But there’s nothing now. So I sink back onto my pillow and close my eyes.
Then I hear it again. Sounds like … scratching?
Where’s that coming from? I listen hard.
It seems so close. Leaning over, I flick on my bedside lamp. I look around.
Scratching, as if there’s a cat at my door trying to get in.
Hazy from sleep, I swing out of bed, getting unsteadily to my feet.
Whatever it is, it’s louder now. And it’s coming from … where? I look down.
From the floor?
I stand right over the spot.
Something’s scraping at the hardwood from underneath. We’ve had mice before. But this sounds like something bigger than a mouse.
Am I really awake? Feels like I’m half in a dream.
I crouch down. The scratching stops.
I hold my breath, listening.
The floor creaks under me. Then I catch the slightest movement, just inches from my toes. What’s that? A loose board?
I stare at the spot. There it is again—one of the floorboards shifts the tiniest bit. I freeze, unblinking. What the hell?
It’s like the foot-long board is bulging out—
creeeee
—rising upward—
eeeeeee
—squealing as it pulls up on its nails.
I’m paralyzed, watching that board come out all the way. Then it topples on its side, leaving a hole in the floor.
I can’t be seeing this. I should back away. Go get Mom. Just go.
But I don’t. It’s like I’m caught in some kind of dream, keeping me here. Slowly, I lean forward to peer into that gap.
So dark down there, where the light barely reaches—
An eye stares back at me. Pressed to the hole.
Screaming, I fall back. I scramble away till I hit the wall.
Wake up! Now!
That’s not real. Not real.
I’m shivering so bad I can’t stand.
Across the floor I see something move in the gap. Reaching up. Fingers. Muddy fingers, crawling like spider legs. Feeling around the edges of the hole. Searching.
Not real! Go away! Wake up!
There’s a cracking sound beside me as my bedroom door opens. I let out another half scream before I see Mom.
“Jane, what’s wrong?”
My throat feels choked tight. Takes me a moment before I can speak.
“Jane?”
“S-something’s down there.”
I point to the hole in the floor.
But it’s gone. The board is back in place. Everything looks the same as always.
“What is going on in here?”
“It—it was scratching underneath the floor. And then …”
She waits for me to finish, but I can’t.
“What, Jane? Is it mice again? Is that it?”
“Didn’t you hear anything?”
“Yeah. You screaming the walls down. Scared the life out of me. What’s this about?”
I stare at the spot where those fingers came crawling out. Mom’s waiting for an answer.
“Maybe it was mice. And maybe a nightmare too.”
Mom shivers, hugging herself. “It’s freezing in here. You have the window open?”
“No. Must be a draft,” I mumble.
Mom heaves a tired sigh, shaking her head. “If it’s mice, we’ll set some traps out tomorrow. Come sleep with me. You can keep me warm.” She reaches out and takes my hand, helping me up. “With your dad on night shift it gets chilly under the sheets.”
As she leads me out, I shoot a glance over my shoulder. But the floor is back to normal.
All in my head, I try telling myself. Like those waking dreams Lexi told me about. Please let it be that.
“Your father always squeaks when I push my cold feet up against him in bed,” Mom tells me.
“The constable squeaks?”
“Like a startled mouse.”
Mom sits down on her bed, blinking her sleepy eyes at me. “After what’s happened, I’d be surprised if you weren’t having nightmares. But at least you’re not out running wild in your sleep.”
I shake my head. “I’m nothing but trouble.”
I glance at the laptop on her bedside table, with its GPS program running to keep track of me and my ring. Mom always sleeps so deep, she’s got the volume on the alarm turned to the max. One time she let me hear what it sounds like, loud enough to wake the dead. I must have let out one hell of a scream to get her up tonight.
“What am I going to do with you, Jane?”
I shrug. “Trade me in? Get a refund? Did you keep my receipt?”
She gives me a drowsy smile. “Catch the light, honey.”
Turning it off reluctantly, I get under the covers with her. I feel a little better, not being alone.
I’d feel even safer if Dad still kept his spare gun in the drawers beside the bed. Since I started sleepwalking he has it locked away.
But what am I thinking?
Can’t shoot a nightmare.
At breakfast it’s like dawn of the dead. Me and Dad are both sleepy zombies. I’m nodding off into my cereal, and after his night shift the constable’s about to use his pancakes for a pillow.
I jump awake when I feel something sticking in my ear. Pulling away, I whip my head around.
Mom’s leaning in close, holding an ear thermometer in her hand.
“What the hell?”
“Relax,” she says. “Just taking your temperature.”
“How about a little warning?”
“Well, you bitch and moan every time I ask.”
She writes down my temp in her notebook.
If Mom’s not monitoring my meds, temperature or my migraines, she’s thinking up sneaky ways to test my hand-eye coordination.
Like last week when I kept misplacing my keys, and she would find them and toss them to me. “Catch!” When I caught them she’d give me a little nod. It took me a few days to realize that she was hiding my keys to give her a chance to check my motor skills.
I know she’s just watching out for me, and I feel bad about what I’ve put her and Dad through. But I make a grouchy patient.
Dad’s trying to chew and yawn at the same time. It ain’t pretty.
“How was the graveyard shift?” I ask.
“Cold, wet and nasty. We had three crashes. People don’t know how to drive in the rain.”
“So, any word yet about those bones you found?” I ask.
“The forensics unit determined that the remains are caucasian, not Indian. So it isn’t from any native burial. Now we’re checking dental records on old missing children cases,” Dad says. “They’ve narrowed the age to twelve or thirteen.”
“That’s too horrible,” Mom says. “Makes my heart hurt just thinking about it. Left out there and forgotten.”
“They find out how it died?” I ask.
“Oh, I can’t listen to this.” Mom gets up. “No morgue talk in the morning. That’s a new rule.” She leaves the kitchen.
Dad squints his bloodshot eyes at me. “Why do you want to know about that?”
I shrug. “Can’t get it out of my head. I was there when you spotted it. Come on, I grew up on cop talk. I can handle it.”
He rubs the fallen bridge of his busted nose, like he does when he’s deciding things. “Yeah, I guess you can. They did the autopsy. The cause of death is blunt force trauma. There was a severe fracture to the back of the skull.”
For a second I flash back on that skull in the mud. The jaws open wide, trying to breathe, or scream. I push the image away.
“So that’s how it died,” I say.
“He. It was a boy.”
“Any way to tell how long it—he’s—been buried there?”
“If I’d known there was going to be a breakfast interrogation, I’d have brought my notes. The forensics unit is trying to narrow down the time frame. Right now, they’re thinking he’s been in the ground a decad
e at least. We’re still waiting for fiber analysis on the remnants of clothes they found with the bones. That might give us a better idea.”
“How about the DNA?”
“That takes time. The lab is testing a sample from the remains. We’ll see if they get a match in the database.”
“How hard is it going to be to identify him? I mean, are there a lot of unsolved missing-kid cases?”
“Nationally, there are about fifty thousand kids reported missing every year. Most are found pretty quick. Some turn up on their own, others are runaways or parental abduction cases. But some stay lost. Too many.”
Dad gets up.
“So are we done?” he asks. “Interrogation over? Am I free to go?”
I nod. “For now. But don’t leave town.”
Nowhere is safe anymore. Can’t even hide away at home, in my own room.
This used to be a safe place, the Blushing Rose. Peaceful, quiet—maybe dull. But never dark and creepy.
Now I can’t be here by myself. I help out when Mom’s around. She’s working the counter while I’m in back. I can hear her talking with a customer about tulip bulbs.
I’m potting African violets, mixing worm castings in with the soil. Violets love worm poo, makes them really—
Tap tap tap.
I drop the pot, spinning toward the sound of—
Tap tap tap. Knocking at the alley door.
“Delivery,” a voice calls from the other side. Ryan.
I exhale, shaking my head. I am such a wreck.
Rushing to let him in, I take a quick peek in the mirror over the sink. My big startled eyes stare back. My hair is wild as weeds. I try to fix that mess, getting worm stuff in it. Giving up, I go open the door.
“Hi, Ryan.”
His hair is wet from the rain, streaks of mud and soil on his cheeks like war paint. As big a mess as me. But smiling through the dirt.
“Hey, Jane. I’ve got a little bit of everything for you today. I even brought the sun.”
He hands me a potted sunflower, with bright yellow petals the color of summer.
Ryan starts unloading from the truck while I make space in the back room. It’s a tight fit, with us brushing past each other. I try not to say much, keeping it all business.
When he’s done, we check the order sheet.
“I miss anything?” he asks.
“No. Perfect.” I look at the sheet, at the new plants crowding us together, everywhere but at him.
“How have you been, Jane? I mean, is your recovery going okay?”
I open my mouth to say some easy lie, like that I’m improving, getting better. But I can’t. “Don’t know. Still breathing, anyway.”
“That’s a good sign. But you look kind of beat.”
I meet his eyes for a split second but force myself to break away.
“I am kind of beat. Real tired. Not sleeping good.”
“Gotta get your rest. Sleep’s a great healer,” he says. “Can I give you something?”
I feel a blush heating my cheeks and turn around to rearrange some pots so he doesn’t see. “Um … what did you have in mind?”
“Hold on. I’ll show you.” He goes out in the alley, and a minute later he’s back with a plant. “Cestrum nocturnum. Night-blooming jasmine.”
The plant’s small flowers are bright white and star-shaped. “Is this more of your mystic medicine?”
“It’s pure science. Aromatherapy. You inhale the scent molecules into your lungs; they get absorbed into your blood and flow to your brain. Jasmine is best for calming and easing anxiety, headaches. Lets you relax and breathe easy. The flowers release their scent at night, so they’ll help you sleep.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, taking the plant from him. “I can use the help. I’ll give it a try.”
“Let me know,” Ryan says, brushing the hair from his eyes and adding a new streak of dirt to his forehead.
Following him to the door, I watch him get in the truck. I hate treating Ryan coldly. Making him think I’m not interested, don’t care, don’t want him. I hate it so much I can’t stop myself from calling out.
“So what are you, some kind of witch doctor on wheels? What else have you got in there? Magic potions? Miracle cures?”
“Whatever you need, I’ve got.” Ryan smiles, leaning out the window. “The name of your flower—jasmine—it’s Persian. Means ‘queen of the night.’ Just let her work her magic on you.”
I give him a little wave and watch my medicine man drive off into the drizzly afternoon.
I’m trying not to stare at the guy sitting across from me in the waiting room of the CT scan clinic.
This appointment got me the day off from school, but I’d rather be stuck in some mind-numbing math class than here. Mom dropped me off between flower deliveries. She was going to stay with me, but that would just make me more tense, so I told her I’d call her after to pick me up.
I flip through an old People magazine, but my gaze drifts back to the red-haired guy.
He seems to be napping. Slouched down in the chair. He’s wearing a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans. The guy is skeleton skinny, with twiggy wrists sticking out of his sleeves. Under the hood, I can see his caved-in cheeks and scrawny neck. The angles of his face stand out sharp beneath the flesh. He looks young, like he’s thirteen, maybe. But something’s wrong with him. That’s why he’s here, I guess.
The woman sitting beside him—his mother?—is focused on a crossword puzzle. She’s hooked up to a portable oxygen tank on wheels, the tubes stuck in her nostrils. What a family!
I shift in my seat to keep my butt from falling asleep.
The door to the scan room opens and the technician pokes his head out.
“Mrs. Garcia? We’re ready for you now.”
Crossword lady gets up and follows him inside.
But the guy in the sweatshirt doesn’t budge. She says nothing to him and never looks back. Not her son, then? Guess he’s got his own appointment with the scanner.
I check my watch for the twentieth time. The seconds crawl by. I toss the magazine back on the table, and I’m reaching for another when a sudden migraine flares through my brain, with a shock that makes me gasp. I lean forward, holding my head. It’s like somebody’s hammering that nail deeper.
I fumble in my jacket for my pills.
Dry-swallowing one of the migraine busters, I try to breathe slowly and wait for it to work. I’m staring at the floor when a loud buzzing sound fills my ears. A side effect of the headaches.
Just gotta ride it out. It’ll pass.
I glance over at the guy. He’s awake, watching me from under his hood. His eyes catch me. They’re such a strange shade—pale amber. A shock of color in that gray face. Holding the look for just a moment, I break away before it gets weird.
I close my eyes as the buzzing surrounds me. I try covering my ears to block it out. That’s when I hear something past the white noise.
Something … like a voice! Coming from inside my head. I strain to make it out. I can almost—
Jane.
My breath stops in my throat. What was that?
Jane.
I press my palms tight against my ears, blocking out everything but what’s coming from inside.
You’re mine, Jane.
The same voice from my nightmare—buried in the coffin.
You’re mine. Mine. Mine.
It echoes in me.
Don’t make me hurt you
make me hurt you
make me hurt
“Jane?”
I jump in my seat, my eyes flying open. The technician is standing by the door.
“What? What?” I say, looking around the room.
The sick guy is gone. Where did he go? How long have I been sitting here like this? Lost in my own head.
“We’re ready for your scan now.”
The buzzing is gone. I hear him clearly. And the pain is passing, eased by the pill.
Where did the voice come
from?
I get up shakily and follow the technician.
Jumpy and distracted, I half listen as he runs through the CT scan procedure with me.
What was with that creepy guy out there? Where did he go? And how long was I out of it? Felt like only a minute.
I wince as the tech sticks an IV in my arm, injecting the dye that will make the veins in my brain stand out on the imaging.
“Lie down now. The scan will take about ten minutes. Just try to relax. I need you to keep completely still while we’re running the test.”
The scanner is a big blocky thing with a doughnut hole in the middle, and they load you in like a human torpedo. I get up on the tray and lie back, staring at the ceiling, while the technician goes in the next room to fire it up.
That sick guy couldn’t have gone in for his scan before me. I wasn’t zoned out for that long. Was I?
The tray shudders into motion, sliding me into the glowing white mouth of the scanner.
As tests go, this one is painless. But it can drive you nuts, to have to keep perfectly motionless for so long with nothing to look at but the roof of the tube. Gets claustrophobic quick if you let it.
The scan starts up with a deep humming sound. I shut my eyes, trying to relax. Which is impossible.
My mind is going a mile a minute, replaying, You’re mine. Don’t make me hurt you.
What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t get—
The scanner’s hum cuts off suddenly into silence.
We done already?
I open my eyes to darkness.
What is this? Power outage? Can’t see a thing. You’d think with all the radiation this monster throws off it would glow in the dark.
I wait for the lights to come back on.
“Hello,” I call out. “Anybody there?”
Nothing. Where’s the panic button?
“Little help,” I try louder. “I’m kind of stuck in here.”
Seconds tick by. Did the tech go on a break or something?
After a minute I decide, Screw it! I’m getting out. I put my hands up to try to push myself back out.
But my fingers hit something cold and damp. It crumbles under my touch, breaking apart and showering down on my face. I swipe it away. What the hell is this?