The Beast (Black Dagger Brotherhood 14)
“Good. And yes, of course—I’ll take over from here. Thank you so much for staying with her all day. It just felt like the right thing to do.”
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Call me if you need me?”
“Always. Thanks, Rhym.”
While the female headed for the back of the house, Mary took the stairs in a rush, stopping only to drop her things off in her office before going up to the third floor. When she got to the top landing, she was surprised to find the door to Bitty’s room open.
“Hello?” the girl called out from inside.
Mary squared her shoulders and walked forward. “It’s me.”
“Hi.”
Bitty’s suitcases were still packed and by her bed, but she was over at the old desk, brushing her doll’s hair.
“Rhym said you wanted to see me?”
To herself, Mary added, Any chance you want to talk about something? The mother you lost? The infant brother who died? Your maniac father? ’Cuz that would be great.
“Yes, please.” The little girl turned. “I was wondering if you could please take me to my old house.”
Mary recoiled before she could catch the reaction. “You mean where you and your mahmen used to live? With your father?”
“Yes.”
Easing the door shut, Mary went over and almost sat on Bitty’s mom’s bed. She stopped before she did, though. “What are you—why would you like to go there? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“I want to get some more of my things. My uncle doesn’t live in Caldwell. If I don’t get them now, I may not be able to pick them up when he comes to get me.”
Mary glanced around. Then walked around, stopping at the window that overlooked the front yard. Dark, so dark out there—seemingly more so than on a July night when it was humid and warm as opposed to cold and blustery.
Pivoting to face the girl, she said, “Bitty, I’ve got to be honest with you. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing”—Mary chose her words carefully—“the house has been abandoned the entire time you’ve been here. I’m not certain what condition it’s in—it might have been looted. Or suffered roof damage. In which case I’m not sure what we’d find there?”
“We won’t know if we don’t go.”
Mary hesitated. “It could bring up a lot of memories. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“Location doesn’t matter. There is no escape from what I remember. It is with me every waking minute and in my dreams all day long.”
As the girl spoke in such a factual way, she didn’t miss a stroke of that brush. They might as well have been talking about the schedule of laundry or what was being served down in the kitchen.
“You must miss your mahmen a great deal,” Mary prompted.
“So may we please go?”
Mary rubbed her face and felt exhausted. “You can talk about her with me, you know. Sometimes that helps.”
Bitty didn’t even blink. “May we?”
Annnnnnnd that door remained firmly closed, apparently. Great. “Let me talk to Marissa, okay? I’ll go find her right now and see what I can do.”
“I have my coat.” The little girl motioned to the end of her bed. “And my shoes are on. I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll be back in a little bit.” Mary headed for the exit, but paused at the door. “Bitty, in my experience, people either work things in, work them out, or work them through. The latter is the best option, and it usually comes from talking about the stuff we maybe don’t want to discuss.”
On some level, she couldn’t believe she was addressing a nine-year-old like that. But Bitty certainly didn’t express herself like someone under the age of ten.
“What do the other two mean?” the little girl said, still working her brush.
“Sometimes people internalize bad feelings, and punish themselves in their minds for things they regret or think they did wrong or badly. It eats away at you until you either crack and have to let it all out or go crazy. Working out means that you avoid what bothers you by channeling feelings into behaviors that ultimately hurt you or other people.”
“I don’t understand any of that. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Mary said sadly. “Listen, I’ll go speak to Marissa.”
“Thank you.”
Walking out of the room, Mary paused at the head of the stairs and looked back. Bitty was just doing what she had been, running that brush down the ratty hair and avoiding the bald spots.
In all the time she had been in the house, she had never played with any of the toys available downstairs in the communal box: the children, when they first came in, were always encouraged to find one or two that they liked and claim them as their own, leaving the others as joint property. Bitty had been told repeatedly to help herself. Never had.
She had her doll and her old stuffed tiger. That was it.
“Shit,” Mary whispered.
Marissa’s office was on the second floor, and when Mary went down and knocked on the jamb, Butch’s shellan motioned for her to come in even as she talked into her phone.
“—completely confidential. No, no. Yes, you may bring your young. No, free of charge. What was that? Absolutely free of charge. For however long you’re here.” Marissa indicated for Mary to take a seat, and then held up her forefinger in the universal sign for Hold on, just one second. “No, it’s okay—take your time. I know . . . you don’t have to apologize for the tears. Ever.” o;Good. And yes, of course—I’ll take over from here. Thank you so much for staying with her all day. It just felt like the right thing to do.”
“I wouldn’t have been anywhere else. Call me if you need me?”
“Always. Thanks, Rhym.”
While the female headed for the back of the house, Mary took the stairs in a rush, stopping only to drop her things off in her office before going up to the third floor. When she got to the top landing, she was surprised to find the door to Bitty’s room open.
“Hello?” the girl called out from inside.
Mary squared her shoulders and walked forward. “It’s me.”
“Hi.”
Bitty’s suitcases were still packed and by her bed, but she was over at the old desk, brushing her doll’s hair.
“Rhym said you wanted to see me?”
To herself, Mary added, Any chance you want to talk about something? The mother you lost? The infant brother who died? Your maniac father? ’Cuz that would be great.
“Yes, please.” The little girl turned. “I was wondering if you could please take me to my old house.”
Mary recoiled before she could catch the reaction. “You mean where you and your mahmen used to live? With your father?”
“Yes.”
Easing the door shut, Mary went over and almost sat on Bitty’s mom’s bed. She stopped before she did, though. “What are you—why would you like to go there? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“I want to get some more of my things. My uncle doesn’t live in Caldwell. If I don’t get them now, I may not be able to pick them up when he comes to get me.”
Mary glanced around. Then walked around, stopping at the window that overlooked the front yard. Dark, so dark out there—seemingly more so than on a July night when it was humid and warm as opposed to cold and blustery.
Pivoting to face the girl, she said, “Bitty, I’ve got to be honest with you. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing”—Mary chose her words carefully—“the house has been abandoned the entire time you’ve been here. I’m not certain what condition it’s in—it might have been looted. Or suffered roof damage. In which case I’m not sure what we’d find there?”
“We won’t know if we don’t go.”
Mary hesitated. “It could bring up a lot of memories. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“Location doesn’t matter. There is no escape from what I remember. It is with me every waking minute and in my dreams all day long.”
As the girl spoke in such a factual way, she didn’t miss a stroke of that brush. They might as well have been talking about the schedule of laundry or what was being served down in the kitchen.
“You must miss your mahmen a great deal,” Mary prompted.
“So may we please go?”
Mary rubbed her face and felt exhausted. “You can talk about her with me, you know. Sometimes that helps.”
Bitty didn’t even blink. “May we?”
Annnnnnnd that door remained firmly closed, apparently. Great. “Let me talk to Marissa, okay? I’ll go find her right now and see what I can do.”
“I have my coat.” The little girl motioned to the end of her bed. “And my shoes are on. I’m ready to go.”
“I’ll be back in a little bit.” Mary headed for the exit, but paused at the door. “Bitty, in my experience, people either work things in, work them out, or work them through. The latter is the best option, and it usually comes from talking about the stuff we maybe don’t want to discuss.”
On some level, she couldn’t believe she was addressing a nine-year-old like that. But Bitty certainly didn’t express herself like someone under the age of ten.
“What do the other two mean?” the little girl said, still working her brush.
“Sometimes people internalize bad feelings, and punish themselves in their minds for things they regret or think they did wrong or badly. It eats away at you until you either crack and have to let it all out or go crazy. Working out means that you avoid what bothers you by channeling feelings into behaviors that ultimately hurt you or other people.”
“I don’t understand any of that. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Mary said sadly. “Listen, I’ll go speak to Marissa.”
“Thank you.”
Walking out of the room, Mary paused at the head of the stairs and looked back. Bitty was just doing what she had been, running that brush down the ratty hair and avoiding the bald spots.
In all the time she had been in the house, she had never played with any of the toys available downstairs in the communal box: the children, when they first came in, were always encouraged to find one or two that they liked and claim them as their own, leaving the others as joint property. Bitty had been told repeatedly to help herself. Never had.
She had her doll and her old stuffed tiger. That was it.
“Shit,” Mary whispered.
Marissa’s office was on the second floor, and when Mary went down and knocked on the jamb, Butch’s shellan motioned for her to come in even as she talked into her phone.
“—completely confidential. No, no. Yes, you may bring your young. No, free of charge. What was that? Absolutely free of charge. For however long you’re here.” Marissa indicated for Mary to take a seat, and then held up her forefinger in the universal sign for Hold on, just one second. “No, it’s okay—take your time. I know . . . you don’t have to apologize for the tears. Ever.”