Feral (27 page)

Rich hesitated. “Mrs. Sims,” he started, but stopped, the right words obviously evading him.

“Mrs. Sims,” Claire piped up, feeling her blood surge with urgency as she spoke. “You may not remember me, but my father and I are renting your old house. I apologize for not coming by earlier to express my condolences. To tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss.”

Mrs. Sims hugged her cardigan tighter, as though it could somehow protect her from the reality of her daughter being dead.

“We know you weren't expecting us,” Claire went on. “We're both working on the school newspaper—Rich and I—and—we were thinking that maybe the best way to pay tribute to Serena would be to publish her last piece. Rich said that she had something she was working on. We were hoping you'd let us check out her computer, find her pages, and email them to my account.”

Mrs. Sims squirmed, pushing a few wiry gray hairs away from her temples. “Well—I'm actually in the midst of—”

“I'm sorry—I should have asked—have the police brought the computer back yet?” Claire said.

Mrs. Sims's face crinkled into a blend of both confusion and pain. She looked at Claire as though she'd just driven an ice pick straight through her hand. “Her
computer
is in her
room.
Where it's always been. My daughter had an accident.”

“No—” Claire jumped in. “I didn't mean—I wasn't implying that the police ever suspected she was involved in anything. I just—I assumed—” She couldn't understand it. A seventeen-year-old girl had gone missing—why
didn't
the police swoop in and grab her computer, ten minutes after her parents reported the disappearance? Wasn't that step one in any missing-persons investigation?

“I'll do it, Mrs. Sims,” Rich offered. “I'll get the file. You can come with me to her room, if that makes you more comfortable.”

But Mrs. Sims only shook her head no fiercely. “I can't go in there,” she whispered. “I haven't been inside yet. Neither has her father . . .”

She was building up a protective wall—Claire could feel it. Mrs. Sims wasn't going to let them in; she was backing away; the door creaked shut an inch.

But Claire stepped forward, because she had a taste in her mouth, now—just as the ferals around Serena's head had once had a taste for blood, their jaws stained pink. “I'll sit with you,” she offered. “Mrs. Sims, I'd be happy to sit with you while Rich looks.” Because she needed answers.
That
was the taste in her mouth now. Answers about Serena. The fog. What, exactly, was going on in this town.

Mrs. Sims nodded slowly and led Claire to the kitchen, while Rich slowly climbed the stairs. Claire could tell from the slump in his shoulders, his slow shuffle, just how much he hated the idea of being the first person inside Serena's room after her death.

“I have—some coffee on,” Mrs. Sims said. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes,” Claire said, nodding. “That'd be great, actually.” She shivered a bit inside her coat, to show off how chilled she'd gotten.

The Simses' current house was obviously one of the newer homes in Peculiar. The kitchen was quaint, with gauzy yellow checkerboard curtains, a gray stone countertop, and spotless white cabinets. It was bright and airy—a stark contrast to the expression on Mrs. Sims's face.

“How do you and your father like the old place?” Mrs. Sims asked, carrying two mugs of coffee to her table on a small tray, along with a sugar bowl and a spoon.

“It's very homey,” Claire said appreciatively. She didn't mention anything about how the water had a tendency to get stone-cold if the tub ran longer than four minutes, or how much she hated lighting that old granite stove with a match. Or how the inside of the refrigerator smelled to her like a brick-hard, ancient box of baking soda—and how the smell somehow kept invading their milk carton to make it taste funny.

“Lot of history in that house,” Mrs. Sims said, her eyes growing far away.

Claire fought for the right words. “You all lived there together,” she finally offered.

Mrs. Sims's upper lip wavered. “Yeah,” she said, tracing the yellow plaid on her tablecloth. “My mom grew up there. I grew up there. My daughter reached middle age there,” she said, her voice turning to a whisper. “I was thinking that, the other day. You know? How eight for her was actually middle-aged.” She shook her head. “I didn't have grandiose dreams for her,” Mrs. Sims blurted. “I didn't dream that she would change the world. I just dreamed she'd get a chance to enjoy it.”

Claire shifted, the weight of Mrs. Sims's grief making her uncomfortable. Her eyes landed on a pair of scratches in the wainscoting.

Mrs. Sims pulled a Kleenex out of her sweater pocket, wiped her nose, then turned, following Claire's stare. She chuckled. “She used to write her initials on everything,” Mrs. Sims said. Over and over:
SS, SS
.”

“Must be a comfort,” Claire babbled awkwardly. “To see something she did. Each time you come down for your coffee.”

“Comfort?” Mrs. Sims asked. “Do you know what I see when I look at those scratches?”

Claire tensed, shook her head no.

“I see a little girl who knew—hardly more than ten years old—that the clock was winding down. Like she had some sort of premonition.” Mrs. Sims was visibly agitated now. She trembled as she leaned over the top of the table, snarling at Claire. “I see a girl who just wanted to make her mark on the world, while there was still time. I see a little girl who desperately wanted the world to know she was
here
.”

Before Claire could respond, a knock rattled the back door. A black faceless silhouette filled the yellow curtain covering the small window.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

“M
om made you a new one,” Owen said when Mrs. Sims answered the door. “Still feels warm,” he added as she accepted his foil-wrapped casserole dish.

“Your mother is so kind,” she cooed, no trace of her previous distress in her voice as she peeled the foil back to take a peek. Owen followed her inside as she carried the casserole to the counter, then flipped open a cabinet door and rummaged through the contents. “I know I have other empty bowls that belong to her in here,” she said, pausing to wipe the tears off her cheek.

“I just—I—can't believe that she's still thinking of us,” Mrs. Sims babbled. “Making us those lovely dinners. Serena's father and I—we both—it's so
nice
.”

Owen shuffled his feet, leaning uncomfortably against the sink.

Claire watched, thinking that this must have been the daily exchange: a full meal for last night's empty bowl, and Mrs. Sims using her gratitude to try to cover up the fact that she hadn't gotten herself together enough to make dinner yet.

Claire's phone cut through the air in the kitchen, thick with awkward tension. She fished it from her coat, glanced at the screen to find another text from Rachelle:
Storm + girl found + no text from u = I'm worried. U OK???
Claire had actually lost count of the number of texts she'd received in the last few days, all of them relaying the same message.

Claire didn't have time—or the patience, right then—to placate Rachelle. She sighed, turned her phone off.

She glanced up, straight into the heat of Owen's glare. She wondered, for a moment, if he was going to say something about the test that he'd seen her running from.

Above them, Rich's large feet clomped about Serena's bedroom.

Mrs. Sims flinched, clutched her cardigan around her throat, and took a step toward the kitchen door, her eyes turned toward the ceiling.

Claire began to ramble, trying to cover up the forceful bangs and distracting Mrs. Sims from her obvious intention to kick Rich out of Serena's room. “I think this is the perfect way to memorialize your daughter,” she told Mrs. Sims. “With her own words.”

Claire gulped down the rest of her bitter coffee, just so she could ask, “Mrs. Sims, could you pour me another?” She exhaled deeply, with relief, as Mrs. Sims turned her back to her, toward the coffeepot. It was painful to see her so upset at the idea of someone being up there, in her daughter's room—yet, in Claire's mind, the chore was also completely necessary.

“I guess—I should—” Owen started, pointing for the door.

“Before you go,” Mrs. Sims said, holding up a finger, “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

Owen offered a half nod as Mrs. Sims took a deep breath, preparing herself.

“I need someone—to clean out her locker,” she admitted.

Claire frowned against the weight of Mrs. Sims's request. “Why didn't law enforcement do that?” she blurted. When Owen and Mrs. Sims turned shocked eyes her way, she clarified, “When Serena went missing? Why wouldn't they have searched her locker?”

“They did,” Mrs. Sims whispered. “But there was nothing there. Nothing that would help them, anyway. Serena was so fastidious. She—there was nothing there,” she repeated.

“I see,” Claire mumbled. But in her mind's eye, she pictured Sheriff Holman's lazy bulldog jowls. And she wondered what he'd missed.

Mrs. Sims left the room, coming back with an old cardboard storage container,
Serena
scrawled across the side in black marker. “I need someone to return her textbooks to the office, and to bring back anything that might be personal. I can't do it. See—see if Becca will—”

“No,” Owen urged. “Don't bother Becca with it. She's been—” He shook his head. “I'll do it, Mrs. Sims.”

It was a kind gesture, Claire thought. Saving Becca from having to empty out her friend's locker showed a level of compassion that Claire wasn't sure that Becca really deserved, in light of the way she'd been attacking Owen verbally, accusing him repeatedly of running around on her, of not caring.

As he stepped through the back door, a brief moment of quiet settled through the kitchen. Another round of shuffling and a loud bang from upstairs made Mrs. Sims frown, ball her hands into fists, and lunge for the doorway.

“Mrs. Sims, wait!” Claire shouted.

Serena's mother had only just swiveled on her heel when a soft rumble filtered through the kitchen.

“Wait for what?” Mrs. Sims asked.

“Did you hear that?” Claire asked, her eyes circling the kitchen for the source of the noise.

But Mrs. Sims continued to stare at the ceiling. “I hear a lot of things,” she muttered.

Claire picked up on the rumble again—it sounded so content. Like a purr.

“Do you have a cat?” Claire asked.

Mrs. Sims shook her head—as if to indicate she hadn't heard anything or to say she didn't have a cat, Claire wasn't sure which. Maybe both.

Claire's scalp constricted. “There it is again,” she said.

Suddenly, in a violent pop, Mrs. Sims's coffeepot burst. Mrs. Sims shrieked as glass shards scattered across the kitchen; they sparkled in the air, catching the light before raining against the cabinetry and dancing into the porcelain sink. Hot coffee gushed, pouring across the countertop and the laminate floor.

Before Claire had time to react, a frightened whelp exploded throughout the kitchen.

Sweet Pea jumped from her hiding spot on the top of the refrigerator. She landed on the floor and scurried straight for Claire.

She opened her mouth and hissed.

Claire screamed, drawing her legs up into her seat as Mrs. Sims quickly grabbed a broom and shouted, “Out! Scoot!”

The cat snarled, threw her front feet forward, and exposed her claws, trying to clutch on to the floor, to fight against the force of Mrs. Sims's broom.

Claire screamed again—because she knew what she'd seen at the funeral. She didn't have to see Serena's blue eyes or her smile floating about on the cat's face, like she had at the cemetery. She knew the truth about that cat. She knew that Serena was inside.

“I'm trying to help you,” Claire whispered. “Why are you so mad?”

But the cat only yowled again.

“Out! Get out!” Mrs. Sims shouted, opening the back door.

Sweet Pea hissed, her swollen tail standing up angrily.

Mrs. Sims pushed the cat outside, slammed the door shut behind her. She propped the broom against the wall, and turned to look at the mess in her kitchen—the shattered glass, the coffee dripping from the countertop. Brown drops had sprayed everywhere, dotting the walls, the cabinetry, the pretty yellow curtains.

“That pot's been on day and night lately,” she said apologetically, pushing her hair from her face in an exhausted manner. “I've had it for years. Guess it finally gave out.”

“Where'd the cat come from?” Claire asked. Fear rooted her in her seat as Mrs. Sims reached for a rag.

“Strays get in through the garage sometimes,” Mrs. Sims said, wiping the last few flyaway strands of hair from her forehead. “Warmer in here. Besides,
that
cat,” she went on, her eyes growing wet and her voice quiet, “she followed Serena everywhere. Here to this house, and to our old house, too. Serena fed her at both places, but mostly at the old house, I think. Sometimes, it seemed my girl spent most of her time there—because she liked it better. She didn't think I knew that, but I did. I think she even tried to make a bed for the cat, inside our old house. Sweet Pea. Serena used to call her that.”

Sweet
—the word rang out sarcastically in Claire's mind.

Her eyes landed on the wainscoting again.
SS. Serena Sims.

Claire trembled.
That cat's not looking for Serena,
she thought.
That cat
is
Serena. Even her mother doesn't hear her, doesn't recognize her. No one in this town can see her. Everyone just dismisses her, like they dismiss Casey. Pranks, they say. Coincidences. They don't know. But I do. I know it's real. I'm the only one. Getting to the truth about Serena is all on me.