Anne Brown - Lies Beneath

“And then we’ll take him down.” Tallulah leaned her head against my shoulder.

“Slowly,” Maris added. “We’ll let him come up for air, and then we’ll drag him down again.”

I shook my head.

“And then do it again,” said Pavati. Her light giggle raised goose bumps on my smooth arms.

“He’ll be screaming,” I said. “It will call unnecessary attention.”

“Trust me, little brother,” said Maris. “By the time anyone comes, we’ll be long, long gone.”

Maris pulled down a quiet street in South Minneapolis, made a U-turn, and parked on the side of the road, a few houses down from a Tudor two-story with a For Sale sign in the yard and a moving van parked out front. My eyes focused on the name stenciled on the mailbox.

HANCOCK

“Go on,” said Maris. “See what you think.”

I hesitated. Breaking and entering wasn’t really my style.

“Listen, little brother. If you don’t find out for yourself, I’ll have to listen to you bitch all the way up north. Get in there. Check them out. If you aren’t convinced it’s the right man, well … we’ll cross that bridge later.”

I gave her a jerky nod and got out of the car. Budding sugar maples lined the street. Other than the bustle of activity surrounding the moving van, it was quiet.

I crept along the neighbor’s privacy fence and climbed over the top, dropping silently into the Hancocks’ backyard. The yellow grass crunched under my feet as I edged my way to the rear door. Barely opening it, I slipped inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in an actual house, but the kitchen—even stripped bare of its appliances—was strangely familiar, what with the yellow walls and silver sink. But as I struggled to pull a memory out of the darkness, the smell of bleach overtook me, and I crinkled my nose against the fumes.

I slunk through the empty rooms, looking for any clues that Maris had found the right Hancocks, but there wasn’t much left inside. A few cardboard boxes marked Mom’s Paints and Supplies stood stacked by the front door. Another box, labeled Photo Albums , gave me pause. I opened it carefully and paged through the album at the top of the stack. Three sheets in, I found a family photo. The father stared up at me from the happy composition. Could this be Tom Hancock’s son?

I closed the box and watched through the front windows as one of the moving crew carried a wheelchair up the ramp into the van. Another man pointed and gave instructions about its placement. Before I could give any consideration to the second man, floorboards creaked above my head. I knew I was pushing my luck, but my curiosity was piqued.

Stealing along the wall, I crept up the stairs, controlling each footstep, avoiding squeaky treads, until I got to the first bedroom, where a hand-painted sign still hung on the door. Lily , it said. Someone was moving around inside, making clinking sounds and dropping things onto a hard surface.

I slipped through the door and into the bedroom closet, positioning myself so as not to jostle the wire hangers, and adjusted the slats in the door with my finger. My eyes darted around the room as I peered through the gap. Deep indentations marked the spot where a bed had been. Rectangles of darker paint and bits of tape marred the walls.

The en suite bathroom door stood ajar, and a teenage girl bent over the white counter, leaning into the mirror. This must be Lily , I thought as I assessed her: average height, with dark auburn curls that tumbled down her back.

She readied the sharp point of a charcoal pencil by the corner of her eye and drew a thick line along her lashes. She smirked at some private thought and drew the line thicker, shifting her weight. My eyes settled on her backside, round and nubile in a black miniskirt, and my stomach twisted like a snake in a jar.

The girl returned to her bedroom and was now just several feet from where I hid. She dropped a green velvet bag on the floor and sat down to lace her tattered combat boots, worn over plum-colored tights. In her richly textured colors and auburn hair, she reminded me of a classical oil painting. I memorized her every detail, wondering if she should be my target, wanting her to be my mark.

A circle of skin showed through a hole in the knee of her tights. It mesmerized me. Just the size of a quarter, like a bright pink petal floating on dark water … The flow of electricity bounced from my fingers to the wire hangers, making a tiny snapping sound. Then there was a flash, and I spun toward the movement. Still jumpy as hell. God, what was I doing in here? I re-adjusted the closet door slats to get a better view.

A smaller girl—her sister?—was standing in the doorway. She was younger than I expected. Small with blond ringlets. Her pink backpack, partially unzipped, bulged with books and dolls. She twisted up her mouth and eyed her older sister.

“What are you wearing? You look weird.”

The older girl flinched but didn’t respond.

The smaller one leaned against the bedroom doorframe. “Did you hear me? I said, ‘You look weird.’ Why do you have to dress like that?”

I thought I saw the older sister stifle a smile.

“Y’know what? ‘Weird’ was kinda the look I was going for. Thanks, Sophie.”

“If you ruin my chance to make new friends, I will kill you.”

The older girl finished tying her right boot, and this time she did smile. I did, too. There was something about a little girl handing out death threats that appealed to my twisted, darker side.

“Then I’ll try not to make you the social outcast of the North Woods,” she said.

The younger girl made an exasperated sound while the older one leaned forward to grab a book off the floor. Her blouse rode up, exposing her lower back.

“Oh my gosh, Lily! Is that a tattoo? I’m telling Mom and Dad.”

The girl called Lily pulled her shirt down and stood up. Turning toward her sister, she said, “No, you’re not.”

“Why not?”

She put her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “Because you wouldn’t do that to me, and I would never do something like that to you.”

Sophie Hancock lowered her chin and looked at the floor. I waited for her to laugh and run to tell her parents. But she didn’t move. I couldn’t understand. Any one of my sisters would have jumped at the chance to make me miserable. Even Tallulah on a bad day.

“Fine. I won’t tell. But they are going to find out.”

Lily Hancock nodded. “By then I’ll have figured out a way to soften the blow.”

Sophie turned away, and I watched her leave, analyzing her from a strategic standpoint. She was smaller, probably easy to manipulate. It wouldn’t be a seduction with her. Too young. I’d have to think of a new tactic.

The room was now empty save for Lily Hancock, and me in her closet. She reached again for the book on the ground. It was old, oversized, its binding loose and its cover cracked. It flopped open, exposing a page that was blank except for a smudged inscription written in a large, looping hand:

An insignificant sacrifice for one so loved as you .

I doubted the inscription was for her. Probably written before she was born. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.

The girl let her fingers caress the inscription before gently closing the cover and cradling the spine. I caught the title before she slipped it into her bag: An Anthology of Victorian Poets . Geez, the book was ancient. What did she like about the old thing? My curiosity was interrupted by a woman calling up the stairwell, and I jumped again, almost giving myself away.

“Lily honey?” she asked. “Are you still up there? It’s time. We’re all waiting.”