Omens (Cainsville 1)

A longing look. Then a queasy look, before I raced out the back door. A glance around. No one in sight yet. I followed the line of trees across the property and took off.

The Product of Monsters

The college student huddled behind the tree, listening to the cacophony of voices inside the house. Dear God, had they actually broken in? She rubbed her arms against the night's chill. Her fingers brushed the strap around her neck, and she looked down at the camera, hanging there like an albatross.

It had seemed so simple when he phoned. She hadn't heard from him since school broke for exams. He'd said he'd call, but he hadn't. Then he did.

"Hey," he'd said. "You live in Chicago, right?"

She told herself it wasn't really a question. Of course he remembered where she lived.

She'd said yes, and he'd said, "Good. 'Cause there's this story about to break. I got a heads-up from a buddy of mine. It's leaked on the Internet, but not far, meaning it's still fresh, and it's taking place right there in Chicago. Do you know where Kenilworth is?"

She did. Not that she'd ever been there. People in her neighborhood didn't know those in Kenilworth unless they worked for them.

"Perfect," he'd said. "I need you to snap a couple pictures of a girl who lives there. You can do that, right?"

Of course she could. She was a photographer. That's how they'd met--working for the school paper. While she hadn't liked the idea of sneaking onto private property--especially in Kenilworth--she'd do it for him.

Turned out, trespassing wasn't really an issue, considering she hadn't been the first one there. The others were mainly bloggers and small press, maybe not as concerned about the law as they should be. She thought they might try to run her off, but they just let her hang out with them at the back door.

That's when she'd found out who the girl was.

"Todd and Pam Larsen's kid," one of the older journalists said, his breath reeking of garlic. "Can you believe that? Everyone figured they'd shipped her off for adoption in Australia, and she ends up here. She grew up as the daughter of that department store family."

She'd nodded as he talked, hoping eventually he'd explain who Todd and Pam Larsen were. The names were familiar, and she was sure if he gave her a clue, she'd figure out why, but he'd just kept bathing her in garlic breath until she faked getting a call and backed off the patio.

She'd looked up the Larsens on her phone. When she found out who they were, she knew why she didn't remember them. Because if she'd heard about them before, she'd wiped it from her memory. Would have bleached it out if she could. Now they were stuck there. Imprinted on her brain. The Larsens and what they'd done.

Oh God, what they'd done.

She'd abandoned her post then. Gone to huddle under a tree in the yard and try to keep dinner in her stomach.

The girl inside. The rich girl. The one everyone was waiting for. She was the child of these killers. The product of monsters.

She supposed she should feel sorry for the girl. Olivia Taylor-Jones was apparently only a couple of years older than her. But she couldn't feel sorry for her. Couldn't feel anything but disgust and horror.

If she just found out she was the child of such monsters, she'd take a header off the Sears Tower. You couldn't go on after that. You just couldn't.

She'd been sitting there, thinking of that, when they broke into the house. Now she listened to the commotion inside. Shouts. Crashes. A car starting.

Olivia was getting away. This would be her last chance for a photo. She didn't want the photo. Didn't want to look at the Larsens' daughter. But he expected it.

She moved up alongside the house. The car backed out and zoomed down the drive so fast she barely got her camera raised before it was gone.

She leaned against the garage wall and exhaled. She'd tried. She'd tell him that she tried but--

The side door clicked open.

She froze, then pushed back against the wall, crushing vines.

A young woman stepped out. She shut the door and looked around.

It was her. It had to be her. Blond hair. Piercing eyes. Her face hard as she surveyed the yard. She'd been calling Olivia Taylor-Jones "the girl," but there was nothing girlish about her. Nothing soft. Nothing warm.

The product of monsters. A fiend masquerading as a pretty young woman.

Last chance to snap a photo. A perfect shot. Just take it.