Magic Hour

She is waiting, Alice knows. For Something Bad.

Then Jewlee will Leave.

And Alice will be Girl again . . . and she will be alone. “Good girl,” she says one more time, hearing the crack in her voice. There is nothing else she can say. She runs across the room and picks up her shoes, trying to put them on the right feet. “Shoes. Promise.”

But Jewlee says nothing, just stares outside.

TWENTY-SIX

ELLIE SAW THE CLOT OF NEWS VANS PARKED ON EITHER SIDE OF the old highway. A white police barricade had been set up across her driveway, barring entrance. Peanut stood in front of it, her arms crossed, a whistle in her mouth.

Ellie hit the lights and siren for a second; the sound cleared the street instantly. Reporters parted into two groups and went to either side of the road. She pulled around the barricade and rolled down her window to talk to Peanut.

“They’re a roadside hazard. Get Earl and Mel out here to disperse the crowd. This day is bad enough without the media.”

A bright red Ferrari pulled up behind the cruiser. Ellie looked in her rearview mirror. George smiled at her, but it was faded, less than real. There was a sad, haunted look in his eyes.

Reporters swarmed his car, hurling questions.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Will there be a funeral?”

“Who did you sell your story to?”

“Get them out of here, Peanut,” she said, then stepped on the gas.

The Ferrari followed her down the potholed gravel road.

Ellie kept looking in her mirror, hoping he’d turn around or disappear.

By the time she pulled up in front of the porch, her stomach was coiled into a tiny ball.

She parked and killed the engine, then got out of the car.

George walked over to her. “How do I look?” he said, sounding nervous. He tucked a wavy strand of hair behind one ear.

“Good.” She cleared her throat. “You look good.”

He smiled and it took over his face, wiping away the nervousness, lighting those blue, blue eyes. Then his smile faded. He looked at the house and said, “It’s time.” His voice was soft, seductive. She wondered how many women had been drawn into the darkness by it and left there, alone, wondering vaguely how they’d gotten so lost. “I told your sister I’d pick up Brittany at three.”

Brittany.

With a sigh, she led him across the yard. They were almost to the steps when a gray Mercedes pulled up behind them and parked.

“Who’s that?” she asked George.

“Dr. Correll. He’s going to work with Brit.”

The man got out of his car. Tall, thin, almost elegantly effete, he walked toward them. His lean face showed plenty of lines but no hint of personality. “George.” He nodded at George, then he shook Ellie’s hand. “I’m Tad Correll.”

He had the grip strength of a toddler. Ellie had an almost overwhelming urge to coldcock him. “Nice to meet you.” She was about to turn away when she noticed the hypodermic needle sticking out of his breast pocket. “What’s that for? You a heroin addict?”

“It’s a sedative. The girl might be upset by the transition.”

“You think?” Ellie couldn’t help looking at George. She knew it was in her eyes—the pleading, the desperate don’t do this—but she didn’t say it again.

“She’s my daughter,” he said quietly.