And the woman in the bloody nightgown was inches from my face.
She opened her mouth hellishly wide in a silent scream, her face twisting with raw fury.
A ragged scream ripped from my throat. I stumbled back, tripping over my laundry basket and slamming into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.
The lights died again.
Choking on sobs of fear, I scrambled blindly, but something caught my hair and yanked, dragging me back down. I screamed again thrashing wildly, twisting, fighting to get free of whatever—or whoever—grasped my hair.
Panting, terrified, I waved both arms wildly trying to activate the motion sensor.
When the lights came back on, I was alone again.
The tug on my hair ended instantly, my scalp stinging but free.
I lurched to my feet and spun around, breath sawing in and out of my chest. Relief nearly buckled my knees when I saw my hair had caught on splintered wood, the rotten laths behind the plaster having given way when I fell.
I waved a hand in front of the sensor, just to be safe, and leaned against the dryer, bent over, dragging air into my lungs and trying to calm the hammering in my chest. Just as my heartbeat approached its normal rhythm, a shadow fell across the doorway.
I straightened with a shaky gasp but then let out a short, relieved laugh when I saw Pearlie standing there with a laundry basket on her hip.
“You alright, Zellie?” Pearlie asked, rushing to me and setting down her basket so she could take my hands in hers. “You look like someone just walked over your grave.”
I flinched internally at her choice of words and nodded, forcing a smile. I wasn’t about to tell her what had just happened.
“I’m fine, Ms. Pearlie,” I lied. At her concerned frown, I added with a thin laugh, “Really. Just embarrassed. The light went out and startled me. I tripped over my own laundry basket.”
Pearlie chuckled and reached for the light sensor, sliding a switch at the bottom. “There now,” she said, patting my arm. “That’ll keep on the lights while you’re in here. Just slide it back to the middle when you’re done.”
Embarrassed I hadn’t figured that out sooner and possibly prevented the horror I’d just lived through, I quickly started my load. Pearlie chatted as she loaded her own laundry in the second machine. But her words didn’t register.
All I could think about was the dead woman’s silent scream…
Apparently, during our laundry room conversation, I’d agreed to come to abirthday party for Mr. Dean, of all people. I hadn’t seen more than the occasional glimpse of him since he’d visited on our first night to roll out the welcome mat, but it wasn’t like I’d made any effort to be neighborly either.
And, although I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to spend time with the cantankerous old man, let alone host a party for him, I couldn’t refuse the invitation from Ms. Pearlie. She’d been kinder to me than my own mother ever had, so I wasn’t going to insult her by backing out.
Figuring everyone else would be dressed up for the special occasion, I found a consignment shop near the bookstore during my lunch break and managed to buy a dress for me and a cute little shirt and tie for Henry. My paychecks from Dottie weren’t much—not with what I needed to save for a down payment on an apartment. But it was something. And I refused to be like my mother. I wouldn’t deny my son something special now and then when I could afford it. I just wouldn’t.
“Look at you!” I said, adjusting Henry’s tie, tears pricking my eyes as pride swelled in my chest.
He cupped my face with his little hands and kissed my cheek. “Thanks, Mama! I look like Mr. Whit!”
I laughed. “You sure do. Very handsome.”
“Maybe I should wear it to school then,” Henry said, suddenly very serious. “So everyone will know that I’m five and old enough to ride the school bus.”
“We’ll see,” I replied, suppressing a smile. “You might change your mind by the time school starts.”
I hadn’t been wrong about everyone dressing up. They all looked like they were heading to the opera or a museum gala or some other fancy event. Even in my new dress I felt underdressed. But no one noticed. They were too busy doting on Henry and making a fuss over him. I faded into the background, content to sip on my lemonade in the corner. Which is probably why no one noticed me when I wandered into the living room where Henry and Addie had been playing during our first dinner at Pearlie and Junior’s apartment.
“You promised.”
An elderly woman in a wine-colored lace evening gown and perfectly matched leather pumps that looked like ones she might’ve worn as a young woman, clutched Whit’s hands from where she sat in her wheelchair. Her voice was thick with tears as she added, “Your daddy promised it was my turn. I was supposed to be next!”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Netty,” Whit told her, his tone sympathetic.
At that moment, Merilee glanced up and saw me. She bent to whisper something to Whit, then gave me a bright, carefully placed smile.
