The clock was ticking.
I had only two more days to stop Azha, to free my mother and save my little girl.
THIRTY-NINE
IWOKE UP JUST BEFOREfive a.m., crawled out of bed, and dressed in the dark while I listened to Mark snoring softly.
Moxie greeted me in the hall and followed me down the stairs, padding softly behind me, wondering what I was up to and if by any chance it might involve early breakfast or treats.
It was Christmas Eve. We’d planned to spend the day baking and decorating yet another batch of cookies—even though it felt like I had just barely scraped the last of the colorful, cement-like icing out of the crevices of the dining room table—and watching movies, and maybe going sledding on the hill behind the house if there was enough snow. In the evening, we’d leave a note and a plate of cookies out for Santa, and a carrot for the reindeer, and hang up the stockings.
I left a note on the breakfast bar:
Had some last-minute Christmas errands to do. Back later.
I even drew a happy little sketch of presents under the tree.
I knew Mark would freak out, panic, think the worst when he discovered I’d sneaked out under the cover of darkness. But what choice had he left me?
I paused, sure I heard movement upstairs. But when I listened, there was nothing. The whole house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see what might happen next.
Then I crept into my mother’s room, moving as silently as I could.Her breathing was ragged, raspy. Her mouth was open. Her face looked more gaunt, even skeletal, and her skin was as pale as the white pillowcase behind her.
I moved stealthily to the other side of the bed, carefully watching the rise and fall of her chest. When I reached for the stone, I expected her eyes to snap open, for her to let out an alarmed scream. But she slept on.
The stone was heavy in my hand and seemed to grow colder the longer I held it.
I grabbed my coat and purse and slipped out of the house like a ghost. I crossed the yard to my studio to get the tote bag I’d packed last night. In it was the Spell for Binding I’d laboriously copied by hand, along with a white cloth and white string, a box of salt, a piece of parchment and a pen, and a white candle and matches. I placed my mother’s stone in the bag, relieved to no longer have it in my hands. Then I crossed the yard to the driveway, brushed the snow off the windshield of the Volvo with my mittened hand, and backed down with the headlights off, praying the engine hadn’t woken anyone. Mark’s Blazer and Theo’s Subaru with itsFUCK NORMAL PEOPLEbumper sticker were in the driveway, both covered with a thin blanket of snow. I watched the house as I pulled away, waiting for lights to come on, but none did.
Once on the main road, I turned on the headlights, cranked up the defroster, and headed for the highway.
TWO HOURS LATER,I crossed the state line into New York on Route 7. The sun was up, making the fresh crystals of snow on the trees sparkle like they were dipped in glitter. The world around me felt like a movie set—too pretty to be real. My phone buzzed on the seat beside me. Mark again. He’d left a dozen worried texts and phone messages in the last hour. The most recent of them made it clear he was slipping from worry to anger. “Where the hell are you, Alison? Call me as soon as you get this.”
I shut off my phone and stuck it in the glove compartment.
I made only one stop, to fill the tank with gas and get a large cup of coffee and a cruller that tasted like deep-fried cardboard dipped in sugar paste.
It was a little after nine when I arrived at the house in Woodstock. The sky was full of slate-gray clouds, and the house itself looked just as ominous. Its black windows seemed to watch me like all-seeing eyes. It felt like it was waiting for me. And, though I knew it was ridiculous, part of me believed I’d find my mother in there waiting for me. The mother of my childhood, gin-soaked and cruel, my demon mother, demanding to know where I’d been.
I grabbed the bag and unlocked the front door.
The air inside felt stale, and it was too quiet. I didn’t even hear the hum of a refrigerator, or the plunk of an ice-maker, or the soft whoosh of hot air coming through the vents from the roaring furnace in the basement. The house felt like it was playing dead, holding its breath, waiting.
“Hello?” I called, feeling foolish.
Who was going to answer?
My mother? No, she was back at my house, too weak to get out of bed.
My childhood self?
Maybe.
Maybe some trace of the little me still skulked through the shadows like a ghost.
I made my way up the stairs, knowing just where I was headed, what I was looking for.
I flung open the door to my old bedroom, and had the sense, for a moment, that someone had just been there.
