Christmas In The Woods
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It was cold and gray, the day after Christmas, but that didn’t bother her. She was happy as a bird in a cage—a very large bird in a very small cage. The cold, gray snow that had begun falling before midnight the night before was still coming down in flurries.
The snow looked pretty; it sparkled, and it made the bare branches of trees and bushes glitter like diamonds and silver, but it was useless to anyone trying to get anywhere.
There was a two-mile stretch of road between her house and town that they closed down every time there was even one flake of snow, because of an avalanche that once occurred when the road got packed down with heavy snow and then a big wind came up.
And you just had to know where you were going—or what direction you wanted to go in. But if you wanted to go out somewhere on your own…
She stood on the porch, peering through the window at her grandmother’s bedroom. She’d been watching all morning, hoping and praying that her grandmother would wake up. But she hadn’t yet, although it was almost noon now.
Maybe this afternoon; maybe tomorrow morning. The thought that Grandmother might die alone in her bed was very depressing. Her parents were both gone, and the only other people who could help her were her aunt and uncle—but they were a long way away, in Oklahoma, and probably wouldn’t be here for another week or so.
They had no telephone, and when it got bad enough that she couldn’t wait for them, she would have to walk the two miles to town—and it wasn’t snowing now. If she went out to town now, there wasn’t any real chance of getting stuck in the snow.
She did not feel particularly hungry; she felt just plain lonely. She missed her parents terribly; she was homesick. She needed somebody to talk to. Somebody she knew and loved who understood her.
Well, she knew what she wanted to talk to, but it was too far away—and besides, Grandma would probably say no. So instead she thought about him. He was at school, of course, and he wouldn’t be coming home until Christmas vacation was over—and then only for a day or two.
But after that, no, she would never see him again—except in her dreams. And those were pretty much like nightmares. She didn’t know what she dreamed about most nights, and that made them even worse. Sometimes she woke up screaming and sweating and trembling; sometimes she woke up not knowing why she was shaking.
But she could still remember everything—the sounds of his voice, the smell of his sweat, the feel of his skin under her fingers, the touch of his lips on hers. And she remembered what he said when he came home one summer and took her into the woods:
“We’ll be together, Rosebud. Just you and me. We’ll be a family forever.”
He made promises then that he broke now, but that didn’t make them any less true. If he had really meant what he said, she would be with him right now—but she was not, and that hurt. It hurt terribly, more than anything she had ever felt before.
She was sure he was coming back. She knew it. Somehow. Someday. He wouldn’t leave her alone all winter. And by springtime, if he hadn’t come back, she’d get the courage up to go find him. She’d make him take her away from here; she’d force him to take her.
She knew where he was, of course. She’d been looking for him since the night of the Halloween party. But that night she didn’t want to ask anyone about him—not even Grandma. It was just too humiliating.
So she sat in the parlor of the house, looking at her grandmother and praying until she fell asleep on the sofa. When she woke up the next morning, she went back to the parlor and asked her grandmother some questions about Mr. Hargreaves…and learned that she knew almost as much as Rose did, and had known him for a long time.
And she gave Rose directions to the school, where he worked, and told her where she could find his room. Then she got out of there as fast as she could.
There were things Rose didn’t like about the way Grandmother had handled things, but she didn’t want to say them now. She was very curious to find out how this story ended.
The snow had stopped falling sometime during the night. The sky was blue and cloudless, but the air was still cold and it was getting dark quickly.
She looked around; the sun had just gone down behind the trees. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so she figured she’d better go home and make a sandwich before she walked over to the school.
She would have preferred to bring some money with her, but she’d left all her cash in the dresser drawer where she kept her clothes. There wouldn’t be any reason for anybody to try to rob her in broad daylight on Main Street, anyway.
She headed back to the house but turned onto the gravel drive first. She wanted to look around the garden while she could still see. If Grandma said that the gardener was coming today or tomorrow, maybe he wouldn’t dig up everything. She was already beginning to miss the plants and flowers, even though she wasn’t sure exactly what they were.
There was something new out front, beside the front door. She didn’t see anything special about it at first, but when she got closer she saw that it was a gravestone. It looked just like all the others—nothing really unusual about that.
Except that it wasn’t made of stone; it was made of concrete, in the shape of a plain, flat square.
Rose wondered whether this might mean that Mr. Hargreaves had finally been cremated. That didn’t sound very nice, somehow, but she supposed it would be the most practical thing to do—if you wanted him buried and were too poor to afford a proper headstone.
She stood there looking at the grave for a long time, trying to decide what to do next. She wasn’t sure how to feel about having a grave in the backyard. On the one hand, she couldn’t bear the thought of the gardener coming along and digging it up; on the other, it was only going to be there for a little while—and she knew he’d never come back again.
Maybe she ought to go ahead and mark it with the little bit of chalk she kept in her pocket.
She walked across the drive and stood by the side of the grave. “I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly,” she said softly. “But I’ll always love you, Daddy.” She hadn’t meant to say it; the words just slipped out. But she’d felt so alone without him, standing in his empty house, that she’d blurted it out before she even knew what she was saying.
She didn’t really think she heard him; but then, just when she was about to start over with, “Daddy, I’m sorry…,” she realized she was crying. She tried to stop it, but she couldn’t. There were no tears left in her. She started sobbing.
The wind had changed direction since she’d first come back here and was now coming down out of the north. She looked up at the sky, and saw that the sun had already set; it would be dark soon, and cold. She was afraid to go home—not just because she didn’t want to face Grandma, but also because she wanted to see Mr. Hargreaves again.
She wondered whether it might be all right to walk up to the school, maybe go into one of the buildings until it got dark. But she was too ashamed to ask anyone for permission.
And anyway, she knew exactly where he’d gone, if she really wanted to find him: there was a secret door in one of the upstairs bedrooms—one that only he and Rose knew about. It was locked, but she could probably pick it up with a paper clip. That way, if anything happened to her, they wouldn’t know that she’d gone wandering around the place by herself, looking for Mr. Hargreaves.
It was the last thought in her mind before she remembered that she’d been planning to go back and get her coat. She’d taken off her scarf and hat on the way in when she’d seen him digging up the garden. Maybe she’d forgotten them somewhere.
She couldn’t remember where she’d put her scarf, but she must have taken off her coat somewhere; she would certainly never wear it indoors, so she must have hung it up to keep it dry. She should check her backpack while she was downstairs, to make sure she hadn’t left anything else behind.
But first, she went to the bathroom. Her hands were still shaking when she flushed the toilet; she nearly fell down the stairs and had to grab hold of the railing at the top to steady herself. There was something wrong with her hands—she couldn’t seem to feel them properly.
She stood at the sink for a long time, staring into the mirror. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said again. Her eyes felt as though they were filled with sand. When she looked at the mirror, she saw something move: it seemed to be a faint blur of gray against gray.
But when she turned on the water and tried to rinse her face, it got worse. The water wasn’t coming out clear anymore—it was all muddy and greenish brown. She washed her hands anyway, not knowing what else to do.
Then, suddenly, it was too much. She let go of the sink and stumbled over to the window, pushing aside the curtain and reaching for the glass. There was no reflection in it—the window was dark, but there was nothing beyond it but sky and clouds. The glass didn’t even feel cold.
She stepped back from the window, looking around her with growing alarm. Everything seemed strange now. She was standing in the middle of a room that wasn’t really a room; there was a big fireplace in one corner, a table with two chairs—but instead of a chair at each side, there was just one chair, pushed up against the wall.
And there was an open door across the room—a big wooden door that led to another room, with a staircase leading up to what was probably a balcony.
The strangest thing about it all, she thought, was that none of this bothered her at all. There was something comforting, almost soothing, about seeing the same things every time you looked around.
And it was very warm in here—she could hear the radiators clunking, and see little flames flickering under the windows—so it was all very pleasant. It made her think of how cozy Grandma’s old house had always felt.
And then she looked down at herself and realized what it was that was so strange: she was still wearing her coat. But there was no way she’d have worn it indoors—not unless she was planning to go outside again right after she came in.
She must have forgotten to put it on.
It was just too strange. She went back to the bathroom, opened the window wide, and stuck her head out. Then she turned back to the mirror again and stared into the water as though she might find an answer to all her questions there.
The water was clear.
There was no mistaking it. Everything was exactly the way it should be.
But then she wondered whether there was someone else looking in through the window beside her. That would explain why she wasn’t able to see her reflection—and the way she could see something moving across the sky.
If there really was somebody in the room with her—somebody who could only see through the window—then maybe that was why she was seeing things in the mirror.
It didn’t make any sense. But when you were inside Mr. Hargreaves’s house, it was sometimes hard to keep a grip on what was real. Sometimes, you never knew whether anything was true at all.
She remembered the look in his eyes when he was trying to tell her how he felt. It hadn’t been just about the money—it had been something more. He was so embarrassed that he couldn’t say a word, but it was clear enough what he was thinking.
And then she remembered how she’d felt when she saw him digging up her garden. There was nothing wrong with his hands. They were all right.
But she still remembered what Mr. Hargreaves said about “the house” that he’d built. What did he mean by that? Maybe that was why she couldn’t remember what he looked like. Because she’d forgotten what he looked like.
She suddenly wanted to go home. She started for the door, but just then there was a noise from outside and she froze. A moment later, the front door flew open and Mr. Hargreaves was standing there.
He didn’t look very happy. “I told you not to come here,” he said.
She stared at him. “But I wanted to come—”
“Don’t you know any better?” He shook his head. “You’re the one who asked for this job. You should have known how dangerous it would be.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did. I saw everything—that’s why they put me in prison. All those years. So don’t you dare say that you didn’t.” His voice was harsh now. “I’m telling you—you should never have come back here!”
His voice sounded so loud, even though there wasn’t anybody else in the room. Even if she could still hear the sound of the radiators clunking in the distance, there was no other sound in the house except her own breath. It made her feel dizzy.
But at the same time, something seemed to change. As soon as he said the word “prison,” it all made sense again. She remembered what she was doing here, and where she’d seen the last of him: a few feet away, staring out through the window into the garden.
She knew that if she went to the window, she could still see him there, standing on the edge of the flower bed. And then she remembered her father.
And suddenly, she knew what had happened to her. She was just about to ask Mr. Hargreaves exactly how he’d been able to get out of prison—but at that moment, there was another sound from outside the door. Mr. Hargreaves turned around, and his eyes looked very black in the dim light.
She’d thought he looked frightened when he first came into the room, but now the fear was gone. He looked determined.
“The police are coming,” he said. “They’ll be here any minute. You should go right now—and never come back again.”
But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay. She wanted to know what was going to happen to him.
Mr. Hargreaves smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You won’t care once you’re dead.”
And then he raised the gun, pointed it straight at her heart, and pulled the trigger.
***
When she woke up, her head was pounding.
For a second, she couldn’t remember where she was or what was happening—or even why she should have woken up in the first place. But then she remembered, and suddenly everything made sense again.
The alarm clock next to the bed said it was a quarter past one.
She wondered whether Mr. Hargreaves had got home safe. Then she realized she’d forgotten to ring him to let him know she was okay. She wondered how long it would take for him to find out that she was gone, and what would happen to him then.
Then she remembered how she felt when she saw Mr. Hargreaves digging up her garden. And then she knew that she couldn’t go back to that house. Not yet.
She glanced at the window. It was open again, letting in just enough of a breeze to make the curtains ripple in the wind.
Maybe she’d been so scared by what happened with Mr. Hargreaves that she’d dreamed the whole thing.
If only I could get to the window. Just a quick look out…
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. The thought was already starting to fade when she realized that it wasn’t a dream at all. She’d been in her own house, on her own bed; and now she was looking out through her own window into the dark.
The sky looked blacker than ever before, but she couldn’t see any stars. The moon was hiding behind a layer of clouds—but it must have been there, somewhere.
Something had woken her up, made her look at the window—and that meant that something was waiting for her outside, too.
There was no way of knowing whether it was just a dream, or if she’d really heard somebody’s voice from somewhere out in the street. But when she turned to look around the room, she saw something that wasn’t there before.
It was just a scrap of paper pinned up against the wall by the light switch. She couldn’t remember putting it there, and even if she had, she didn’t understand what it was supposed to mean. It was just a short note written in black ink.
The writing was shaky and uneven—but the words were perfectly clear.
It said:
Good luck!
She remembered exactly what it had felt like to be standing in Mr. Hargreaves’ garden, listening to him dig up her flowers. The same cold fear that she always felt when she first woke up, before she’d managed to sort out how she felt about everything. And now Mr. Hargreaves was back, but he was digging up the wrong garden—and he was getting away with it. She felt sick with rage.
She sat up and swung her legs out of bed, but then she stopped. She had to think for a minute. Then, slowly, carefully, she got out of the bed, walked over to the window, and looked down into the street below.
There was no one there. The only thing moving was a man on a motorbike, who was heading off along the road toward the center of town.
Maybe that meant something. Maybe she should get dressed and follow the man until she found out where he was going. If he had gone to the police, she would be able to tell them everything that had happened.
But at the same time, maybe she didn’t need to worry too much about that. If he really was working with the police, Mr. Hargreaves would probably be all right.
And then another thought hit her like a slap in the face. What if he wasn’t working with the police?
What if he wasn’t getting away with anything after all?
“Oh God,” she said aloud. “Oh, God.”
She went and put on some clothes. Then, instead of following the man, she started walking through the house, making sure that everything was locked up tight.
As she pulled open the bedroom door and saw her own reflection in the mirror, she realized for the first time just how much she hated herself. It made her feel so weak to know that she’d let Mr. Hargreaves do whatever he wanted to her. But now that it had happened, there was nothing she could do to stop him from digging up her garden again.
She couldn’t even take revenge for what he did to her. He was just going to keep doing it—because there was nobody who would ever believe her.
She knew she had to stay quiet until Mr. Hargreaves’ next job. Then, when she saw him at the next house, she’d have to pretend that nothing had happened. She would tell the whole story to the police and everything would go back to normal.
But as soon as she thought about that, she remembered the man who had been on the motorbike. He hadn’t looked like a policeman or a reporter—and he definitely wasn’t one of Mr. Hargreaves’ friends. So why had he been following her?
She walked back over to the mirror and stared into her own face.
The way his eyes were fixed on me…
She stopped. Something about that had felt familiar, but she couldn’t quite think what it meant. And then she realized why.
That was exactly what the man had looked like the first time that Mr. Hargreaves had dragged her out of bed and taken her down to the garage. He was just standing in front of a car—and he had been watching her. Watching and waiting for the right moment to attack.
When he had grabbed her arm, she hadn’t known whether to shout out, struggle—or run away. She couldn’t remember exactly what happened next; all she could remember was that she had frozen up inside.
All she could think about was how awful it must have looked when he pulled her away from Mr. Hargreaves’ house and carried her down through the garden and across the road into the darkness.
All the things I wanted to say…
And now she realized who it had been.
Mr. Hargreaves.
She wasn’t sure if he had used his power or not, but that man had been there before. The man who had been on the motorbike.
***
The police station was a two-minute walk from where she was staying—but it felt like the longest journey of her life. She walked along the street, looking down at the pavement as she went—making sure that she didn’t look straight at any of the shops and houses that were open this late.
It was a beautiful, clear, moonlit night, but she knew she wasn’t going to see anything that she could use as evidence.
When she got to the police station, she hurried inside without making a sound, trying not to think about how silly she must look with her hair all over the place and her clothes half on. The policewoman who was on duty at the front desk just stared at her. She looked like she’d had a really bad day.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” she said in a voice that seemed to have been dragged out of the bottom of the sea.
“I’ve been attacked,” said Sophie. “Someone broke into my house and attacked me.”
“What’s your name, please, miss?”
Sophie had never told anyone her real name before, except for the taxi driver, and he hadn’t even been a proper police officer.
She couldn’t remember what her real name was. All she could remember was that she wasn’t supposed to use it, or let other people know.
The policewoman looked at her suspiciously, as if she was afraid that this was all some sort of trick. But she wasn’t very bright.
“Sophie,” she said. “My name is Sophie.”
Then, to her relief, the policewoman put her down as one of the people who had been attacked by the man on the motorbike.
“I’ll tell them you’re here, miss,” she said. “They should be coming to see you soon.”
Sophie sat down in the waiting room. She took out her phone and started playing around with the camera, pretending to take pictures of the different notices stuck up all over the walls.
There were two of them—one on the wall to her left, and another about three feet away from her on the far right. It showed a picture of a black woman who looked a lot like Miss Agnes. She was holding up a piece of paper, and saying:
Warning to the Public
This message is for the parents, carers, and guardians of children. There has recently been an increase in the number of incidents involving the abduction of young women. Although these are often committed by strangers, many of the victims have been known to the offenders, who may well be in positions of trust within their communities.
It is vitally important that you are aware of this issue, and that you talk to your children about the dangers of leaving the house without adult supervision.
We would urge you to discuss this information with your child. The police have attached a list of warning signs which may indicate that your daughter or son is being targeted. Please read through it carefully, and do not hesitate to contact us if you think anything is not quite right.
This message is for the Parents, Carers, and Guardians of Children
***
But when Sophie tried to send the picture, there was no signal.
She was trying to think about what to do next. If she had told Mr. Hargreaves—or the police—that she was going to show them the picture she had taken with the phone, they would probably have laughed at her, thinking that it was a trick. She didn’t want anyone else to see it, so she needed to try something different.
What did people do? Did they put these pictures on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram? Maybe that was it. If she went back home, could she borrow her mum’s laptop, and upload it that way? She couldn’t be sure until she got there, but she was pretty sure that she could.
She felt like she was missing out on something, even though she didn’t really know what it was. It was like when she was in the swimming pool, and the lifeguard kept talking to everyone except her. She wanted to say something to him, and let him know that she wasn’t stupid. But she didn’t.
When the policewoman came to get Sophie, the receptionist asked her if she would mind waiting in one of the interview rooms while they checked to see if there was any news. She could feel her heart starting to race, and her throat getting tight. She tried to swallow it back down, but she knew that she was going to have to try really hard not to cry.
The policeman who came into the room was called Mr. Baker, and he looked just as tired and grumpy as the policewoman had done.
“Hi,” said Sophie.
He frowned at her, looking worried.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“Okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I don’t think I’m hurt very badly.”
“Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Sophie told him all about what had happened, trying to sound calm and professional, and not show him how scared she was. She gave him the name of the man on the motorbike, and everything else she remembered.
She told him the same story she had already told the policewoman, only this time, she used a little more detail. He asked her some questions about the bike and the jacket, and she tried to be as accurate as she could.
He shook his head when she’d finished.
“There’s been no word from the police helicopter yet,” he said. “I know it seems like we’re making little progress, but I’m doing my best to help your case as much as possible.”
She nodded.
He took a sip of water from the jug on his desk and started to talk again.
“Did you get to take a look at the jacket or the helmet?”
Sophie nodded.
“What about the guy who attacked you?” said Mr. Baker. “I don’t suppose you could tell me if it was a white man, black man, Asian man?”
“No,” said Sophie. “It wasn’t a big group of people. There were just two or three people, I think.”
“Could you describe them?”
Sophie nodded.
“They were wearing helmets, and they had hoods up over their faces,” she said. “One of them was a white man, but I couldn’t see any other details.”
Mr. Baker put his head in his hands. He sighed loudly, and then looked up.
“This is all very difficult,” he said. “If I go out there and tell everyone that your attacker was a black man, we might have to arrest a whole load of black men.”
Sophie bit her lip.
“Why not?” she said.
“Because it’s not true. If we arrest every black man in the country, we’ll end up with the biggest race riot since the 1970s.”
Sophie thought about this.
“So what are you going to do?” she said.
“We’ve got one really big problem,” said Mr. Baker. “Our computer system only shows us a picture of your attacker. We can’t trace him because we don’t know his name or his address.”
Sophie shook her head. She was sure she knew who he was, now she had seen the photo.
“How could they send that photo of him to your phone, without his face?” she said.
He shrugged.
“Who knows? Maybe he hacked into someone else’s phone, and sent that photo to you as a text message.”
“But what if they hadn’t done that? What if he had got hold of my phone when I wasn’t looking?”
Mr. Baker frowned again, thinking hard.
“What if he’s a teenager?” he said.
“That sounds like a stupid idea,” Sophie said.
He shrugged.
“Maybe it’s not that stupid,” he said. “Young men like to go around on motorbikes, and they often wear helmets with their hoods up. Do you know anyone who might have done that?”
Sophie thought about it. There were a few young men who rode motorbikes around where she lived. The trouble was, she didn’t think they were bad people.
She thought about it for a long time, and then she looked at Mr. Baker.
“There is one guy,” she said. “He does live in that house near mine. He likes to ride a motorbike, and he’s quite fast, I’ve seen him.”
Mr. Baker nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “If you can tell me exactly who he is, we’ll find out if he’s been involved in any crimes.”
“He’s about…oh…”
“About how tall?” asked Mr. Baker.
“Five-nine,” said Sophie.
“And his hair is…?”
“Dark.”
“And the color of his eyes?”
“Dark,” said Sophie.
Mr. Baker stood up.
“I’d like to take a look at that photo,” he said.
Sophie nodded and handed her phone across. He took it and put it on his desk. He stared at it for a few minutes and then took it back. He held it up to the light. Sophie couldn’t see a thing on the screen.
“It looks fine to me,” said Mr. Baker.
Sophie nodded. She wanted to tell him what she knew about the man, but she was afraid that he might not believe her. She didn’t think she had enough evidence to convince him, so she decided to wait for the police helicopter to return and then try to make up an excuse why she hadn’t told them before.
Mr. Baker was still standing behind her, waiting for an answer. She had already given him everything she could think of.
She looked down at her phone and thought for a moment about what she would do if she ran out of things to say.
Then the doorbell rang.
Mr. Baker sighed loudly. He held up the photo again.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked.
“Sophie,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember my own telephone number.”
He gave her a pitying look.
“Okay. Can you just give me the name of someone in your neighborhood who’s called Christopher?”
Sophie nodded. She thought for a while about this.
“There is a Christopher on my street,” she said. “But he lives quite far away. He wouldn’t know anything about what happened to me.”
“Right,” said Mr. Baker. “Why don’t you call him on the phone, and ask him to come along here?”
Sophie smiled to herself. She knew how Mr. Baker liked to work. If he thought there was a chance that he could get some useful information from this Christopher guy, then he would probably send him to see her.
“That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’ll do that right now.”
Sophie picked up the phone and called the number she had written down earlier. The phone rang twice, and then someone picked it up.
“Hello?”
Sophie put the phone down. Mr. Baker had started looking through his computer for something, so he didn’t notice. Sophie waited a few seconds before picking up the receiver again. She spoke into the mouthpiece quietly.
“Christopher?” she whispered.
After a short pause, she heard footsteps coming towards the door. When they opened the door, Sophie looked out onto the porch. There was a tall, dark-haired man standing outside.
Sophie recognized him from the photo. His name was Christopher.
She stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her. She didn’t want to waste any more time.
“Hello, Christopher,” she said. “How are you?”
“Hi, Sophie,” said Christopher. He was smiling at her.
He had a nice smile.
“It’s me, Christopher,” she said. “I need to ask you a couple of questions about yesterday.”
“Of course,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Well…um…why did you leave the house without your helmet? And why were you speeding around the estate in that motorbike?”
“I was trying to catch up with my friends. We’d had quite a night. I wasn’t trying to get away with anything,” he said. “We were just enjoying ourselves, okay? What’s going on, anyway?”
“Someone attacked me at the swimming pool,” said Sophie. “He cut off my clothes and tried to rape me.”
“You’re kidding,” said Christopher. He stared at Sophie. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” said Sophie.
“But you were attacked?”
“Yes,” said Sophie.
“That’s terrible,” he said. He looked at Sophie carefully. His eyes went from one part of her body to another. “Are you okay now? You seem upset. Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No,” said Sophie. “It’s all over now. It happened last night.”
Christopher looked down. He scratched his head nervously, and then he seemed to realize that he shouldn’t be doing that because it was rude. He quickly tucked his hands behind his back and stepped back onto the porch.
“What happens next, Sophie?” he asked.
Sophie frowned.
“I think I’ll go home,” she said.
She reached for the door handle, but Christopher put out a hand to stop her.
“Just hold on there,” he said. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask you first. Is that okay with you?”
He smiled at her again. Sophie sighed.
“Okay, fine,” she said.
They stood in silence for a moment, while Sophie watched him. She wanted to stay and talk to him more, but Mr. Baker was waiting for her inside.
“Now,” said Christopher. “I’d really appreciate it if you could answer some of my questions. I’m trying to help, here.”
“Well…sure,” said Sophie. “What do you want to know?”
Christopher took a deep breath.
“First of all,” he said. “How did you get away?”
“Um…” said Sophie. “Someone came out of nowhere and hit him with a pole.”
Christopher nodded.
“Right,” he said. He seemed to be concentrating very hard, as though he was trying to remember something. Then his face lit up, and he laughed.
“I remember!” he said. “You were holding onto that pole! It looked like an iron bar. And then you fell into the water!”
Sophie frowned.
“So what? How does that help me?”
Christopher frowned.
“Why are you being so difficult about this?” he asked. “Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” said Sophie. “Not really. I just don’t want you getting in trouble for whatever you did yesterday. I didn’t ask you to do anything illegal, Christopher.”
Christopher shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay,” he said. “We can forget that. What else?”
“How many people did you see attacking me?”
Christopher shook his head.
“Only one person,” he said. “Did you look around when you got to the pool? You might have seen some blood or a wound if it was more than just a scratch.”
“I was really busy trying to stop him,” said Sophie. “And I didn’t see anything. Anyway, that doesn’t matter now.”
“Right,” said Christopher. He stepped back off the porch and looked at her. “If there’s nothing else, then I think I should be going. It’s getting late.”
“Oh, yes,” said Sophie. She swallowed. “I’m sorry, but could I ask you one last question?”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Is that all right?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Go ahead.”
Sophie felt a shiver run through her.
“What happened to your ear?” she asked. “You know…the one you lost a little while ago?”
Christopher gave her a puzzled look.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would you ask me something like that?”
“I saw it on the news last night,” said Sophie. “It was the only thing I could think of to explain why you’d been in the water with blood coming out of it.”
Christopher nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Well, first of all…that ear is fake, okay? And secondly, I didn’t actually lose my real ear. I lost a fake ear. This one.”
He pulled his shirt up and showed her his fake ear, which had a small pink scar running across it. Sophie swallowed.
“Really?” she said. “So how did you get it?”
“We were attacked by this kid,” said Christopher. “But he’s not the only one who knows about us. That’s why I wanted to ask you all those questions. There are people out there who are dangerous.”
He frowned.
“And I just hope none of them are after you now, too.”
Sophie nodded.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said.
“I suppose not,” said Christopher. “Do you know what happened to the kid? Did you see his face? That would help me a lot if you do. I want to know so we can protect ourselves from him next time.”
“I don’t think he’s here, though,” said Sophie. She looked down. “Did they say anything?”
“Not really,” said Christopher. “He just said he was going to find out about us, and then he left.”
“Well…” said Sophie. She took a deep breath. “I was a little bit…er…busy when he came around. It’s kind of hard to remember everything.”
She put her hands on her knees and started to pace back and forth across the porch.
“What did you do with your phone?” asked Christopher.
Sophie shook her head.
“Oh,” she said. “I don’t have my phone anymore.”
“Why?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders.
“I lost it,” she said.
Christopher frowned.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“I’m positive,” said Sophie. “The guy who was hitting me got hold of it when I dropped it, and he threw it over the side of the bridge.”
“You mean the one that’s near where you fell into the river?”
Sophie nodded.
“That’s right,” she said. “It was right there. And he probably picked it up when he went through my pockets. Anyway, I guess the police will find it.”
“Did you look around for any other clues, maybe?”
Sophie shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I was really busy getting the blood out of the water. Besides, it would have been too easy to find. I wasn’t stupid enough to leave it on the ground somewhere.”
She sighed.
“There’s nothing else I can do now except try to forget about it,” she said.
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Christopher. He looked at his watch. “Well…I should be going, anyway. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”
“Okay,” said Sophie. “Good night.”
She stood up on the porch, and they started to walk toward each other, but then something occurred to her.
“Do you have someplace you can stay?” she asked. “I know you were trying to get away from your family, and I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what else to do with you. If you want to go home, that’s okay. But I’d really like it if you stayed here for a while until things are safe again.”
Christopher stopped and looked down at Sophie.
“What kind of things?” he asked. “Are you talking about…like, people coming after me or something?”
Sophie nodded.
“I think you’re probably right,” she said. “We really don’t want anything happening to you. So what would you say about staying with me for a little while? Just until things calm down?”
The End