“James is one of my coven members, and his brother… well…his brother… his brother is…”
“You don’t know James’s brother, aside from your one meeting, do you?” His brow lifts.
“No. Not true. I saw him a half-dozen times before he moved to the other side of the river.” I cross my arms.
“You might trust James, but that doesn’t automatically make his brother trustworthy. Got that?” He leans into me, waits for my answer.
“Yeah, but…”
“No,” he interrupts. “Trust no one. You are a Roussard of ancient blood. When it comes to your safety, no one can be trusted.”
“Is that why you feel safe in your secret school?” I jab. “Because you don’t trust any of them?”
He closes his eyes and breathes deep. When he opens his eyes, any building rage seems to have dissipated. “Come on.” He motions me toward the house. “There are things to be done, and we aren’t going to get them accomplished standing out here on the sidewalk bickering.”
He’s right, of course. My shoulders drop, and my lips relax into a downward curve. I lead the way, unlocking the door and inviting him in.
“We’re looking for some sort of trigger,” I say, closing and locking the door behind him. “Something that, when viewed or read or heard, resets whatever behavior Caleb tried programming into her.”
“You know that could be just about anything, right?” he says.
“No.” I shrug. “It won’t be anything with a limited life span. Which means we can rule out any calendars, planners, magazines, soap, lotion, stuff of that nature.”
“Glad you cleared that up. You’ve seriously narrowed down the search with that thorough list.” His voice seeps with sarcasm.
“Just get to looking, will you?” I say. “Mom mentioned a self-help journal when I questioned her about a regular routine. I suggest we try to locate that.”
“Self-help journal. On it,” he says and heads to Mom’s bedroom.
I follow, guessing it is the most likely location for any such trigger to be located.
We start with her nightstands. Finding nothing there, we move to her dresser, riffle through the doors. Coming up empty-handed, we check under the bed, between the mattress and box spring, inside the pillowcases.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
We move to her closet, looking in boxes, around and under folded and stacked clothing. Still, nada.
We relocate our efforts to the bathroom. Only, it’s a one-bathroom house, and I can’t think of a single thing kept in the bath space that could possibly act as a trigger. Cramped in the space, I move to the hall closet—another unlikely spot—and Michael double checks my doubts about the washroom.
Another couple of failures and it’s off to the bigger rooms. I stand in the center of the kitchen, evaluating the walls and cabinets, and my brother shifts items around in the front room. We’ve been at the search less than a few minutes when the front door creaks open.
I spin, jolt toward the home entrance.
“Michael! What a surprise? I didn’t know you were coming over today,” Mom says.
I pop into the room just in time to witness her embrace him in a hug.
“It’s an impromptu visit. I didn’t know I was coming until I was here.” He steps back from their embrace and glances over her, a fake smile pressed to his lips. “Belle was just grabbing us a couple of drinks.” He turns his attention to me. “Weren’t you, Belle?”
“Oh.” I jolt, my gaze bolting between them. “Yeah. Sorry.” Dashing back into the kitchen, I dart straight to the refrigerator and grab two canned cold drinks without discriminating flavor.
“Will you stay for dinner?” Mom asks. “I hardly see you anymore.” She sheds her jacket. Drapes it over the hook on the wall.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Michael says. “I have to work later. That might make the timing tight.”
“No. Stay.” I nod my head vigorously.
He gives me a stop-it-you’re-being-too-suspicious glare. I cross the room and hand him one of the cold drinks.
“Would you like one?” I turn to my mom and offer her the second can.
“You got that one for yourself. I wouldn’t take it from you,” she says. “I can get my own.”
The phone rings.
She raises a one-moment finger high in the air. “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” She spins toward the phone.
“I can get it, Mom,” I offer.
“It’s quite alright. I’ve got it.” She crosses the kitchen, picks up the phone, falls silent. She remains steady, tall, unmoving. She stands beside the calendar and my wall rack of herbs and spices, holding the receiver to her ear.
“Mom?” I call after her.
Michael moves into the room. Walks in front of her and studies her state.
“Mom,” I say again, following his lead and approaching her. Her expression has fallen slack. She’s like a living mannequin in the kitchen. Responding neither verbally nor physically to our inquiries.
Michael takes the phone from her hold and puts it to his own ear. His brows pinch, and he hands it to me for a listen. I take it. Hear nothing more than static and clicks. I hand the phone back to him.
“I’ve heard this once before,” I say. “One morning when Mom was in the shower and I answered an incoming call.”
Mom shifts, snagging our attention. In her not-so-unfamiliar zombie state, she shuffles to the kitchen table and takes a seat.
“What just happened?” I ask.
Michael doesn’t answer, but moves around me, studying Mom’s state. Mom fiddles with her pendant, rubbing the long silver sliver between her fingers. The necklace is stamped with the word strength.
“Definitely a programmed response,” Michael finally says. “But I’m getting the sense that this may be far more complex than originally thought.
I sigh. Take a seat at the table beside Mom.
Michael hangs around for close to an hour. We put Mom to bed and evaluate all the possibilities but end with no solid solution. Nevertheless, we will attempt to break Caleb’s control with a strong unbinding cast under the full moon tomorrow.
Unfortunately, Michael can’t stay with me all evening.
