Galveston Island was known for three things: the medical school, hurricanes, and cruises. I’d experienced the first two but had always been too broke for a cruise. Too many med-school loans to pay back.
Galveston was an odd place. A long, narrow island off the coast of East Texas, it thrived off its tourism industry, but that hadn’t always been the case. It had a grisly history. The pirate Jean-Laffite once called it home, and before he left, he burned the place to the ground. Later, after the island had become a thriving port city, it became the sight of America’s most deadly natural disaster, the hurricane of 1900, where six thousand lives were lost.
Today, there’s still evidence of its history. Despite the hurricane, many historic homes still crowded its streets. The Strand District hosted a collection of historic hotels and timeworn buildings turned whatnot shops. I didn’t know if I’d spend the rest of my life in Galveston, but for now, I called it home.
Turning down 61st Street, I hit the causeway and drove off the island. Jeremiah’s house was a twenty-minute drive into a Houston suburb. I was thankful I wouldn’t have to brave the downtown traffic again.
I took the exit and drove through the neighborhood until I spotted the Dickinson’s house. As I pulled into the driveway, apprehension knotted my stomach. The house didn’t look any different—same seventies-style ranch home with the cracked-concrete drive, same lawn choked with more weeds than grass, same weathered toys littering the porch.
Getting out of the car, I grabbed my bag and slammed the door to make sure it shut. The stone footpath was an obstacle course of discarded playthings.
I’d always felt Sissy and Jeremiah were safe here. The house could definitely use some upgrades, but the kids were with a real family, something I could never offer them. They had parents and brothers and sisters. I envied them—I’d never had any of that.
As I rang the doorbell, chimes sounded inside. Mrs. Dickinson had several foster kids, so I expected to hear a stampede of feet, a chorus of voices shouting that someone was at the door, a flurry of excitement as the door was flung open.
Surprisingly, I waited in silence. Moments ticked by. I glanced at the Cozy Coupe on the porch, its seat filled with rainwater, and wondered if I’d come to the right house.
Finally, the door opened. Sissy, Jeremiah’s older sister, peeked through, her brown face set in a scowl, her kinky hair knotted and uncombed. At fourteen, she barely looked older than ten. I didn’t know the details, but I guessed her life had been pretty rough.
“Hey, Sissy. I came to see your brother.”
“Jer’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah.”
I peeked behind her, knowing she wasn’t being honest. “Are you sure I can’t come inside? Is your mom here?”
“My foster-mom,” she corrected me and rolled her eyes.
“Okay, is your foster-mom here?”
“No, she’s gone, too.”
The door started to close when another figure emerged behind Sissy. Mrs. Dickinson came to the door and caught it before Sissy slammed it in my face.
Time had exacted its toll from Mrs. Dickinson. She looked closer to sixty, though I knew she was in her late forties. The only jewelry she wore was a gold cross necklace. She reminded me of a substitute teacher after a long day with a rowdy class, but I’d never heard her yell. She smiled too much for that.
“Olive?” Mrs. Dickinson asked.
“Hello, Bonnie. I’ve come to see Jeremiah.”
Her brow creased.
“Didn’t Dr. Hill tell you I was coming?”
Mrs. Dickinson stumbled as she opened the door and let me inside. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Really?” That wasn’t like him. Dr. Hill was too much of a perfectionist to let something like that slip. I stepped onto the entryway’s floral-patterned linoleum. Smells of bleach and musty carpet drifted through the house.
“But you’re welcome anyway.” Mrs. Dickinson smiled, revealing teeth stained by years of coffee. I imagined someone raising a house full of foster kids needed loads of the stuff.
Sissy eyed me. “So you’re playing doctor today?”
“Yeah, I’m afraid this won’t be fun and games like our last couple visits.”
She stiffened. “Jeremiah don’t need any more doctors, and he don’t need you stuffing pills down his throat.”
Mrs. Dickinson rounded. “You need to be polite, young lady.”
“Don’t give me that ‘young lady’ bullshit. I’m his sister. Doctors screwing him up.”
I stared, shocked. When had Sissy gotten a mouth?
“Sissy.” Mrs. Dickinson rested her hand on Sissy’s shoulder. She shrugged it off.
“I’m not like the other doctors,” I spoke up. Holding up my laptop case, I took a step forward. “See? I keep my tools in here, magic stuff.”
She laughed. “Yeah, whatever. You lying. Just like ever’-body else. Lying.”
I nodded toward Jeremiah’s room. I could see his door down the hall. A thin line of pale light drifted from the crack at the bottom. “I know it’s been hard for you. I know you feel like you have to protect him.”
“Damn right.”
I inhaled. Not only had she found her mouth, she’d found a filthy set of words to go along with it. Unzipping my case, I pulled out my most important tool.
With Jeremiah, I wasn’t sure this thing would work, but I wouldn’t know for certain until I tried. When I opened the mirror, blue light sparkled, casting the room in a soft glow.
Sissy crossed her arms and sniffed.
What the heck? Has she seen magic before?
Mrs. Dickinson reeled back, grasping the door handle to keep from falling. “Oh, my,” she gasped. “What is that?”
Sissy sneered at her foster mom. “It’s fake—that’s what it is. You know what? Y’all do whatever you like with Jeremiah. As soon as I’m sixteen, I’m out of this place.” Sissy headed down the hall and slammed her bedroom door. The Keep Out sign slammed with it.
Mrs. Dickinson attempted to smile. “She’s had a hard life.”
I clicked my mirror shut. “I know.”
Mrs. Dickinson exhaled, that sound only bone-weary mothers could make. “Well, let me show you
