Page 67 of Home Before Dark

Tap.

I looked to Jess, fast asleep beside me.

Tap-tap.

I sat up, listening as the sound made its way up the hallway.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

A flurry of them flew past our bedroom door.

Then it was gone, replaced by music, distant but unmistakable.

“You are sixteen, going on seventeen—”

I sat up in bed, all memories of that awful dream banished from my mind. All I could think about was that song, playing in spite of the fact I had put both the record player and the albums back in the closet.

“Baby, it’s time to think.”

What followed felt like a dream. A recurring one that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I wanted it to.

I got out of bed.

I traversed the hallway, bare feet on hardwood.

I climbed the steps to the third floor, rising into a confounding chill emanating from the study.

The déjà vu continued as I entered the study and saw the record player sitting on the desk, looking as though I had never moved it.

“Better beware, be canny and careful—”

I plucked the needle from the album and turned off the record player. I then stood there, completely still, wondering if it really was a dream and, if so, when it would finally end.

Twelve

The sign outside the Two Pines Motor Lodge is already aglow when I pull into the parking lot, its neon trees casting a sickly green light that spreads across the asphalt like moss. When I enter the motel office, the clerk doesn’t look up from her magazine. A blessing, considering I’m sweaty, disheveled, and still coated with dust.

“A room is fifty a night,” she says.

I dig out my wallet and place two twenties and a ten on the front desk. I assume this isn’t the kind of place that requires a credit card. Proving me correct, the clerk takes the cash, grabs a key from the rack on the wall next to her, and slides it toward me.

“You’ll be in room four,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Vending machines are at the other end of the building. Checkout is at noon.”

I take the key, and a puff of dirt rises from my sleeve. Because the house was still crawling with cops when I left, I have no fresh change of clothes. Just a bag of travel-size sundries I bought at a convenience store on the way here.

“Um, are there any laundry facilities here?”

“Sorry, no.” The clerk finally looks at me, her expression slanted and bewildered. “But if you rinse all that in the sink now, it might be dry by morning. If not, there’s a hair dryer attached to the wall.”

I thank her and shuffle to my room. As I unlock the door, I wonder if it’s the same one my parents and I stayed in after fleeing Baneberry Hall. If so, I doubt much has changed between stays. The interior looks as though it hasn’t been updated in at least thirty years. Stepping inside feels like entering a time machine and being zapped straight back to the eighties.

I head to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and, still fully dressed, step under the spray. It seems easier than using the sink.

At first, it looks like the shower scene fromPsycho—stained water circling the drain. When enough grime slides off my clothes for me to deem them salvageable in the short term, I take them off piece by piece.

It’s not until after all the clothes are off and draped over the shower curtain, dripping soapy water, that I plop down in the tub, knees to my chest, and begin to weep.

I end up crying for half an hour, too sad, angry, and confused to do anything else. I cry for Petra, mourning her even though I have no memories of meeting her. I cry for my father, trying to square the man I thought he was with the horrible thing he might have done.

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