’s punctured lung.
Hannah scrambles toward the door as the man tumbles into a lamp, which crashes down on his twitching form. Chet leaps over the man in his dogged pursuit of Hannah. Then, just beyond the open door, he catches her arm, clamping his hand tight and slinging her back into the house. She lands hard at the base of the staircase, and he slams the door shut.
“I hope that didn’t hurt you too bad,” he says. And, despite the intensity of the last few seconds, his voice remains incredibly measured.
She looks up at him, tears vibrating in her eyes, her mouth quivering.
Gesturing to the now-motionless bodies in the living room, Chet shakes his head. “Not bad for improvisation, but not exactly how I wanted our reunion to start.”
“How?” Hannah says.
“How did I want our reunion to start?”
“No, how did you get out?”
He humorlessly chuckles. “Your mother released me, sweetie. I have no doubt she didn’t know what she was doing, but she freed me all the same.” Reaching down, he touches her soft cheek, and a tear trails across his finger. “Don’t worry, I forgive you, Hannah. You didn’t know what you were doing.”
“But I did,” she says.
He sits on the second stair and puts his arm around her, doing his best to straighten her cock-eyed posture. But her resistance is strong. Wriggling free, she manages to stand. He smiles. She doesn’t.
“You might not believe this, but I am very proud of you,” he says.
“I won’t believe anything you say, and you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re not human, Hannah. Do you know that? Do you ever wonder why you’re different than everyone else, unable to fit in, easily irritated by the nature of others? Do you wonder why you understand everything so well? I bet you don’t even have to study in school, do you? You don’t even have to try. That’s because you’re smarter than normal people. You see movements ahead of humans. And it’s all because you’re like me, sweetheart. You’re a shifter.”
“That makes no sense. You didn’t even finish college. You worked a shitty job, and we lived in a shitty apartment. How can you say you’re part of a superior race?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t want to play by the rules.” Shrugging his shoulders, he smirks, then begins caressing the blade, which is thick with Sullivan blood. “Even superior races have their losers, but I won’t be a loser for much longer, because I’m now living for you.”
“Mom is human,” she says, “and that means I am, too.”
“I guess you have a point there, but your dominant genes belong to me. If only you could see how much you look like my mother, you would understand your importance, your destiny. Sadly, you’ll never get to meet her, Hannah, because she was gunned down by humans. All of my family, my real family, our real family, were killed by these things that infect this planet. You and I are all that’s left of our…”
* * *
Thinking about her mother, Hannah stops listening. Then her attention is drawn to one of the pockets of her father’s shorts, which confuses her for a moment, until she feels herself lifted, as if weightless, into her dark place. Like a beacon, her mother’s cell phone hangs in the void. Focusing on the touch screen, she opens the directory, then scrolls down to Kevin Cell, and the fingers of her mind press SEND.
“Tell me what you’re doing?” she hears her father demand. The calm has left his voice. He’s losing his shit, and while that will make him more erratic, it will also make him less dangerous. Hannah’s mind is graced with this understanding unbidden. She’s also granted the knowledge that her mother’s situation is grim.
Let that go, a distant voice warns. Save your pain for when this is over. He wants this to make you weak. He wants to destroy your resistance. Don’t let him win.
“Goddammit, Hannah,” he shouts, but she still can’t see him.
“Hello,” she hears Kevin answer. “Tina, are you there? Tina?”
“Talk to me,” her father pleads. “Come on, Hannah, cut this shit out and tell me what’s happening?”
“Tina?”
Her mind tunneling through the phone’s circuitry, Hannah thinks: Kevin, we’re in trouble. My father has come for me, he’s done something to Mom. Call the police. Hurry! Hurry!
“Hannah,” Kevin’s voice crackles, “is that you? You sound strange. What the hell’s going on? Hannah? Han—”
He’s here, Kevin. Chet’s here!
“Goddammit, Hannah, I’m sick of this shit,” her father shouts.
Gravity returns, and Hannah feels herself lowered. She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them, and she’s back in the house. Her father scowls at her, one hand clutching the knife’s blade. Blood seeps between his fingers.
Calmly, she says, “You promised you’d take me to Mom.” But the words don’t belong to her. Something else is in control now, guiding her voice, and she doesn’t resist. She can tell the force working within her is pure, here to help.
“Fine,” he barks, “but I need to know if I can trust you first. Can I trust you, Hannah?”
“Yes, of course you can. You can always trust me. I’ll protect you from the shadows, Daddy. I promise, I’ll protect you.”
Tears stream down his cheeks. “Please know, I didn’t want things to turn out this way. I didn’t want to do what I had to, but sometimes there’s no other choice.”
“Of course there isn’t, Daddy. Survival never comes easy.”
“Oh, Hannah. Thank you, sweetie. Thank you. I knew you’d understand. I knew you couldn’t betray me. You’re all I’ve got.”
“I was just talking to Agnes,” her mouth informs him. “She told me to tell you, she loves you. That’s what I was doing before, when you got mad.”
He lets the knife fall to the floor, then throws his arms around her, squeezing her tight. As she releases all control to the spirit within her, Hannah’s arms wrap around him. His stench enfolds her, and she wants to pull away, to run…
But the soothing voice in her head warns: Stay strong.
The spirit asks, “Did you kill Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie,” he weeps. “Are you…are you mad at me?”
Inside, Hannah falls apart. Visions of her mother—smiles, snuggles, putting Band-Aids on scratches and cuts—flash through her mind.
“Did you have a choice?” the spirit asks.
“I didn’t. I swear…I didn’t,” he pleads.
“Then I’m not mad at you, Daddy. I could never be mad at you.”
“You were supposed to see her the moment you came in the door. I wanted you to say good-bye. I know she meant a lot to you. But just like a rabid dog, she had to be put down so she couldn’t hurt you anymore. Do you…do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to see your mommy now?” he asks.
“No,” the spirit says, “not yet. There’s a man who wants to take your place. He tried to trick me into loving him instead of you. He’ll be here soon, and I want you to kill him for me. Once he’s dead, then I’ll be ready to say good-bye to Mom. I can tell her how she hurt me, and I can tell her what’s become of the filthy man she cheated on you with.�
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“I understand,” he says.
As Hannah coils deep within her own consciousness, hatred blooms eternal for her father, and she damns herself for not killing him when she had the chance. All she had to do was smash a stupid figurine, but her sense of right and wrong wouldn’t let her. Shades of gray now shift through her mind. And she knows what she must do.
She takes control.
Letting go of her father, she takes a step backward. “Actually, Daddy, I’d like to kill Kevin myself, if you don’t mind.” These words she chooses, but she doesn’t own them. She doesn’t need to own them to say them, because, she realizes, her intentions are pure, not delusional, like his.
“Do you think you can?” he asks. “It won’t be easy.”
“I know, but you’ll be here to help me if I need you. Kevin is fat, and he’s weak, and he trusts me. He won’t see it coming.”
“But maybe he should see me coming,” he says. “I’ll scare the shit out of him. It’ll be fun.”
Hannah’s hatred rises, but she struggles to suppress outward emotion. Here he stands, talking about murdering for fun, grinning like a child, when only moments earlier he wept for the wife he’d murdered. She wants to seize the knife from the floor and drive it into his cold, murderous heart, but she can’t. The time isn’t right, and the strength advantage belongs to him.
“Please, Daddy,” she says.
He bends down and snatches the knife from the floor, and Hannah’s pulse quickens. His moves are impossible to predict, his motivations out of order, and she fears her nerves are showing, betraying her, letting him catch the scent of her ploy. Part of her expects he will slash her throat before she can react.
When he turns the handle toward her, she takes it in her tremulous hands.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” he says.
“Yes,” she admits, “but…but I know this is right.” She moves to the door and gazes through the peephole.
“What are you doing?” her father asks.
