Page 22 of The Fixer

I couldn’t.

“Eliza.”

Terror filled her eyes, and it tore me in two. I lifted a hand to calm her, to assure her there was nothing to fear. But the flinch of her body as she reacted to my raised hand was too much.

Turning my back to her, I left her side. Crossed the room. Pressed my hands to the windows above my shoulders as I lowered my head.

“What are you doing here?” There was accusation in her tone, and it dug a trench through the open wound she’d already created with her earlier silence.

“I came to help you,” I told her, words thick in my mouth. “I came to take care of you.”

Because that’s what I do.

I raised my head, because I knew—I knew—what she feared held no truth. Lowering my hands to my sides, I turned and leaned against the glass. “Mr. Jingles.”

Her face dropped, lip trembling as tears welled in her eyes. “She’s gone.”

“I’m sorry, Eliza. I would bring her back if I could.” My hand drifted to my chest, but I forced it down, shoved it in my pockets, determined not to make this about me. “We cleaned her up—”

“Who’s we?”

A lifetime of secrets caught the words on the tip of my tongue in their sticky web. I licked the corner of my mouth, as if that act alone could free me from their grasp. “Me and my friend.”

She let out a huff, as if recognizing my hesitation for what it was.

“Me and my friend, Santini.”

“What did you do with her?” Her voice wavered between grief and strength, and the tenacity within it gave me hope.

“Nothing yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

Eliza’s gaze drifted to the open bedroom door, but it snapped back to me at the sound of my voice.

“I need to talk to you, Eliza. What’s the last thing Mr. Jingles ate?”

With a furrowed brow, the girl picked at a cuticle before tugging at the wide collar of her shirt. She smoothed her hand over the white fabric before running it along the high waist of her black pants.

It was the middle of the night. I wasn’t sure if she’d eaten anything since the breakfast I ordered for her that morning, and I’d seen how her mind wandered prior to feeding her the night before. So instead of snapping my fingers and demanding an answer like my every fiber wanted me to, I waited.

Waited for her to look up at me with those chocolate-colored eyes.

“What’s the last thing she ate?” I prompted gently.

She gave a slow blink and returned her gaze to her cuticles. “I gave her chicken last night. It was her favorite. She loved it and I was tired of eating it.”

“Did you eat any?”

She nodded. “A little bit. A few bites anyway. Brooke wouldn’t leave me alone until I did.”

“And the food you left out for her? Did she eat any of that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where’s the food that was in your refrigerator?”

Her head raised and she looked toward the door, toward the kitchen, her lips pursed. “I threw it out. I felt… good after last night.” She turned her face toward me. “After dinner. I wanted to keep that feeling. I wanted to get rid of the food and the horrible memories and the things that were weighing me down.”

“You threw it out in the trash?” She nodded her confirmation. “Was there anything else Mr. Jingles could have eaten? Anything you might have shared?”