Appetite for Innocence: A Dark Psychological Thriller Read online

  “What does Mom think is going to happen? Is she just planning on letting her stay with us forever?”

  I won’t be able to handle it if she does. I see him every time I look at her.

  “I hope not. I’ve tried to talk to your mom about it. Not just at the hospital, but since we’ve been back too. She’s determined to give Sarah a home and thinks this is the best place for her even if I disagree. How about this—why don’t we set aside some time and talk to her about it again together?”

  “I don’t think she’ll change her mind. I told her how I felt about it when we were in the hospital. It wouldn’t be anything new.” It still hurts that she insisted on bringing her home with us even when I begged her not to.

  “It might make a difference now that you’re home and she’s seeing how it’s affecting you. It can’t hurt to try another time. What do you think?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. My mom doesn’t really even know me anymore. She still thinks I’m a good person, but I’m not.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I take a deep breath. “She doesn’t know about the things that happened there and she acts like Paige isn’t my fault, but she is.” Saying her name makes me start crying all over again.

  “Why is Paige your fault?”

  “I knew she might die if I tried to escape and I did it anyway.”

  “Did he threaten to kill her if you left?”

  “No. Paige warned me not to try and escape, though. She told me the basement was wired with bombs but I didn’t believe her because everything about the basement was passed down second hand from other girls so we never knew what was true or not. We were always trying to figure out which stories were real and which ones weren’t. Like the dogs. Paige told me she heard he had dogs with rabies patrolling the yard in case one of us got out. Supposedly, he starved the dogs to keep them hungry and only fed them raw meat, but I never saw them when I looked out the windows so I always thought it was just something he said to scare one of the girls and the story had grown as it travelled down the line.”

  She doesn’t interrupt with any questions. She patiently waits for me to go on. I swallow the emotions in my throat before continuing.

  “I never believed her about the bombs either. On one of my first days locked in the basement, Paige told me there were bombs in the walls. I remember thinking, bombs? How would you even put bombs in the walls? I thought it was just another threat to keep us afraid.” I pause, assaulted with memories of what it was like when he first took me. “She always said, if we tried to run or got out of hand, he’d blow up the basement and everyone would die. I didn’t believe her. But she was right and I set them off when I left. I killed her. I killed Paige.” I pull my pinky away, tucking my arm underneath me. I don’t want to be touched anymore.

  “You didn’t kill Paige,” she says.

  “I did. Please, don’t try to make me feel better.”

  “I’m not. You didn’t kill her. Yes, she died in the fire, but you didn’t trigger the bombs by opening the door.”

  I sit up so fast it makes me dizzy. It takes a second for my head to quit spinning. “I didn’t? How do you know?”

  “The explosives in the basement weren’t linked to the house alarm system. They were linked to an external source for detonation. Someone had to activate the system and you were already gone so you couldn’t have done it. It had to be Sarah or John.”

  It doesn’t make me feel any better. “Still, if I didn’t leave, they wouldn’t have blown the place up.”

  It’s true. She can’t argue that. It’s still my fault no matter what she says.

  “I can understand how you could feel that way and nothing you’re going through right now is unusual. It’s extremely common for victims to blame themselves. But I want you to understand something—it’s not your fault that Paige is dead. There’s nothing you could’ve done to save her.” She pauses, making sure I’m paying attention to what she’s saying. “She would’ve died even if you stayed. The only difference is that you would’ve died with her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’ll take a long time before we have any definitive answers, but John didn’t let the girls go. None of them were returned to their families. He killed his victims after he was done with them. None of you would’ve survived even if you hadn’t escaped.” She lowers her voice. “Paige’s remains weren’t the only remains found on the property.”

  SARAH

  (NOW)

  I can’t stop staring at Jocelyn. I’m fascinated with her. I’ve seen moms on TV before, but I’ve never had one myself. I don’t even know what my mother looked like and the foster mothers I had weren’t real mothers. They were only interested in collecting the check they got for allowing me to stay there. Most of them didn’t even care about their own kids, especially not kids like me that were picked up from the streets.

  Nobody cares about street kids. Maybe when we’re young, little, and cute, but as soon as you reach a certain age, everyone looks at you with the same disgust they give your parent, like somehow you’re choosing to be homeless too.

  But Jocelyn is different. She treats me like I’m a real person. One with feelings and thoughts. Ideas and interests. She never forces me to talk which actually makes her easy to talk to.

  She has to be exhausted but she hasn’t stopped taking care of people since we got here. She’s constantly on her feet. She bustles around the kitchen making sure the coffee never runs out and rotating the food from the fridge to the counter. The phone rings constantly. Mostly, it’s people from the media asking for interviews, but she won’t turn it off because sometimes it’s their friends calling to see how they’re doing. Everyone asks about me too. It’s not just Ella they care about. It feels weird to be grouped with them like I’m part of the family.

  She’s always smiling and stopping to ask people how they’re doing. She’s gotten comfortable touching me. She rarely walks by without reaching out for me in some way, patting my head or touching me on the back softly. She reaches out and squeezes my hand whenever she thinks I might be uncomfortable. It’s like she doesn’t want me to forget she’s there. A safe feeling comes over me every time she touches me. I fantasize about what it would be like if she was my real mother, how it would be to grow up with her touches, her reassuring looks, and her comforting words.

  Their house is so different from John’s. It’s not just that it’s so much smaller, but that it’s lived in. You can feel the love and it’s cluttered with pieces of them. There’s framed pictures everywhere. I’ve seen Ella at every age. There’s pictures of them together smiling in front of oceans and mountains and an entire wall devoted to Ella’s artwork in the hallway leading to the bathroom.

  The living room is comfortable and inviting. John’s living room was beautiful but you could never relax, not like theirs where you just want to grab a book and curl up by the fire in one of the throw blankets they knitted themselves. The mantle is lined with personal touches—shells and rocks they collected at the beach and on walks, misshapen vases they made at a pottery studio, and stacks of travel magazines with the pages marked on places they want to visit. The couch swallows you up when you sit in it. The coffee table in front is a trunk carried over by their ancestors from Sweden.

  The kitchen is no different. The fridge is covered with magnets and Ella’s schedules. There’s a Formica table John would hate and appliances that aren’t sparkling, clean stainless steel. Spices fill small jars on a shelf above the stove and pots hang from hooks next to the refrigerator. Plants grow in one of the corners next to the window where they get the most sunlight and they add even more life to the room. Everything about this place is quietly comfortable.

  Jocelyn’s been trying to keep our spirits up since the news about Paige. It’s cast a shadow over our homecoming. It doesn’t help that Ella stays locked in her room. She doesn’t even come downstairs to eat meals with us. It’s worrying Jocelyn. She looks wistfully at the stairs
every few minutes just waiting for her to make an appearance. I can tell she’s been crying whenever she comes back downstairs after she’s tried to get her to come down. I don’t like how sad it’s making her when she’s already been through so much. Last night she told me all the things she did to try to find Ella and bring her home.

  It was hard to hear because nobody ever looked for me. There were no searches. No candlelight vigils. My face wasn’t plastered on flyers around the neighborhood. I wasn’t on the news. I disappeared and nobody cared. It was like I didn’t exist. There’s nobody for me to call and tell I’ve been found because nobody’s looking for me.

  Not even my real father. I never let myself think about him. I buried him a long time ago, but Blake and Phil resurrected him. Everyone knows I’m the girl that nobody wanted and they can’t hide their pity. They don’t even try. I can see the “poor girl” in all their looks. It’s why they’re all so kind to me. They feel sorrier for me than they do for Ella.

  My story is worse because my own father gave me to John. I keep telling them I don’t remember the day, but I do. I remember how my dad took me into the bathroom at the homeless shelter we’d been staying at that month and washed my face. I sat on the toilet very still, soaking in his attention because he never touched me unless he was punishing me. I didn’t tell him I was old enough to wash my face myself.

  He’d told me the night before we had a special errand to do together. Most of the time, he forgot I was even there. He was always leaving me places and forgetting to come back for me even though he promised he would. One time he left me behind a dumpster for three days. I stayed because he’d told me to and I always did what he said, but I was terrified. I crawled underneath the dumpster at night when it got dark and stayed there until morning. I was only five.

  He held my hand like a friend that morning and he’d never held my hand that way. Usually, he only grabbed it if he wanted me to hurry or to drag me somewhere I didn’t want to go. He held it like he cared that day. I remember how I marveled at the way my hand fit in his and how our fingers were the same shape. I was hoping he was finally getting sober and we were on our way for him to check himself into a rehabilitation center that let people keep their kids with them while they were there. One of the other moms at the shelter had told me all about it. I skipped along next to him, excited for the possibility of starting our life over.

  My heart leapt when I saw we were walking toward the park because I thought he was finally taking me there to play after all the times I’d asked him to. We frequently panhandled in the park with others in our crew and I would stare for hours at the other children as they scampered up and down the playground equipment, wishing I could be them. I’d beg to go, but he never let me. I’d long ago given up pining over the park, but I got excited that he was going to try to make up for it. It’d be weird to play on the equipment because I’d be the biggest kid there and nobody my age played at the park anymore, but I was willing to do it if it made him happy.

  Instead of stopping at the equipment, he picked up the pace. My hope faded as we walked to the left edge of the park where all the crackheads hung out behind the bathrooms. I gripped his hand tighter. I hated crackheads, the way their eyes bugged out of their head and how they twitched around like someone was shocking them, always talking but none of it ever making sense. My excitement evaporated. It was going to be just like any other day.

  The man who liked to give us money at the shopping mall appeared. He was dressed in jeans with holes in the knees and a baseball cap pulled low like he was trying to blend in, but he stood out because his clothes were clean and he had tennis shoes on his feet. Most of them didn’t wear shoes or if they did, they were held together with tape. He stepped toward us. Him and my dad shook hands. My dad’s eyes nervously darted around. He let go of my hand and I felt the absence immediately. I fingered the palm of my hand where his sweat had met mine.

  “Do you have it?” my dad asked.

  The man nodded. He pulled out an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to him. My dad quickly opened it and counted the bills. He slid it underneath his pants straight into his underwear where he hid all his important things. He put his hand on my back and pushed me toward the man. “Petra, you’re going to go with him.”

  The man reached out and grabbed my hand. His grip was tight. I twisted around to look at my dad.

  “Dad, I don’t want to go with him. I want to stay with you,” I pleaded.

  He never let me go with his friends. He always had to be there too. This guy didn’t look like one of his friends, but I didn’t want to go with him either.

  His voice was stern and punishment loomed in his eyes. “Do as you’re told. No arguing. Go!” He motioned toward the man.

  “Dad,” I cried out again, but he was already walking away, moving his way quickly through the people.

  The man peered down at me. His eyes were a crystalline blue. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetie,” he said. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

  I don’t like to think about that day, but it comes back every time they mention Enrique. I used to think it was what made me special and set me apart from the other girls. He’d stolen them, but he’d paid for me. Now, I’m not so sure.

  ELLA

  (NOW)

  Tomorrow night the community is throwing a big welcome home party for Sarah and me at the church. My grandparents are going to be there along with my uncle Jack and his family. I don’t want to go, but Mom isn’t giving me a choice. She says it will be good for me.

  I’ve been waiting for the last two hours to make sure everyone is asleep. It’s been over an hour since Mom left Sarah’s room and retired to her own. She goes into Sarah’s room every night after she leaves mine and stays for a long time. I don’t know what they talk about and I don’t care. Randy and I still haven’t talked to Mom about her not being there. I think Randy is nervous about it so she’s avoiding it.

  Mom never liked her opinions at the hospital and she’s grown even more resentful toward her now that we’re home. She still treats her nice and politely because Mom would never be mean to her, but I know when she’s just pretending and she’s definitely faking it. I’m sure Randy can sense it too.

  I get up and tiptoe to my door, opening it carefully. The hallway is lit. Mom put night lights in all the outlets so we wouldn’t be afraid in the night and Sarah could find her way to the bathroom. Both their doors are shut. I creep down the hallway, thankful the carpet muffles any sound. The stairs are a different story. They’re old and wooden.

  I take them one step at a time. Each creak freezes my heart and I strain to hear Mom calling out for me. It’s not like she’ll be mad or anything. She’ll just be worried that I’m up in the middle of the night and no matter what I say, she’ll insist on staying up with me. She can’t stay up with me. I need a drink. Ever since I had the idea, it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

  I make it safely down the stairs without waking anyone up. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I peek out the window just to make sure the squad car is there. I breathe a sigh of relief to see them parked with their lights off in front of our house. I can’t help but wonder what it will be like when they’re not keeping watch over us at night. They can’t guard us forever. What happens if they never find John? I push the thought away.

  I plod into the kitchen and head straight for the liquor cabinet. Mom isn’t a big drinker. She never has more than one and even with only one, she starts to get giddy. She always has alcohol, though, for special occasions. She likes to make a Kahlua and coffee drink on Thanksgiving and Christmas and there’s always a bottle of wine for when her friend Greta comes over. They’re old friends from college. I hop up onto the counter and open the cabinet.

  I grab one of the bottles of wine. It’s the one that’s already opened since I’m not sure how to open a bottle of wine. Sarah or John always did it. I’m about to hop down when I decide to grab a
bottle of vodka too. I’ve never even seen her serve it and don’t know anyone who drinks it. The only thing I know about vodka is that you aren’t supposed to be able to smell it on someone’s breath, at least, that’s what I’ve heard the kids at school say.

  I hug them close to me and head back upstairs. I’m just as careful on my way back up. I shove the bottle of vodka underneath my bed and plop on my bed with the wine. I can’t unscrew the top fast enough. I take a long drink. It’s sweet, much sweeter than the wine I used to drink with John, but I don’t care. It feels good just to hold the bottle in my hands and feel the liquid going down my throat, leaving a warm trail throughout my body.

  I sit with my back against the headboard savoring each sip. It’s the first time I’ve been able to breathe since I got home. It doesn’t take long for it to begin to work its magic just like it used to. My head starts to get fuzzy, all of my thoughts blurring together. The tension in my body slowly unwinds. I force myself to stop drinking even though I want to keep going. I don’t want to waste it because I’ve got to make it last. I tuck it underneath my bed along with the vodka, pulling a bag of old clothes in front of the bottles. I curl up underneath my covers, bringing them up to my chin. I close my eyes without fear. A bubble surrounds me. I can’t be touched. Nothing can reach me. Sleep comes easily for the first time since I got home.

  SARAH

  (NOW)

  Phil and Blake are going to be here soon to take us to the welcome home party. It’s the first time we’ve left the house since we arrived and I wanted to do something special with my hair rather than pulling it into a messy ponytail. I’ve never liked my hair. It’s mousy brown and dull, not like the vibrant rich brown I’ve always envied on other girls. It’s halfway between curly and straight like it can’t make up its mind, but I wet it tonight and scrunched it up with product, taming the bushiness and making it roll nicely over my shoulders.