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My teeth clenched, and I fought off the wave of nausea.
No. Please, God, let me have the wrong apartment. PLEASE don’t let Roger live here.
She said nothing, but her eyes were haunted, nervous, and curious, all at once. I took my hand off the gun and smiled down at her. Hoping my horror wasn’t reflected in my gaze.
“Does Roger Ball live here?” I asked her.
There was a brief pause, and then she nodded her head.
I was going to be sick. Who was she? How old was she? Where was her mother? I’d waited too long. I should have come sooner. This was my fault.
“Is he here?” I asked.
She shook her head.
What did I do now? He had a kid in this trailer. I couldn’t wait for him, go inside, and follow through with my plan in front of her. This was something I should have anticipated. I’d only been prepared for the woman, Netta, being here. Not a girl.
“Is, uh, Netta here?” I asked her then.
She shook her head again. She wasn’t a big talker.
Good for her. Don’t tell a stranger too much.
But I needed to get in that trailer. I had to see things. Assess the situation. I couldn’t leave here and figure out a new plan. Not with the girl being inside. She needed protecting.
“Roger is my father,” I told her. Saying those words sent an icy chill down my spine. I hated calling him that. “Can I come inside?”
She blinked, but said nothing. We stood there like that, and I began to wonder if she was going to refuse to let me in and slam the door in my face. I tried to think of anything I could say to ease her mind.
When the door began to creak open more, I wanted to sigh in relief. The girl remained silent and stepped back so that I could enter.
The stench that met me was one I recognized. It was that of neglect and filth. I’d lived in it once too. The girl was thin. Too thin. Her clothing hung loosely on her body, several sizes too big for her. It was worn, dirty, and faded. There were no lights on, nor was there the hum of appliances. It was completely silent.
I took in my surroundings, seeing that although it smelled like a sewer, there weren’t dirty dishes in the sink, and there weren’t empty bottles of liquor or beer scattered around. In fact, there was no garbage at all. The place was just dark and tidy—well, as tidy as it could be, considering the clutter of beaten, mismatched furniture and small stuffed animals that covered every free surface. Their presence took things to a creepy level.
“Do you like stuffed animals?” I asked her in a friendly tone, trying to ease her mind about letting a stranger inside.
She scrunched her nose and shook her head.
All right, then the strange stuffies were not hers.
Please, if there is a god, do not let another child be in this house.
“Is there another child here?” I asked hoping I sounded casual.
She shook her head again, but gave me no more information. This one was like a vault. She wasn’t going to give anything up. All right, I couldn’t fault her for that. I knew that the horror of what she’d lived through here took away any trust.
“When will Roger or Netta be home?” I asked, knowing she’d have to use her words to answer that question.
She turned away and walked toward the small corner that served as the kitchen. I glanced back at the door, making sure it was closed all the way. I needed to be alerted before Roger walked inside. Seeing a light switch, I reached over and flipped it, wanting to illuminate the place.
Nothing happened.
No electricity. The silence made sense now.
I turned my attention back to the girl, and she was coming back to me, holding something. It was a dry erase board that had been written on. Reaching out, I took it and turned it so I could read it.
I dont no.
I lifted my eyes from the board and saw the marker in her other hand. Big brown eyes stared up at me. The girl had to be ten maybe? But she couldn’t spell correctly, and judging from the board in my hand, it seemed she couldn’t speak.
“How long have they been gone? Do they work?” I asked her, handing the board back to her.
She took it and used her sleeve to wipe it clean, then began to write. The board was cracked and appeared to have once been a calendar, but the print on it had worn off for the most part. I took a moment to study her while she was writing. Long brown hair, which looked like it needed to be washed weeks ago, hung down over the sides of her face. Her collarbone was prominent and made her chest appear sunken in. I glanced back at the kitchen again and wondered if there was food in there. The fridge had no electricity.
