“Whores don’t get sugar.”
I fumble my teacup and saucer. What did she say?
She politely drops the cube into her own cup.
“I saw you through the window.” She inclines her head toward the one she’s referring to, then takes a delicate sip of her hot tea.
The window she’s talking about looks down on the rear of Clementine’s. I clear my throat. Heat flushes up my neck, warming the back of my ears. I might have fooled around with Ricky once or twice behind the restaurant. Had no clue we could be seen from up here.
I sip my sugarless tea.
There are a few quiet seconds of spoons stirring and cups clinking against saucers until I finally speak up.
“The truth is, Gabby,” I start, “I didn’t come here for the party. I came here to—”
“Apologize for the whoring?” she asks, her voice upturned again. My eyes bulge.
Now, if this would have been any other person, I might have chewed them an earful about being such an asshole, but with the shock of it all—and the fact I’m here to get information—I grit my teeth.
“Uh, no. I didn’t realize... That was just... What I was trying to say—”
“Shh.” Gabby gently presses a finger to her lips, then glances over to the corner.
I follow her gaze to the two brand-new cribs with giant gift bows attached to them. A chill slithers up my spine. My eyes jump around the room to the rattle on the cake, the stork on some of the balloons, and the ABC blocks that spell Congrats.
Is she pregnant? Becky said they kept Gabby under lock and key. Maybe that’s why they sent her abroad, to hide a pregnancy the family would have a hard time explaining? So if this is a baby shower, the family must be throwing it.
Which means Lorelei and Mrs. Rutledge and whoever else will be joining us any minute. Wary, I look at the clock and wonder how long I have before they arrive. It’s hard to believe they’d still press on with a party after what happened to Ellis—to Stone.
“You know,” Gabby starts. She tilts her head, curious. “What I don’t understand is who gave you permission to play with my dolls?” She genuinely looks perplexed. My eyes dart to the teddy bear, frowning at us from across the table.
“I didn’t. I don’t think I understand—”
“Now, now, don’t you tell a fib.” She wags a finger at me. “Of course you did. I saw you. It was very naughty of you to make them go night-night. Naughty! Naughty!” Her voice shrieks.
What is she going on about?
“It’s interesting, if you think about it.” She pours a bit of cream in her tea, takes her time to stir it with her dainty spoon. “You are a made thing, birthed and all, but you’re not...” Gabby pauses to find the word “...normal.” Her voice drops as she says it. Her head dips, and a wicked look blooms in her eyes. “But that’s why they say you’re the Devil’s kin, isn’t it? You’re simply a tool, and he puppets your strings. Dancey, dancey.” She bounces her hands and wiggles her fingers as if she’s operating a marionette. “Die, doll, die,” she sings. A wild expression cartoons her face. “Close your little eyes. When you sleep, the death you keep. Die, doll, die.” Gabby claps her hands, thrilled by her little performance.
“Gabby, I’m not sure who you think I am—we’ve never met before, I think you might be confused—”
“Confused?” She huffs a laugh. “Why, you’re the baby murderer, aren’t you?”
Her words slip into my gut, flipping it upside down.
Slowly, the memory comes into focus. The old farmhouse and its ugly floral wallpaper, and Gabby in the back bedroom, screaming.
Her eyes gleam, as if this is the fun part of the game she’s been playing in her head. She can see the realization spread across my face.
My teacup trembles against the saucer as I set it down. “Gabby, I was a child who didn’t understand the power I had or how it could be used. I didn’t know what it was being used for, who it was given to,” I say with the utmost regret. My hands smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. “I should have apologized to you a long time ago. I just didn’t know who you were. I am sorry, though, for what happened to you.”
“It was your fault, you know. I knew it the second I saw what you did to Daddy.” A memory flashes: the crack of the door and the swish of the skirt. It was her, watching from the other room. She saw me talk the death out of her father, saw the mucus that came up after.
“I was trying to save your father. Your sister, she called my aunt and asked for the Sin Eater Oil for you.”
Suddenly, she straightens up. “You’re not here for the party. So, what did you really come for?” she asks, folding her hands in her lap.
I swallow hard, not sure where to start.
From my purse, I pull out the photo of her and my mother. “You knew my mother once.” I slide the picture across the table.
Gabby picks it up delicately. Fondness for the memory softens her features as she admires it. A light smile edges out, as if she’s slipping back in time.
“Do you remember her? Darbee Wilder?” She’s still studying the photo, lost in that day long ago. “She had this old button tin.” I pull it out of the bag to show her. “Do you recognize it? Do you know what she kept in it?”
Gabby rears back as if I laid a snake in front of her. “Lies!” she hisses and pushes back from the table. “That’s what was in it! Sin and lies,” she says through snarled teeth. Abruptly, she stands and paces in tiny circles. Picking at her nails. Her eyes dart to the tin box and away.
“You should go,” she whispers, as if she doesn’t want anyone to hear. “Go, go, go.” She quietly shoos me with her fingers.
“But Gabby—”
“No.” She shakes her hands frantically in the air, batting away the memories I’ve unearthed. “Go.” She points a rattled finger toward the door, wearing a hole in the floor with her back and forth.
The swing of her moods is jarring. It’s obvious this woman isn’t of sound mind and pushing her further probably won’t get me very far. Reluctantly, I take the picture of my mother and the tin and shove it back into the plastic Walmart bag. I stand, about to leave, but the thought of walking out that door feels too final. And it will be. Once this household—or the sheriff—learns I snuck in here, I won’t get back in. And I’ll probably never see Gabby Newsome again.
This opportunity is now or never.
“Tell me about the droplet of rain.”
