Page 23 - My FlipBook

T R A I L O F C R U M B S

like one dish bumping another. Probably Patty. No need to
wake the beast. Strange though. The smell of smoke, matches,
candles. She cracked the door open an inch. Patty stood with
her back to Greta, in front of a vanity against the opposite
wall. Greta could see Patty’s face reflected in the mirror, bent
over a lit candle on a plate, her eyes two dark holes. Probably
prepping for a child sacrifice.
Greta started to pull the door shut, then stopped. She

recognized the tattered shoebox on the vanity, having sifted
through it a million times herself. It held photos—old school
pictures, family snapshots—the only ones not trapped on
long-lost hard drives. She waited. Patty picked through them
and held one away from her face to see it better, like she
always did when she forgot her glasses.
Then she held it above the flame. Greta gasped and let the

door fall open. The picture caught fire, curling and blistering
at the corner. Patty’s eyes met hers in the reflection—a skull
in the dark room and candlelight. She stiffened and dropped
the photo to the carpet, stamping out the flame with her foot.
“What are you doing?” Greta scrambled over the bed to
reach it.
Patty bent down at the same time, but Greta pushed her
arm away. It was a picture of her mother, Diana, with the same
chestnut hair and green eyes as her twins. Greta had seen

the photo, taken before a Christmas party, a hundred times
before. Her mom was smiling, wearing earrings the shape of
reindeer. It was Before Mother. Before breast cancer. Before
her beautiful hair fell out. Before pain changed her face.

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