Illusions (The Missing #1) (7 page)

I wasn’t sure what possessed me, but I took a step inside. I was never allowed in her room. That rule had been made on the very first night and mother had firmly told me to give my new sister her space.

“Get the fuck out of my room,” Rosie said, sounding bored. I gaped at her. She cursed all the time, but it was still shocking to hear such nasty words from her.

“I just wanted to see if you wanted to watch TV—”

Rosie rolled her eyes. “Why in the hell would I want to do anything with you?” she scoffed.

I squared my shoulders. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

Rosie laughed. “I don’t need you to be nice to me. Get your nasty face out of here.”

Immediately I dropped my chin so that my hair formed a curtain between me and the not-so-nice girl who I had hoped would be my friend.

“But we’re sisters,” I murmured.

Suddenly there were hands ripping at my hair. Pulling it until my scalp burned. I didn’t yell or tell her to stop. I stood still and let her hurt me.

Rosie’s mouth twisted and her blue eyes narrowed. “You’re ugly. The ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You are
not
my sister. You are nothing to me. You are nothing to Lesley. You are nothing to anyone!”

Her words hurt. So much. More than the hair pulling. Then Rosie smiled and I wanted to smile too. Because she was beautiful even when she was cruel.

“But I’m pretty. Your mother said so. I’m pretty and you’re ugly and she loves me more.”

I wished I could cry. But what would be the point? Rosie only said the truth.

Rosie turned into the parking lot outside of my doctor’s office, her words still hanging in the air. When she pulled into a spot and shut off the car, she looked at me and I saw that same expression on her face that had been there all those years before.

Gleeful viciousness.

“You’re still ugly. And no amount of surgery will ever change that.”

I let her words pour over me, sinking in. I curled my fingers around the seat, feeling my nails bend backwards, cracking and breaking.

“I know,” I said softly, agreeing with her because there was nothing else I could say. Nothing to change the truth.

Rosie rotated the thin, silver band on her right ring finger over and over again. The ring was etched in continuous, looping designs. Infinity. Forever.

My mother had given her the ring when she had lived with us. My nine-year-old heart had broken into a thousand sharp pieces the day I saw it on Rosie’s finger. I had gone to my room and made my own ring out of paper and had worn it until it tore and had to be thrown away. My sad, pathetic paper ring. It hadn’t been silver. It hadn’t been engraved with intricate symbols.

It had been a fake. Easily torn and lost. Worthless.

Turning. Twisting. Rosie’s fingers were never still. I could tell that she was agitated, though I wasn’t sure why. She was doing what she loved. Tearing me down.

“Get out,” Rosie barked when I didn’t say anything else.

I stared at the woman beside me and wished there was just a part of her that cared about me. Because there had been a time that I had truly cared about her.

She had been my sister for a short while, and even though she loathed me, I had embraced her as part of my family.

Until I ran out of love to give. Until things changed so that two girls who could have been friends became the worst kind of enemies.

“Your last name isn’t Gilbert,” I pointed out, nodding my head towards the ID badge hanging from the mirror.

Rosie’s face flushed red and she snatched the lanyard and hid it in her lap. It seemed that I wasn’t the only one who felt the need to keep things a secret.

“Get out of my fucking car, Nora.” There was a clear threat in her voice. A threat I had heard a hundred times before.

And it still had the power to terrify me.

I scrambled out of the car and hurried into my doctor’s office. Away from the woman who wanted things that would never be hers.

I hated her.

She hated me.

We were more alike than either of us cared to admit.

Day 3

The Present

I
wandered lonely as a cloud

My shock had worn off.

I was now officially angry.

And very, very freaked out.

I peeled off my shirt and stood in the middle of the room in just my bra and jeans. I ate my potato chips, one at a time, and drank the water sparingly.

I wished I could pour it over my sticky, dirty skin, but I couldn’t waste it. I didn’t know if I’d be given anymore.

I had just relieved myself in the corner and had to hold my breath so I wouldn’t gag on the stench that was starting to overtake the room.

I had woken up to the song. That dreadful, horrid song. But this time I didn’t scream. I let the person sing. I let them tell their painfully familiar story. And when it was over and the person tormenting me had retreated, I began to plan.

I had to get out of there.

I tried to think back to those last few moments. I needed to remember something,
anything
that would give me the clues I needed.

But my memory was patchy. There were holes that hadn’t been there before. Pieces of recollection that seemed disjointed and not connected to anything real.

Walking down a dark street. Wind on my face, blowing my hair back. And I didn’t care. I tipped my face to the sky and felt like howling. But not in fear. In something that felt a lot like happiness.

My heart slammed in my chest. In fear. In excitement. Trepidation that was delicious and new.

I couldn’t wait . . .

I ran my hands through my stringy hair and gave it a tug at the scalp. “Think, Nora!” I growled. My stomach rumbled, and the hunger gnawed at my insides, making me dizzy.

I held my hands out in front of me and walked slowly across the room until my palms came into contact with the hard, uneven wood. It was daytime. Sun streamed through the window, allowing just enough light to deepen the shadows. My blurred vision was incapable of giving me anything clear.

I stood in front of the window, trying desperately to see outside. I could make out fuzzy images that could be either trees or buildings. Tentatively I knocked on the glass. Then waited. I strained to hear but heard nothing.

Again I knocked on the glass, louder this time. I stopped and waited. Would someone hear me? Was there anyone out there?

I listened.

Nothing.

Only endless, patient silence.

I hit the glass with the heel of my hand. Hard and loud. I smacked it with all my might. Then I began to pound with my fists. I tried to see through the dirty smudges. I prayed I’d see movement indicating that someone had heard me. That someone was out there and would rescue me.

I kept pounding and smacking my hand against the glass.

Someone!

Anyone!

Help!

I banged on the window until my skin split and my bones rattled.

“No one sees you, Nora, because no one cares enough to look.”

I should give up, but I couldn’t let go of the chance that I would be heard.

“I’m here,” I whispered, when finally, I dropped my hand in exhaustion and pressed my forehead against the glass.

“I’m here,” I murmured, my throat dry and my stomach rolling.

I ran my fingers along the sill, not flinching as slivers of wood embedded themselves under my skin. I went over the cracks and edges of the window, looking for a way to open it.

Using my fingernails, I chipped away at the paint. Knowing I was mere feet away from freedom but couldn’t get there was absolute torture. I could almost see it. I could almost feel the fresh air. But I just. Couldn’t. Reach it.

“Please,” I moaned, frantically sweeping my fingers along the crevices. “Please!” I keened, scrapping, ripping. Paint fell in flakes onto the dirty floor.

“Someone help me!” I cried and was almost relieved to feel the wet tears on my cheeks. Their salty trails washed away some of the blood and grime. They were cleansing.

A release.

The only kind I could have.

I let myself cry, and I continued to pry at the window, desperate for the air. Frantic for the sun.

“Please!”

Silence. Empty, loaded silence.

“Please, let me go!”

My fingers brushed against something hard and cold in the corner of the ledge. I could see the glint of metal in the hazy sunlight, and my heart thumped, thumped in my chest.

I tried to pick it up, but my grasp was weak. Instead I swept it to the edge and let it fall. It hit the ground with a clang. My breath caught in my throat. The tears dried up.

I knelt down and scooped the small object into my palm. I held it close to my face so that I could see it.

Constant looping designs etched in silver . . .

The setting sun gave me just enough light to see. I walked along the sidewalk with anticipation fluttering wildly in my gut.

I smiled.

I giggled.

I laughed and laughed.

I pushed my hair off my face and refused to hide. Not anymore.

I wanted to show her me. All of me.

Tonight would be the beginning . . .

I ran my fingers over the thin, silver band on my thumb. Too large for my other fingers because it hadn’t been made for me.

My tongue glided over my teeth as I felt the engraved symbols on the delicate piece of jewelry.

It was mine.

It was so much nicer than my paper ring. It felt right on my hand.

I almost had everything . . .

I slipped the ring onto my thumb, where I knew it belonged.

Rosie’s ring.

My
ring.

How did it get here, stuck in the cracks of the window?

I turned back to the glass and pressed my palms against the smooth surface.

“I’m here,” I whispered to no one.

Because no one could hear me.

The Past

Five Months Earlier

T
he house was silent.

The sun had set hours ago, and I should have been asleep but rest evaded me.

The only sound was that of my breathing. Ragged. Painful. In and out.

Sometimes I went to bed hoping that tomorrow wouldn’t be so bad. I’d think to myself that perhaps, when I woke up in the morning, I could be just another twenty-year-old girl with normal twenty-year-old problems. Maybe I could agonize over my hair and giggle with friends on the phone about a boy I liked.

I’d get this excited flutter in my belly that felt almost like
possibility.

I loved those nights.

Nights when I could dream and be someone else.

Tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

I had come home from college, happy to see that my mother’s car was gone. She worked three days a week at a daycare center.

She had been working there since I was a little girl. I had been upset, being still young enough to miss my mother, even though I had no reason to.

It didn’t take long for me to be thankful for the hours when she was away.

Mother loved her job for reasons that hurt the young girl I had been and would always be. She’d come home later and tell me about Chelsea with her lovely red hair and adorable face. Or she’d talk about Douglas with his cherub cheeks and infectious smile.

Pretty children.

Perfect children.

She loved each and every one of them.

She made sure that I knew that.

But for those few hours before she came home, I could wander through the house and make as much noise as I wanted to. I’d turn on the TV and watch General Hospital at full volume just because I could. I’d eat bar-b-que potato chips and drink milk from the carton.