“Are you sure he won’t come back?” a male voice asked. It sounded young, in the throes of puberty, with that fragile tone that oscillates between deep and high.
“I’ve already told you, Leo.” Lily’s voice was different from the one I knew. There was no sweetness, no hesitation typical of adolescence. It was cold, sharp, authoritarian. “Mom’s like clockwork. She starts work at eight, has her break at twelve, and doesn’t walk through that door until five-thirty. Stop whining.”
I felt a sudden wave of nausea. Was that my daughter? The little girl who had asked me to make her hot chocolate the night before because she was cold?
The footsteps reached the landing and, to my horror, turned directly toward her room. Toward where I was.
I saw the first shoes enter my field of vision, limited by the bed frame. Black sneakers, worn and caked with dried mud. Then, military-style boots, much too big for whoever was wearing them. And finally, Lily’s immaculate white sneakers. The ones I had bought her myself two weeks ago as a reward for her good grades.
“Close the door,” Lily ordered.
The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot. Now she was trapped. If they looked under the bed, there was no escape. No window was open, no possible excuse.
“Get him out. I want to see him,” Lily said. She sat on the edge of the bed, right above my head. The mattress dipped slightly, pressing against my shoulder. I could smell her perfume, a blend of vanilla and strawberry, the same innocent scent as always, but now mixed with the acrid stench of fear emanating from my own pores.
I heard the sound of a heavy zipper, like the one on a sports backpack, being yanked open. Then, the sound of something metallic hitting the wooden floor. And paper. Lots of paper.
“It’s all here,” said the boy in boots. “The Johnsons’ house, Mrs. Greene’s house, and the new guy’s house on the corner.”
