Haunted Rayne

21 | The Evil Among You

Charlotte Du Pont stepped out of her luxury Mercedes-Benz with the help of her chauffeur. The young man held her hand, smiling in a way that would have been inappropriate were her husband around, but since Mr. Du Pont was in meetings three states down, Charlotte allowed it.

Chestnut brown hair, preened into a sleek bun at the crown of her head, framed her pale skin, which seemed to glow against the berry stain of her lips. When she stepped up the front steps of her cousin's small, suburban home in northern Michigan, Charlotte waved away her driver and rang the doorbell. After a few minutes, Jamie Foster opened the front door wearing nothing but a robe that clearly hadn't been washed in months. Charlotte forced herself not to waft the air away from her nose. "Jamie, darling," she began, trying to muster a lick of compassion, "you look like you haven't slept in weeks."

Jamie scoffed, and it only deepened the dark crevices of her sleep-deprived sockets. "Let's make this quick," she muttered.

Charlotte crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her. Jamie made no move of hospitality, not a single offer of food or water, so Charlotte simply cleared a section of dirty paper plates off the kitchen table and set her folders down.

Jamie sat down cross-wise, staring at the stack of paperwork. "She's seventeen," she uttered disdainfully. "She could just be emancipated."

"If Rayne is emancipated, then she cannot stay at Maria J. Westwood."

"So?"

"So?" Charlotte's patience fled. "So, she will go to juvie, Jamie. Then prison—"

"Good."

Charlotte exhaled, the sound melodious even to her own ears. It was not difficult to discern the dissimilar tonalites of their voices. Jamie's had more of a nasal inflection, while Charlotte possessed a richer timbre, speaking from her diaphragm and enunciating in a rather sophisticated fashion. "Jamie," she began smoothly, "I have no qualms with signing the adoption papers. I will meet with Rayne later this week to discuss options if that is not what she wants."

Jamie stared callously at the papers, until raising her brows, exhaling, and scribbling her signature at the bottom.

Charlotte couldn't believe it. "You've taken down all of her pictures," she whispered. "And now you're signing your rights away like you didn't spend the last fifteen years raising the poor child."

"Poor child? Poor child?" Jamie stood, raising her voice. "That thing is the devil!"

"Jesus, Jamie. Listen to yourself. You're the one who raised her. You brought this upon yourself. Need I remind you that you are the one who left us," Charlotte said. Though cousins, Charlotte and Jamie had been raised like sisters. "Your children could have lived great lives, but you ran away from home. You chose to fornicate with—"

"Don't," Jamie snapped. "Don't you dare bring my husband into this. He was a good man."

"He is a dead man, Jamie!"

Jamie stumbled backward. "I had no choice! I left home, because you're all a bunch of racist, self-centered—!"

"This had nothing to do with—"

"—greedy mother—!"

"Jamie!"

They both stood still, breathing heavily and allowing the storm to settle before them.

"Get out," Jamie hissed. "I never want to see either of you ever again."

"You need help. This isn't good for you."

"Get out!"

"They told you it was a psychotic break, Jamie! She doesn't remember! Do you know what that means—what happens if she remembers?"