Page 28 of Starve
Not that I blame her.
But a picture of her finally surfaces, and with a jolt I find she’s a clerk for the local courthouse. It seems insane to me that she’s here, living so close to where it happened just a few towns over, but it’s also my good luck that she does. It means I don’t have to go on a road trip or give up on this idea entirely.
Still, I sit there, worrying my bottom lip, debating if this is the right thing to do. Part of me wonders if I should just try to move on. To let things go.
But all it takes is the whispered memory to change my mind, the sound of Hattie’s voice in my ear when she said,
“They’re starving.”
Then Cairo’s face tugs at something in me, and I know I can’t let this go. Looking at Moro, I watch her drowse for a moment, noting the way her ears twitch, before I close my laptop and ask, “Want to go for a ride, girl?”
Laura Simms’ house is…not at all welcoming. I stand in front of it with Moro in my car, the windows half down. It’s cool enough that I’m definitely not worried about her, and I’m not sure Laura would want a wolf dog showing up at her door, so leaving her seems like the more polite option. But now that I’m standing on her stoop, with ivy and mold creeping up to frame the front door on all sides, I’m not so sure I should’ve left her.
This place feels…sad. I suppose that’s the right word for it, and I bite my lower lip between my teeth as I debate if I shouldeven ring the bell. She might not be home, even though there is a car in the short driveway of the little house.
She might be dead.
Or asleep.
Or deaf, for all I know.
But Ineedto know, or at least do all I can to figure out if we saw the same thing like I think we did. So I cautiously reach up to ring the bell, hearing it reverberate inside of the house in long, rhythmic chimes.
“She’s definitely not secretly a murderer,” I whisper to myself as I hear a door closing and approaching footsteps. The old wood of the house creaks, and I stand there, trying to look harmless, while wondering if Laura is glaring at me through the peephole.
That’s what I would do, anyway. But then I also probably wouldn’t open the door to someone standing here like me.
I wait for a few moments, shifting from one foot to the other, not sure what to expect, before finally the old door with its peeling and flaky paint cracks open just enough for me to see someone standing behind it.
“Who are you?” The woman sounds older, like she’s in her mid-sixties, but that makes sense, given how long ago the ‘incident’ she was interviewed about happened.
“Hi, I’m Fern,” I answer honestly, linking my hands behind my back. “Sorry. I’m not trying to bother you.” Desperately hoping that politeness is the way to go here if I’m looking for answers. “I…I’m looking for Ms. Laura Simms?”
The woman doesn’t reply at once, and I get the feeling she’s scrutinizing me. I hold as still as I can, trying not to look impatient or fidget. Not that I succeed.
“Why?” The question comes out snappy, almost like a demanding bark. But I expected this, rather than a warm welcome. I’m a stranger, after all, and I’m sure she’s had a lot of people question or mock her over the article.
“Because last week at Bluebone Ridge Sanitarium something happened,” I say quickly, hopefully before she slams the door in my face. “And I want to know if I’m crazy…or if I really saw monsters.”
“So why come tome?”
“Because they were starving.”
She slams the door in my face. Hard. I stand there blinking, a little surprised by the aggressive strength of her slam, and after a few seconds I turn to look around the old, rundown subdivision. No one else is outside, even though it’s early afternoon and the weather is still holding up, if a bit cloudy. It’s cool for late summer, and my sleeves are pushed up to my elbows in the mild air.
Moro hangs her head out of the driver’s side window, tongue lolling as she watches me. She, at least, looks pretty at ease with the situation, and doesn’t really seem anything except interested.
But I just wait, hoping that something will change…only for it not to. Finally I sigh, shoulders dropping, and turn to walk off the porch.
I’m three steps down the sidewalk when the door creaks open again, the same amount as it had the first time, judging by the sound.
“That your dog in the car?” Laura Simms asks, because really, it can’t be anyone else.
“Yeah,” I say without turning. “Her name is Moro.”
“Don’t leave her in there. She’ll be bored. Get your dog and come in, if you’re coming.” There’s no kindness in her sharp words, but my stomach unclenches anyway. I still don’t turn to look at her, though. I don’t want her to revoke this strange invitation she’s suddenly given me. Besides, I realize as I clip Moro’s leash on and let her jump out of the car to sniff along thegrass. I’d rather have Moro with me if I’m going into a stranger’s house than be there alone.
I worry a bit when I’m coming back up the concrete stairs and the door is still mostly closed. But whether she decides at the last minute to let me in or if it’s Moro’s happy charm, her tail wagging, once I’m on the landing with the wolf dog’s leash in my hand, the door creaks open wider, revealing a hardwood floor entryway.
