Chapter 4

I dreamed of another life. A different Joy. One so distant, she didn't feel like me. More like a girl who'd been; a girl who'd died the day her mother disappeared. But in my dream, I was her again. In my dream, I was in the back bedroom on a Saturday morning, so early the sun wasn't even up yet. The coolness of mama's cotton sheets against legs and feet. The smell of fresh cut grass and spring rain coming in through the open window. Crickets chirping. Mama humming beneath her breath.

I opened my eyes, and there she was, seated at her usual spot in front of the dresser, hair full of curlers as she expertly applied mascara to her already long lashes.

An angel, illuminated by the glow of a lamp missing its shade. If Mama was so beautiful, why didn't I have a daddy? It was something I could never understand. Other kids had them. Suzanne had a daddy, and her mama had a face like a bulldog.

"Mama?"

She found me in the mirror's reflection and lifted one perfectly plucked brow. "Yes, baby?"

I swallowed hard. "Who's my daddy?"

Mama's hand froze, then slowly lowered, sitting the mascara down. Her gaze left mine to skim the pile of makeup before her. She grabbed her cigarettes and shook one out. Her hands trembled as she fired it up and took a long drag. The tip glowed brighter, deep red and crackling as if she were a dragon drinking fire through a straw.

I'd asked her before, and the answer was always the same. A change of subject, or nothing at all. Silence. But this time had been the time she'd spoken, and it was the last time I ever asked.

Mama took several drags, chewing her nail in between each hit. Then she finally turned on her stool to face me. "Your daddy—" Her voice was raw. She cleared her throat. "—Your daddy was a twister."

My brow furrowed. A twister. I imagined a man composed of wind, flinging babies into open arms.

Mama chewed her nail again, her gaze going distant. "He was powerful. And beautiful. Impossible to look away from. The minute he blew into town, everybody got sucked into him." Another drag, then she snubbed it into the ashtray behind her and heaved a sigh. "But no sooner had he landed, he disappeared, leaving the rest of us behind to clean up the mess he'd made."

My chest tightened, and I held my breath.

"You'd do right not to think about him." She turned away and picked up her lipstick. "Twisters are dangerous, baby girl."

I watched her apply the crimson in silence.

My daddy was a twister.

And I was the mess.

***

This time, when I opened my eyes, I wasn't a girl anymore. I wasn't safe. I wasn't happy. And Mama was more gone than she'd ever been before. The room was dark and unfamiliar, with only the light of the moon allowed to paint the shadows silver. I blinked, willing my eyes to adjust as I scanned my surroundings. I was on a couch. There was a chair beside me. A man was sitting in it. Reality came crashing back so fast it hurt.

My mother.

"Joy," the hollow man started in an even more hollow voice than usual. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I know—" He stopped and took a long pull from a bottle gripped within his fist. "—I know it's hard, but I need to ask you some questions."

I sat up, and the room spun. John leaned forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. Whether to steady me or stop me, I wasn't sure.

I shook him away. "Don't touch me!"

He yanked his hand back. "I'm sor–"

"Stop apologizing!" I ran my fingers through my hair, nails over my scalp. Digging in. Wanting to bleed. To hurt. To feel anything other than this crippling loss. "Fuck!" The image of her had imbedded. It was engraved into the back of my eyelids. Chiseled into my brain. No matter how hard I fought not to, my thoughts ran through scenarios. How it had happened. How she would have screamed. Did she call out for me? Had she cried knowing she was leaving me behind? "I've got to go."

"Joy. . ."

But I didn't hear him. Not really. His voice was garbled, drowned out by the volume of my own thoughts. I tore from the couch, stumbled across the space, tipping boxes with no regard. My legs moved on their own: down his driveway, across the street, around my trailer, into the backyard. My chest constricted, as if a snake was wrapped around my lungs, slowly squeezing out what little life I had left.

I dropped to my knees in the dirt, my body bowing over the hole I'd begun as I wretched. Beer and bile burned my throat and stung my nose. I'd made a deal with God, and he'd answered. He didn't care. If he did, why would he let that happen to her? An angel. Mama was an angel, and some sick fuck–

I swiped my mouth hard with the back of my hand and pushed to my feet, grabbing the shovel. The hole wasn't as deep as I remembered it, barely anything at all. The ground was too hard, but I kept going, jabbing the shovel with a force that hurt my spine. I didn't count. There was no need. No deal. The pain didn't matter. The outcome didn't matter. I didn't matter. I was going to dig the fucking hole regardless. I was tired. So tired. So ready to stop. I'd find that mother fucker, gouge his eyes out, and have them in my pocket when I finally went to sleep.

But no matter how hard I tried, I barely cracked the surface. With a roar, I flung the shovel hard, sending it so far it smacked the shed with a resounding clang. "Fuck this shit!" Sobs ripped out of me as I dropped to my hands and knees. My body shook. I was wheezing. I couldn't stop.

Then someone dropped down beside me, and a hand met my shoulder. "Breathe."

John.

I heaved a breath.

"That's it." John inhaled, exhaled. "Breathe with me."

I did as he asked, swallowing my emotions, wrapping them up tight. I couldn't break, not yet. I had to avenge her. I couldn't let whoever did it live their life as if hers hadn't mattered.

After a few more steadying moments, I pushed to my feet.

John stood with me.

I looked at him. His eyes were searching, darting between my face and the upset dirt beside us. How much he'd seen didn't fucking matter. All that mattered was finding the person who'd killed her. "I'll help you," I rasped.

He nodded. "Good. I just need to ask you a few questions. It doesn't have to happen right—"

"I want to see everything you've got." I held a hand out as if he kept the evidence in his back pocket.

He paused, stared. "That's not how this works."

"My mothers been missing for seven years. Judging by your little portfolio over there—" I pointed toward his trailer. "—That fucker has killed dozens. However "it" works, doesn't fucking work."

He listened, unmoving, non-reactive, hollow. "This is an ongoing investigation. Evidence is classified."

I snorted. "You did a real good job with that one. Door wasn't even fucking locked."

His jaw worked. "Best thing you can do is cooperate, answer my questions, and let the law do its job."

"The law's never done anything for me." I stepped forward. He wasn't giving in easily, and I didn't have time to stand around arguing. "Cooperating. . ." I moved closer still, close enough to feel his body heat. He smelled like whiskey. I tilted my head back to look at him, chewed the corner of my lip. "Sometimes I'm good at cooperation."

Something sparked in those hollow eyes. Something I recognized all too well. He was just a man, like any other man. Another John; disgusting creatures with one-track minds.

But no sooner did it happen, it disappeared, and he was hollow once again. "Good." He cleared his throat and stepped back. "Then you won't mind answering some questions in the morning. It's late. You've been through enough for today." He turned away. Ran away? He wasn't running, but I knew an escape when I saw one.

"Good night!" I called to his back. My lips curved, eyes narrowed, as I watched him go. I'd answer his questions, but I'd also ask my own, and I was going to get exactly what I needed from him. No matter what price I had to pay.

Hope you enjoy! Next upload next Wednesday!