M.I.A.

Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four:

Sydney

I get out after Mia. "Wait for me!"

Fueled by some inner strength that I marvel at, she storms across the driveway, tripping and stumbling over the thick grooves that all the police and press vehicles gouged in the driveway. She makes it to the back door and rips the caution tape down. Her hand lashes out and grabs at the screen door handle, and then she goes still.

"What?" I breathe, winded even though I haven't done anything. "What's wrong?"

Mia's fingers tense on the handle. "I can do this, right?" she asks, her voice low and her eyes fixed on the door beyond the screen. She's having a moment of weakness. I'm still not used to these moments, but they come constantly now. She was always brave, always strong. Now...she tries, but it's obviously much harder than it ever was. And I can't blame her.

Now it's my turn to be the strong one. Now it's my turn to prove there are no monsters under the bed.

I reach out and put my hand over hers, reassuring her. "Yes. You can."

She swallows hard, nods and her hand turns the handle. The screen door creaks open. The door itself is partially ajar. It's still broken from when John broke in, no one has bothered to fix it. Mia's hand releases the handle, propping the screen door with one of her scarred legs as she grabs hold of my fingers.

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders and pushes the inside door open with her free hand. I don't want to follow Mia into this hell hole. But if she can do it, despite her shaking and everything that happened to her, I have no right to chicken out. I told her I'd be the one to come with her. Not John. Not Ti. Me. I'm the one she asked. And that means something really important.

Clenching my teeth hard, I follow after Mia as she steps back into Cutter's torture house.

The screen door slams behind us as we stand frozen in Cutter's kitchen. It's just as creepy and scary as I remember it. Old and decrepit, the colors washed out and grey, everything dated. The furniture has been overturned or destroyed. The windows have been broken out so that leaves and dirt have blown in to gather in the corners. There are rat droppings all over the counter, dead bugs on the window sills. Dirty dishes are still in the sink.

The door down to the basement has been hastily nailed shut and boarded up. Vandals have been here, scrawling their satanic symbols and names on the walls, writing messages for the unwary that this place is evil. The floor is littered with glass, old food packages, condoms, and beer bottles.

It disgusts me that this place has become a place where assholes come to party, like it's some kind of secret club house. This is a murder house. Dozens of people were tortured and killed here. I feel Mia's fingers tense around mine, tighter and tighter, until I feel like my circulation is going to be cut off.

Mia says, "Looks like we're not the first ones to come here." A breathy little laugh escapes her. "Bet they thought they were so brave."

I shake my head even though she can't see it. I don't have words, only stiffness and fear and sickness that other people take pleasure in things like this. Treating a place that was hell to someone I love like it's a funhouse at a carnival, debasing it and making it something less than what it is. It would be like putting on a comedy show in Auschwitz.

Her fingers abruptly pry away from mine and she drops my hand, her voice turning steely. "I'm going to look around."

I let her go, letting her make slow advancing steps across the cracked tiles of the kitchen. She gets to the doorway and stands there for a long moment, bracing herself against the wood. She stares at the wood for a long time, at the notches cut into it. Growth lines. Perhaps cut there by Howley's mother twenty some-odd years ago. She traces the lines with her fingers. "You raised a killer," she whispers. "Do you know that?"