“Well, she saw a little girl in her underwear, crawling out of Clay’s window, screaming for help,” Karen said. “I’ve tried to figure out how
“Lon used to beat her and her twin,” Naomi said. “Did you know that?”
“No, but I’m not very surprised.”
“He hated Clay from the word go. I don’t know if it was because Clay was Native American, or because of his long hair, or the artwork on the front lawn. But Lon despised Clay. Maybe that’s why the little girls turned to Clay when their dad started abusing them. They knew they had an ally with Clay. God knows, they couldn’t go to their mother. She was totally clueless. Amelia ran away to Clay’s house several times, more than her twin. I remember Clay saying Lon had Annabelle on a tighter leash, and she was afraid of him. She was a lot more obedient and likely to give in to her father’s demands. Clay used to teach art to the kids on the reservation, and he knew about children. He said Amelia was a little rebel. That’s why she and Clay got along so well. They both had that defiant streak.”
“And as the more rebellious of the twins, Amelia probably got more severe and frequent beatings,” Karen said.
“Right,” Naomi said. “I saw some of the bruises on that little girl. It was revolting.”
“Why didn’t you report it to the police?”
“Clay tried. One time, when Amelia was over there, he touched her back and noticed her cringing. He asked her if anything was wrong, and she said, ‘I think I was a bad girl again.’ Then she showed him her back, and it was all black and blue and purple. Clay could hardly keep from going over to the Schlessingers’ and kicking the shit out of that son of a bitch. I talked to him on the phone, and got him to calm down. I told him to take a few Polaroids of the bruises and then we could go to the police. Well, he did that, only he reported it to some cop who was a fishing buddy of Lon’s. Clay didn’t know. This cop didn’t do a damn thing except ask Clay how he’d gotten the little girl to take off her blouse. They twisted it around. After Clay was shot, these stories circulated that he had photos of the little Schlessinger girl naked. But those were pictures of her bruised back, which he’d tried to give to the cops.”
“Oh, my God,” Karen murmured.
“So, weeks later, that Sunday morning Amelia went missing, Lon came over to Clay’s looking for her. Clay let him come in and look around. But he also took that opportunity to tell Lon that if he found one more mark on Amelia, he’d kill him. Anyway, after Lon left, Clay called me. He said it was obvious Amelia had run away again, and he thought she might show up at his house eventually. He wanted me to come over. He also figured if Amelia had any new bruises,
Naomi let out a long sigh. “I was at work when he called me that Sunday. They needed me there to work the register at the goddamn Safeway. I remember Clay asking me, ‘You mean, you can’t take a few hours off to help a child who might be in trouble?’ Then he hung up. That was the last thing he ever said to me.”
Naomi started to cry. “I was still at work when someone at the store told me Clay had been shot because they’d caught him trying to molest a neighbor’s little girl. I couldn’t believe it, and I still don’t. Clay never would have hurt Amelia. I might not have been there to see how it happened. But I know they have it wrong. There’s a difference between what people saw that day and what’s true. I’m certain of that.”
“I agree with you,” Karen said. “Do you think it’s possible Amelia was in her underwear because she wanted to show Clay some new bruises?”
“I wondered that, too,” Naomi said. “But they’d have said in the newspaper that she’d recently been beaten and then, no doubt, used it as more evidence against Clay. Besides, I don’t think Clay would have let her take off a stitch of clothing after that cop made those innuendos about the Polaroids.”
“Well, maybe Amelia was napping-” Karen started to say. But a click on the line interrupted her.
“I’m sorry. Just a sec,” Naomi said. “Let me see who this is.”
She clicked off, and while Karen waited, she figured even if they came up with a reason why Amelia had been in her underwear, they still couldn’t explain why she’d run screaming from Clay’s house and into her abusive, sadistic father’s arms.
Naomi clicked back on the line. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, there’s a crisis at work, and I need to go over there, to the same Safeway. I’m a manager there now. How’s that for progress?”
“Well, congratulations,” Karen said, with a weak laugh. “Thank you for talking to me, Naomi.”
“If you’re ever able to figure out what really happened that day, let me know, okay? You have my number. Sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“But you have been, believe me,” Karen said. “Amelia’s still in trouble. And you have helped her, Naomi. You have.”
“Well, thanks. Take care.”
Karen clicked off the line. She sat in the front seat of the car and watched the raindrops sliding down her windshield. Across the street, a woman stepped out of the library, put up her umbrella, then headed down the sidewalk. She disappeared around a corner.
Karen glanced at the library doors again and then at her watch: 7:50.
“Damn it,” Karen murmured. “She should have been here at least an hour ago.”
Amelia was once again missing.
The car window was open. Amelia felt the cold wind whipping through her hair and an occasional raindrop on her face. She was driving Karen’s Jetta, on her way to Wenatchee. She felt tense, but excited, too. She thought about how she’d finally get to use her father’s hunting knife slitting that bitch, Karen Carlisle’s, throat.
Amelia woke up with start, and in total blackness. She’d been having these horrible dreams all night. This was the latest, her gleefully planning Karen’s murder.
Earlier, she’d had a nightmare in which she’d put a gun in Shane’s mouth and pulled the trigger. They’d been in rowboat on a lake somewhere. She’d washed Shane’s blood off her face and hands with lake water. It had seemed so real. But Amelia kept telling herself these were just nightmares. She was still asleep in the spare bedroom at Karen’s house.
But why was it so dark? And what had happened to the sound machine? She didn’t hear the waves and those seagulls. In fact, she couldn’t hear anything.
A panic swept through her. She didn’t remember the bed feeling this hard, or the scratchy blanket. It smelled musty, like a basement.
Something had happened in the middle of the night.
Amelia had thought she’d dreamt that, too. She’d seen herself at night in Karen’s backyard with a strange- looking, pale man with jet-black hair. They’d lifted a decorative stone from the garden, uncovering where Karen hid the house key. Then they’d snuck into the house. The next part, Amelia figured
Had it all really happened? It must have, because she was no longer in Karen’s guest room. This dark, dank room was in a totally different place far away from all sounds and light.
Amelia sat up and blindly groped around for a light. Her hand brushed against a lamp beside her, and she switched it on. Someone had taken away the lampshade, and the bare lightbulb was blinding. It took Amelia a moment to recognize the secondhand lamp from the guest room in the lake house. Sitting up on a cot with an army blanket over her, she glanced around the gray little room. There were a few boxes shoved against the wall, a stack of old records and board games, some old paint cans, and a broken hardback chair.
Amelia ran a hand through her hair, and realized most of it had been chopped off. They must have cut her hair, very short, while she’d been asleep, but why? She touched her nose and lips. They still burned from whatever was on that cloth the man put over her mouth. She had no idea how long ago that was. She looked around for a clock or a mirror. But there wasn’t one on the makeshift nightstand beside her. Someone had turned over a box to
