Lighthouse Nights

11

“get up,” gabe said. “we’re going for a drive.”

sarah rolled over and pushed her face under the couch. “i’m sleeping ’til tomorrow. why am i on the floor?”

“you want my parents to know you're here?”

she groaned and raised her forearm to cover her ear.

“it’s saturday. that means dad’ll be home at eleven. he'll tinker with the boat and grass for the rest of the day. mom’ll be up by noon. unless there’s a showing, she’ll have a wine cooler for lunch then read in the parlor. i won't spend the last two days of my life trapped in my room.”

sarah moaned but her cry was muffled by the sofa. “i’ll get up if you don’t look at me.”

gabe walked to the empty birdcage. he forgot about edgar before crashing last night, but the crow probably didn’t mind an evening of roaming free.

sarah used the couch to push herself up. “told you not to look,” she said and waddled to the bathroom.

“wear something nice!” he shouted.

“how nice? i only have two outfits and i already wore them both.”

“that’s all you brought?” gabe poured bird food into edgar’s bowl.

“didn't think i'd need any more. and you were supposed to take me shopping after the beach.”

“we were wet.”

“YOU were wet.”

gabe scanned the room for his pet and found him pecking a sprig of rosemary from the hydroponic garden. he shook the box of seed and edgar fluttered to the cage.

the marijuana may have distorted his thought processes as he developed the day’s scheme, tossing and turning in half-waking dreams about the girl’s fate and stories of her past. the morning’s sobriety tried to convince him that his plan was a bad idea; either dangerous, or worthy of a lifetime original movie.

if sarah knew where they were going, she wouldn’t get in the van. if sarah knew WHY they were going, she would question his commitment to their pact. if she discovered any indication that gabe was not entirely suicidal, she'd find a partner with REAL problems and nobody would be able to save her.

*  *  *

it took jules forty minutes to realize they weren’t going to lunch.

after an hour of slouching silence in her kidnapper’s minivan, the boy turned right at the fork toward chicago.

trevor was gonna be pissed. jules texted him with every new development or hint of their destination, but gabe began eying her every time she checked her phone.

three hours after embarking on the mystery trip, jules felt the sickening ping of deja vu and her mind scrambled to identify the corridor of brick townhouses. “where are we?”

“we’re late. crap.”

“gabe? where. are. we.”

he turned a hard left into the parking lot of the west elsdon mortuary. “emma’s funeral,” he said.

*  *  *

gabe led sarah by the hand through a sterile hallway with thin maroon carpet and spindles of dusty silk roses. viewing room number two was identified by a plaque with emma’s name arranged in white plastic letters. the place smelled like preschool; like sawdust and chemical cleaners used to mop up nosebleeds.

sarah jerked his hand but gabe squeezed harder and led her to the back row of folding chairs. they slunk into empty seats beside two teenage girls. the congregation was smaller than he expected, with less than twenty-five family members and friends in attendance.