All the Little Lights
Page 79

We walked together toward the hallway, Mrs. Mason pausing to turn off lights on the way. She left the Christmas tree plugged in, the soft white glowing brighter.
“Isn’t it funny how lights seem so much more beautiful in the dark?” she asked.
“Like the stars,” I said. “I use to stare out my bedroom window, down at the lights that lined our street. The city stopped replacing the bulbs when they burned out, and it bothered me until I realized I could see the stars better.”
“Always making the best of your circumstances,” Mrs. Mason said. “Good night, Catherine.”
“Night,” I said, watching her go toward her bedroom.
Her door opened and closed, and then I found myself standing in the hallway alone, waiting for the house to breathe, for its eyes to open and watch me like the Juniper did at night. But there was only the faint aroma of Mrs. Mason’s apple cinnamon–scented plug-ins and the glow of the Christmas tree.
I closed my bedroom door behind me. One article at a time, I unpacked my clothes. At the bottom of the last bag was my music box.
It seemed old and dusty when I placed the aging pink-and-white cube on the shiny dresser of my new room. All my things—including me—seemed worn now that they were inside the Masons’ charming home. I undressed and showered, attempting to scrub the secrets from my skin. Mama being alone and afraid forced its way into my thoughts, and worry for Elliott made the center of my chest feel heavy. Six months ago, the only thing that held value was my loyalty to Mama and the Juniper. How had I so quickly and completely changed my mind?
Water poured over my face, rinsing away the suds from my hair and body, pooling around my feet. The tub was perfectly white, the caulk seal where the fiberglass met the tile wall was mold-free, and the windows kept out the cold wind blowing outside. I looked up at the showerhead, the streams all spitting out water evenly, hard water buildup absent from the metal.
Mama was still trapped in the Juniper with the others, in her own hopelessness and despair, and I was showering in a warm, pristine home that smelled like apple pie.
In fresh pajamas that still smelled like the stuffy air trapped inside the Juniper, I walked over to the music box I’d packed before DHS had come to save me. The lid creaked when it opened, the dancer inside trembling when I touched the top of her tiny brown bun. The notes chimed slowly, reminding me of when Dad did the saving. I wondered if he would’ve been upset with me for my choice. I could almost hear his stern but loving voice explaining how leaving someone behind was hurtful, and then again telling me I’d done the right thing. But that was hard to believe. Dad would have never left Mama, no matter how many breakdowns or episodes she had.
Althea, Poppy, Willow . . . even Duke were all probably scrambling to help Mama cope. They would stay. The castoffs, the drifters, and the unwanted were all willing to sacrifice to help Mama more than I was.
I closed the music box, cutting off the song before it could finish.
“I’m the guest now,” I whispered.
After a soft knock on the door, Mrs. Mason’s muffled voice came through. “Catherine? You awake?”
“Yes?” I pulled open the door. Mrs. Mason stood trembling in the hall in her robe and bare feet, clinging to a flashlight, her skin shiny, her hair dripping wet from a shower.
“I heard something outside my window. I was going to go check.”
“Want me to go with you?”
She shook her head, but I could see in her eyes that she was afraid. “No, just stay in your room.”
“I’m going,” I said, closing the door behind me.
We put on coats and slipped on our boots, then stepped out onto the front porch.
“Should we split up?” I asked. “I go left, you go right?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, absolutely not. You stay with me.”
We walked down the steps as Mrs. Mason shone her flashlight in front of us. Our boots crunched against the dead grass, the wind blowing the counselor’s wet hair into her face.
She put out her hand, signaling for me to stop. “Hello?” she called, her voice trembling. “Who’s there?”
I glanced behind us. The lights in the neighboring houses were dark. The street was empty.
The sound of a scuffle in the back of the house made Mrs. Mason jump back. She held her finger to her mouth, the light casting shadows across her face.
“Whispers,” she hissed just loud enough for me to hear.
I waited, hearing several people talking in low, panicked voices. I pulled her closer to me. “We should go inside.”
The spring from the Masons’ back gate whined, and then the wood slammed shut. Mrs. Mason pulled away from my grip, shining her light all over the yard, finally settling on the gate. It was still swaying from being slammed shut but not latched.
“Becca!” I called when she sprinted across the yard. She disappeared through the gate, and all I could think about was how fast she’d run in her clunky boots. “Becca!” I yelled, running after her in the dark.
By the time I reached the gate, she’d slipped back through, locking it behind her.
“Did you see anyone?” I asked. She shook her head. “That was stupid,” I scolded.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“A girl is missing, we hear people in your backyard, and you go running after them alone? What if they took you? What if they hurt you? What would I have done?”
“You’re right.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just reacted.” She stopped abruptly, her light highlighting a bush near the house. It had been trampled.
“Let’s go in,” I said, tugging on her. “I want to go in.”
Mrs. Mason nodded, pulling me behind her. We climbed the steps, and she locked the door behind us. The buttons on the white square on the wall beeped as she reset the alarm.
“I’m going to call the police, just to be sure. You should go to bed. I’ll stay up.”
“Becca . . . ,” I began.
“Go to bed. It’s going to be okay, I promise.”
“Maybe it was just neighborhood kids,” I offered.
“Probably. Good night.” She pulled out her phone, and I left her alone.
Even with Mrs. Mason’s fear filling the house, it was still warmer and less frightening than the Juniper. I closed the door behind me and climbed into bed, pulling the covers all the way to my ears. Mrs. Mason tried to keep her voice low, but I could hear her making a report to the police.
They would come and ask questions. They would know Elliott and Mr. Mason had been here, and I was worried it would somehow implicate Elliott again.
As my eyelids grew heavier, I heard the whispers from the backyard fill my head: familiar, close, the voices I’d sometimes hear down the hall from my bedroom in the Juniper. Conniving, strategizing, working together to implement a plan or to configure a new one. The guests were like birds, flying in the same direction, turning, landing, and spooking at the same time. They were one, working toward a common goal. Now they were outside, waiting, just like they had always done at the Juniper. I would never be free. Mama would never let me go.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Catherine
Catherine?” Mrs. Mason called from outside my door. A soft knock followed.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes, confused for a moment.
“Um . . . yes?”
“It’s the first day of Christmas break, so I made waffles.”