“He said that if I didn’t want Pru or Greg to end up in trouble,
I might want to be nice. So I . . . I let him get in a good, long, dirty
little grope.” When Sarah pulled in a breath, Tori said, “Don’t, okay?
I already feel like I’ve crawled through a sewer. But you know those
beans Pru gave him? Cutter offered the can to me, like payment. He
said he didn’t expect something for nothing. That . . . that the kids
might like more food if I would, you know, do more. And what’s horrible?” Tori’s eyes dropped to her lap. “For a second, I thought . . .
okay.”
“Tori.” Sara could taste the acid boil from her empty stomach.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t know.” Tori gave a hopeless shrug. “Maybe I do. The kids
are hungry, and what if Cutter threatens to hurt Greg? Or Pru? None
of us are safe.”
“Look, let’s just take a step back, okay? Nothing’s happened yet.
We’ll talk to Greg and Pru. We’ll think of something. Know what? I’d
like some tea. Want tea?” Sarah stood up so quickly her heart couldn’t
keep up, and a sweep of vertigo blacked her vision. She gulped back
a shaky breath, then another. “You want chamomile or chamomile?” “Chamomile’d be great.” Tori managed a wobbly smile. “Look, I
already put Daisy and Ghost with the girls. Would you drop off Jet
with the boys? That dog goes crazy when you’re not around.” Not as crazy as I feel right now. “Sure.” She turned to go, Jet on her
heels. “It’ll be okay, Tori.”
“It’s nice,” Tori said, “that you think so.”
God, the thought of Cutter hitting on Tori . . . Sarah shuddered as she walked the breezeway connecting the school to the church. The idea made her want to take a cup of bleach to her brain and hit rinse. The thought of his creepy old hands on her, or his mouth . . .
“Gag me with a fork.” Frosty air palmed her face as she pushed through double doors and into the west vestibule. Directly ahead were two sets of stairs. Bear left and you had a choice: either up three steps to a cloakroom or down twelve to the basement. Choose the right set of steps, however, and you accessed a circular stone stair coiling up to the bell tower.
She flicked on a flashlight and took the left stairs. The church was not her favorite place. The place creeped her out, day or night. Constructed entirely of off-white, native limestone, the church was a soundproofed ice cube that held onto a deep gloom and a stone-cold chill. Following her light, she descended into the midnight gloaming of the windowless basement. Grit crackled like cap guns under her shoes. The gelid air was fiery on her skin. The basement was dominated by the inky cave of a common room that seemed only blacker with the cold. Shivering, she hung a left for the kitchen, a long, narrow throat of a room designed on the cheap. The cupboards were puke-yellow, vintage plywood. The floor and counters were stained Formica. The industrial-sized stainless-steel sink sported two spigots, not that she’d ever known water to run from either. All their water came from snowmelt, and they always kept an aluminum camp pot, with a plug of ice, at the ready.
The sound came again, and it was harsher this time, not merely a pop and crack but a scuff like a heavy boot.
That was when she knew. There wasn’t something lurking in the storage room. There was something behind her, spiriting out of the black well of the common room.
Coming right for her.
42
“Don’t.” Greg wedged his boot between the door and jamb. “Don’t make this tougher than it has to be.” “But you’ve made a mistake.” From what Greg could see through the crack—one glittery bat’s eye far back in the cave of her socket— Verna Landry looked as if she’d have to stand twice to throw a shadow. “I don’t know who told you—”