At the sink, I dab the toilet paper under the faucet and wipe away the remaining bloody smears on my skin. Elliot lingers behind me. I know he has questions, but I don’t know how to answer them.

“You don’t have to do this, you know? If you’re not feeling…” Elliot says.

“I know,” I reply.

“And you don’t have to let him push you around like that.”

“I need to do this, El. The money’s good. You know it.”

“Is that you talking or Jackson?”

“I can’t wait any longer,” I say. “I have to face this.”

“Face what?” Elliot asks.

“Face…” I struggle to find the right words. “Face me. Face what’s inside of me. I don’t want to end up like Mom.”

“You’ve never really talked about it,” he says.

“Not sure I know how.”

“I’m here. If you ever need someone.”

“Thanks,” I say, trying to be strong. “But I’m fine. Really. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Elliot studies me for a moment, and then nods. I watch him walk away, not wanting to admit how much it means to me that he’s the last to go.

7

7

In the foyer, we lug equipment through the rain-slick doorway. Mrs. Green peruses an old shelf. When I approach her, she taps the dusty glass of a clock. “It’s strange,” she says. “Having people here is making me see this place in a new light.” She looks at me with those sad eyes.

This is the part I really hate, though it’s necessary for what we do. “So, um…I was wondering if you might have some photos,” I say.

“Photos?”

“Of the girls. Something I could use to identify them.”

Mrs. Green blinks at me. She smiles slowly. “Yes. Of course,” she says.

We sit in the kitchen, at the long table with years of caked grime and crumbs. Mrs. Green rifles through photo albums. Children smile in the pictures, running around on a grassy lawn.

“Are these foster kids of yours, or family?” I ask.

“Oh, just friends along the way. People always coming and going. This was before the whispers. Before everything. You know, it’s not only voices. There are visions too. I saw someone, right over here.” She points to a cabinet full of glasses. “It was late at night. I heard laughter.”

“But no whispering?” I ask.

“It was an awful racket. I took my cane and went around the bend. There was this little girl. This odd little girl.”

“Can you describe her?”

“She wasn’t looking at me, but out the door, just staring at the backyard, and then she…tangled.”

“Tangled?” I ask.

“Her limbs. She bent down and kept bending in places she shouldn’t have been. It was all quite dreadful.”