It takes so long to get Alison settled at the asylum, Dad has to drive me straight to work. We pull up to the curb at the only vintage clothing shop in Pleasance. It's nestled in a popular strip mall along the commerce side of downtown, a bistro on one side of the shop, a jewelry store on the other. Tom's Sporting Goods is across the way.
"Remember. I'll be at work. Just one quick call, and I'll take you home." Dad's frown forms wrinkles at the edges of his mouth.
I'm numb, still wondering if I imagined it all. I stare past the pink brick storefront and black wrought-iron fence. My gaze focuses and unfocuses on the curvy black letters over the door: BUTTERFLY THREADS.
I hold the moth air freshener at my nose. The scent reminds me of spring, outdoor hikes, and happy families. But winter is all I feel inside, and my family is more screwed up than we've ever been. I want to tell Dad that Alison's delusions are real, but without proof, he'll just think my sanity is splintering, too.
"You don't have to do this," he says, taking my other hand. Even through my gloves his touch feels like ice.
"It's only two hours," I answer, hoarse from all my screaming in the courtyard. "Jen can't get anyone to cover her shift on short notice, and Persephone's out of town."
Friday is our boss Persephone's scavenger day, when she commutes to nearby towns to haunt estate and garage sales in search of merchandise. Contrary to what Dad thinks, I'm not being a martyr. From three o'clock to five is the dead zone at work; hardly any customers show up until after rush hour. I plan to use that time to search the store computer for the moth website.
"I should go." I squeeze Dad's hand.
He nods.
I open his glove box to put the air freshener inside, and an avalanche of papers hits my feet. A pamphlet on top catches my eye. The background is peaceful pink with a generic white font printed across the front: ECT—Why Electroconvulsive Therapy Is Right for You or Your Loved One.
I pick it up. "What is this?"
Dad bends across the seat to put away the other papers. "We'll talk about it later."
"Dad, please."
He stiffens and glances out his window. "They had to give her another dose of sedatives while you were in the lounge."
The words punch me. I was too chicken to follow when they wheeled Alison to the padded cell. I cowered on a couch in the lounge, pulling out my ruined dreadlocks like a robot while I watched some stupid reality show on TV.
Reality… I don't even know what that is anymore.
"Did you hear me, Allie? Two doses in less than an hour. All these years, they've been drugging her into oblivion." He squeezes the steering wheel. "Yet she's getting worse. She was screaming about rabbit holes and moths… and people losing their heads. The drugs aren't working. So the doctors have offered this option."
My tongue absorbs my saliva like a sponge.
"If you'll look at the first paragraph"—he points at some numbers on the pamphlet—"the practice has been making a comeback since—"
"They used eels, you know," I interrupt a little too loudly. "In the old days. Wrapped them around the patient's head. An electric turban."
The words are senseless—mirroring how I feel inside. All I can think of are my pets at home. I learned early on that I couldn't have the traditional cat or dog. It's not that animals talk to me; only insects and plants are on my frequency. But every time Jenara's tabby caught a roach and gnawed it to death, I got nauseated listening to the bug's screams. So I settled for eels. They're elegant and mystical and use a shock organ to stun their prey. It's a quiet and dignified death, similar to the bugs dying by asphyxiation in my traps. Still, I won't touch their water without a pair of rubber gloves. I can't imagine what they could do to someone's brain.
"Allie, this isn't the same as what they did seventy years ago. It's done with electrodes while the patient is anesthetized. Muscle relaxants keep them oblivious to any pain."
"Brain damage is still a side effect."
"No." He reads the upside-down text aloud. "Almost all ECT patients will experience confusion, inability to concentrate, and short-term memory loss, but the benefits outweigh the temporary discomforts." He meets my gaze, his left eye twitching. "Short-term memory loss is a discomfort. Not brain damage."
"It's a form of brain damage." I haven't been the daughter of a mental patient for the past eleven years and not picked up on the definitions and levels of psychological anomalies.
"Well, maybe that would be a blessing, considering your mom's most recent memories consist of nothing but the asylum and an endless procession of drugs and psych evaluations." The deep lines around his mouth look like they might crack all the way through to his skull. What I wouldn't give to see his Elvis smirk right about now.
My throat constricts. "Who are you to decide this for her?"
His lips tighten to that stern expression reserved for when I've overstepped my boundaries. "I'm a man who loves his wife and daughter. A man who's tired down to his bones." The mix of defensiveness and resignation in his brown eyes makes me want to curl up and cry. "She tried to kill herself right in front of you. Even if it is a physical impossibility for her to choke herself, it doesn't matter. The meds aren't working. We have to take the next step."
"And if this doesn't work… what then? A lobotomy with a can opener?" I throw the pamphlet across the seat. It hits his thigh.
"Allie!" His voice sharpens.
I see right through him. He's desperate to get Alison back, but not for me. All these years he's been pining for her, the woman he used to take to drive-in movies… who waded with him through puddles in the gutters after it rained… who drank lemonade on the porch swing and shared dreams for a happy future.
If he does this, she may never be that woman again.
I shove open the door and drop down onto the sidewalk. Even though the late-afternoon sun has found its way through the clouds, a chill coats my entire body.
"At least let me get your crutches for you." Dad starts to dig them out from behind the passenger seat.
"I don't need them anymore."
"But Jeb said you sprained—"
"News flash, Dad… Jeb's not always right." I tug at the bandana covering my bandage. My ankle hasn't hurt since Alison pressed her birthmark to mine. In fact, my scraped knee seems better, too. Chalk it up to more unexplained weirdness. I don't have time to wonder about it. I've got bigger issues.
Dad glances off into the distance, his jaw tight. "Butterfly…"
"Don't call me that," I snap.
His face falls as two chatty shoppers walk by. The last thing I want to do is hurt him; he's stayed by Alison's side for years, not to mention raised me all alone.
"I'm sorry." I lean in to see him better. "Let's just do more research, okay?"
He sighs. "I signed the papers before we left."
My mask of understanding slips, anger seeping out the edges. "Why would you do that?"
"The doctor offered this as an option months ago. I've been looking into it for a while. At first, I couldn't bring myself to even entertain the idea. But now… they're starting Monday. You can go with me to visit her afterward."
An uncomfortable heat glides up my neck. The humidity from the storm and the white noise of surrounding bugs only make it worse.
"Please try to understand," Dad says, "how much I need her home again."
"I need her, too."
"Then won't you do whatever it takes to make that happen?"
Inside me, the flapping shadow comes to life again. It dares me to say exactly what I'm thinking. "Yeah. I'd even dive down a rabbit hole." I slam the door.
Dad taps the horn, no doubt wanting an explanation for my remark. I rush into the shop without looking back.
The automatic doorbell chirps and a gust jingles the crystal teardrop chandelier centered in the ceiling. I stand there, dazed, while the air-conditioning ices my damp clothes. The rich coconut scent of the candles in the candelabras along the walls eases the crimp in my stomach.
"Is that you, Al?" Jenara's muffled voice carries through the storeroom's open door.
I clear my throat and grip the air freshener. In my rush to escape, I forgot to leave it in the truck. "Uh-huh."
"Did you see my prom dress? It's on the new-merchandise rack."
I lift the only hanger on the rack. The clear plastic cover crinkles. Jen bought two dresses at Butterfly Threads months ago. She sliced and diced them to create a fitted lime halter bodice that flares into a mini zebra print/pink netting combo. Hand-sewn iridescent sequins catch the light as I hang it back on the rod.
"Nice," I say. It's actually amazing, and under normal circumstances, I'd be a lot more enthusiastic over one of her fashion creations. But I can't find the strength today.
I toss the moth air freshener under the checkout counter next to Jenara's makeup bag. It lands on top of Persephone's mythology tomes.
A sense of someone watching slides through my bones and I look over my shoulder at the poster on the wall. It's from a movie called The Crow. Persephone's in love with the hero: black leather, white face, black eye makeup, and a perpetual brooding scowl. There was some mystery surrounding the actor. He died on set while filming.
I've always been drawn to the poster. Even on a flat piece of paper, the guy has the most soulful eyes—eyes that seem to know me, just like I know them. Although I've never seen the movie, he's familiar, to the point that I can smell the leather swaddling his body… feel the slickness against my cheek.
"He's here…" I jump as the words rush my ears—the same ones the fly said earlier. Only it's not a whisper this time, not the white noise I'm used to. It's a guy's deep cockney accent.
Mirrors line the side walls of the store, and a blur of movement races across them. When I look closer, the reflections show nothing but my own image.
"He rides the wind." The voice hums through my blood. A gust of cold air comes out of nowhere and snuffs out the candles, leaving only the afternoon light and the chandelier overhead.
I scramble backward until I hit the counter. The poster's bottomless eyes follow my every move, as if he's the one talking to my mind and turning the wind. Icy tingles run through my spine.
"Al!" Jen's shout breaks the spell. "Can you help me carry some stuff? We need to put up the Dark Angel display before I leave."
I force myself to break the poster's hypnotic gaze and head for the storeroom. The air conditioner clicks off. The gust must have come from the vents.
I laugh nervously. I'm tired, hungry, and in shock. My delusions are real and my family's cursed. That's all. It should be easy to accept, right?
Wrong.
My soggy Skechers squish with each step along the black-and-white checked tiles. Jenara meets me in the doorway, arms stacked so high with clothes and props, she can't see over them.
"So, my dress is nice?" Her question drifts from behind the stack. "Way to pull out all the stops for your BFF's ego."
"It's awesome. Bret will love it." Still feeling the poster's eyes, I balance on tiptoe and take the blue wig and miniature fog machine from the top of her armful.
"As if it matters," she says from behind the swaying stack. "Did I tell you Jeb threatened to turn Bret into a smashed pumpkin if I don't get home by midnight? Taking a sweet fairy tale like 'Cinderella' and twisting it into a death threat. That's seriously warped."
"Yeah, he's been on a real roll lately."
Everything starts to slide from her tower. I grab several props from the top of the pile, revealing her face.
Her heavily lined green eyes bulge when she sees me. "Ohmy-holyshiz. You look like you duked it out with a Sasquatch. Did you and Jeb settle things in a mud pit?"
"Ha." Leading the way to the display window, I drop my stuff in the window next to Window Waif, Persephone's mannequin.
Jenara sets some sooty feathered wings atop the props pile. They sparkle with black sequins.
"Seriously, what happened? I thought you were going to visit your mom. Hey." Jen touches my arm. "Did something go wrong?"
Several tendrils of dark pink hair have fallen from her upswept do. The strands coil like pink flames over her black tube dress, bringing back what they did to Alison's hair at the asylum.
"She lost it," I blurt. "Attacked me."
All other details clog my throat: how they shaved her hair so she wouldn't try to choke herself again—though now I suspect it was preparation for her shock treatments. How they kept wiping slobber from the sides of her mouth and put her into adult diapers, because when you're heavily sedated, you don't have control of your faculties. And, worst of all, how they took her to the padded cell in a wheelchair, hunched and strapped in a straitjacket like a withered old woman. That's why I couldn't follow and say good-bye. I'd already seen enough.
"Oh, Al." Jen's voice is low and soft. She pulls me in for a hug. The citrusy, bubblegum scent of her shampoo comforts me. "I'll do my own makeup and stuff here. Go home."
"I can't." I tug her closer. "I don't want to be around things that remind me of her. Not yet."
"But you shouldn't be alone."
The doorbell chirps and three ladies wander inside. Jen and I step back.
"I won't be alone," I answer. "Not during business hours."
Jen tilts her head, sizing me up. "Look, I can stay for another half hour. Go get yourself together. I'll take care of the customers."
"You sure?"
She flicks a tangle of my hair. "Sure and absolute. Can't leave you in charge of the place looking like a circus clown reject. What if a hot guy comes in?"
I attempt a smile.
"Take my makeup bag," she says. "I have some more hair extensions you can use."
I pick through my layaway stuff in the storeroom, grabbing a pair of platform boots along with the clothes, then duck into the tiny bathroom. The vent above the sink blows frosted air over my skin. A fluorescent glow from the tiny light fixture distorts my reflection. I brush out my tangles and clip on Jenara's purple dreadlocks.
Most of my makeup has been cried and rained off, leaving smudge tracks on my face. Now all I see is Alison. But if I look deeper, it's me wearing a straitjacket and an eel turban, grimacing like the Cheshire Cat as I sip pot roast from a teacup.
How long do I have before the curse kicks in for real?
I lean against the sink, untie Jeb's bandana, and breathe him in. Before this afternoon, all I wanted was to go to London to hang with him and earn college credits. Amazing, the difference a few hours can make.
If I don't find a way to England to look for the rabbit hole, Alison's brain gets fried and I end up where she is in a few years. There's no way I can get enough money for airfare before Monday. Not to mention a passport.
Gritting my teeth, I peel away my torn leggings and bandage. The split in my knee is almost healed, and there's not even a scab. I'm too exhausted and frazzled to guess why. I turn on the cold water and scrub at the physical reminders of what happened, drying my skin and underclothes with the hand dryer.
Once I line my eyes with strokes of dark green and wriggle into some purple, green, and red plaid tights, I top it off with a miniskirt over fluffy red petticoats. A green cap-sleeve tee layered under a red bustier—along with a pair of purple fingerless gloves—and I'm ready to face the customers.
I cast a final glance at the mirror. Something moves behind my image, shimmery and black like the feathered wings in the prop pile. Alison's warped warning skitters through me. "He'll come for you. He'll step through your dreams. Or the looking glass… stay away from the glass." Yelping, I whip around.
Nothing's there but my shadow. The room seems to shrink, small and off balance, as if I'm stuck inside a box tumbling down a hill. My stomach bounces.
I burst into the dimly lit storeroom and almost trip over the laces of my shin-high boots in a panicked race to get back to Jen.
She rushes to meet me. "Jeez." She leads me to the bar stool behind the checkout counter. "You look like your head's going to pop. Have you had anything to eat?"
"Ice cream soup," I mumble, relieved the customers already left and didn't see my entrance. I'm shaking all over.
Jen feels my forehead. "You don't feel warm. Maybe your blood sugar's screwy. I'm getting you something from the bistro."
"Don't leave." I grab her arm.
"Why not? I'll be right back."
Realizing how crazy I sound, I change tactics. "The window display. We have to…" The explanation stalls on my tongue as I notice she's already finished it. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh." Jen eases my fingers off her sleeve. "I relit the candles, too. Why'd you blow them out? You need all the relaxing vibes you can get. I'm going to bring you a croissant and a drink—something decaffeinated. Never seen you this wired." She's across the room before I can respond.
The door swings shut behind her, leaving me alone with her window display. A blue wig and a clingy black angel costume hug Window Waif's form. The giant wings are strapped into place around the mannequin's shoulders with a matching leather harness. Black sequins glitter on the feathers, and smoke pours out of the miniature fog machine, snaking around the macabre scene.
Somehow, those wings and the smoke belong together.
I think of my moth friend. Why was Alison chasing it with the shears? Just because it lured me outside in a storm? It had to be something deeper, some kind of ongoing animosity, but I can't quite grasp it.
Reluctantly, I turn to face the poster. His dark eyes look straight at me, piercing. "You know, don't you?" I whisper. "You have the answers."
Silence…
I snort—a hollow, lonely sound. I'm officially losing it. Whispering bugs and flowers are bad enough. Expecting a poster to answer? That makes me asylum-worthy.
Trembling, I move to the computer on the other side of the register and find the site from earlier. I scroll past everything I've already seen, trying to find a connection to Alison's ravings.
There's another group of pictures: a white rabbit, bony enough to be a skeleton; flowers sporting arms, legs, and mouths dripping with blood; a walrus with something protruding from his lower half like tree roots. It's the Wonderland crew after a heavy dose of radiation poisoning. It's also a connection: In some way, the moth and these nether-realm beings are tied to the Lewis Carroll tale. No wonder Grandma Alicia kept painting the story's characters on her walls.
Ever since Alice, my family has been nuts. Could be she really did go down a rabbit hole and came back to tell the tale, but she was never the same after the experience. I mean, who would be?
The hairs on my body lift as if a current runs through me.
After the last of the graphics, there's an antique ivy and floral border on either side of the black background, and a poem centered in a white fancy font.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
I've seen the riddle in the original book. Notepad in hand, I scribble Wonderland at the top and copy the poem, word for word.
I open a new search window to look for interpretations. One site has four different possible meanings. What if they're all wrong? I skim over two until the third one catches my eye.
There are illustrations alongside the words—creatures with long curlicue noses digging holes beneath sundials. A sense of knowing overtakes me, and I close my eyes. Children play on the screen of my eyelids. A winged boy and a blond girl dive into a hole beneath a statue of a child that balances a sundial on his head.
I don't know where the images came from. I must've seen them in a movie—but I can't remember which one. They seem so real—and so familiar.
I jot down the definitions from that interpretation of the poem. According to whoever wrote it, brillig is four o'clock in the afternoon; a tove is a mythical creature—a mix between a badger and a lizard with a corkscrew nose. They're known for making their nests beneath sundials. Gyre and gimble are verbs meaning to dig into the earth like a giant screw, turning out soil until a deep tunnel is formed. In the context of the poem, the hole is being dug in a distinctive location, considering a wabe is the grass plot under a sundial.
The other words aren't defined, but it's a start.
According to the poem and the images in my mind, it seems that the rabbit hole could be under that little-boy sundial statue.
Now I just have to find it.
I hop back to the netherlings site and scroll down to see if there are any details I missed. At the bottom is a huge chunk of black space all the way to the end. No more text, no more pictures, even though there's plenty of room for them. Could be the Webmaster meant to save the space for later.
I'm about to exit the site and do a search on sundials in England in hopes to find a city and address, when movement in the dark background catches my attention. It's like watching a cricket swim through ink. But instead of a cricket, a simulated black moth flutters across the screen, just like the one from my past.
I'm starting to think the moth is tied to everything: the little boy and girl I saw by the sundial, my family's very real curse. If only I could remember more about the insect. But my memories are blotted and misty, like looking down through clouds from dizzying heights.
The animation catches my attention again. It starts at the top of the empty space. When it gets a quarter of the way down, glowing blue text appears beneath the drag of the moth's wings.
Find the treasure.
I read and reread until my eyes burn, shocked by the similarity to what Alison said. "The daisies are hiding treasure. Buried treasure."
Dad plowed the flower garden after she was first committed years ago—destroyed it. There was nothing buried there. So what could she mean?
Another line of text appears onscreen. If you wish to save your mother, use the key.
I shove back from the computer, heart pounding and palms sweating in my gloves. I didn't imagine it. The words are staring back at me, blinking.
How is someone talking to me?
How would they know about Alison, and how did they find me?
I look around the empty store.
I should tell someone. Dad's out of the question; he'd sign me up for shock treatments, for sure. Jenara will think it's just one of my tormentors from school playing a sick joke.
But Jeb. Despite the weirdness between us, I know he'll always be there for me. I'll show him the website. Just the thought of his reassuring smile—the one that says he gets me in a way no one else does—coaxes me from the brink of terror.
At the sound of the doorbell, I glance up. Taelor's face looks back and I nearly groan aloud. Her chic, shoulder-length hair glimmers gold in the sun. The words Glitz and Flash and Everything Panache are written in shimmery letters across the bag she carries.
I turn again to the computer. The screen's gone blank and an error message flashes.
"Hey, Alyssa." Taelor peruses the jewelry rack on her way to the counter. "Any good sales today?" She holds up a skull rhinestone brooch with glittery crossbone dangles. "Preferably something that doesn't smell like a funeral home."
Ignoring her, I search for the URL. The error message returns. I jiggle the mouse. If I can't find the site again, I'll never be able to convince Jeb what I saw was real.
Taelor strolls closer. One of the straps on her designer purse slips off a sun-bronzed shoulder. "Guess it doesn't matter. People like you don't care who's been wearing this stuff or how dead they are."
After pausing to crinkle her nose at a shirt, she plops her shopping bag and purse on the opposite side of the counter, lithe arms propped on the edge. She was once a force on the tennis court, but when her dad never showed up for her tournaments, she gave it up. What a waste.
The extra four inches of my boots set me almost eye level with her. "Don't you have a prom to get ready for?" I ask, hoping she'll leave.
Her gaze gets all round and innocent. "That's why I'm here. I went next door to pick up Jeb's graduation gift. I thought I'd drop it by his place this afternoon so he can wear it tonight."
I don't even ask what she could possibly be getting Jeb from a jewelry store.
"What's this?" She thrusts a hand across the counter and pulls my notes toward her. I try to grab them away, but she's too fast. "Wonderland, huh? So you're doing some research on the family rabbits."
"Good-bye, Taelor." I wrestle my notes back, accidentally knocking her purse to the floor in front of the counter.
She doesn't bother to pick it up. Instead, her expression hardens. "No good-bye yet. First we're going to talk."
That flittering presence in my brain taunts me to fight back. A surge of adrenaline kick-starts my tongue. "Thanks, but I'd rather talk to a dung beetle."
Taelor's eyes widen, as if she's surprised by the insult. I smile. It feels good having the upper hand for once.
She takes a few seconds to work up a comeback. "You talk to beetles, huh? Glad to know you'll have someone to play with once Jeb's gone. And don't be thinking you can pull your wounded-friend crap to keep him from moving to London with me next month."
"With you?" My upper hand just got amputated. I feel like I did when I fell skateboarding—like I have a miner's cap spotlight on me.
"He hasn't told you yet?" Taelor's practically beaming. "I shouldn't be surprised. He's always so worried about your fragile state of mind." She leans across the counter so her face is inches from mine. Her expensive perfume stings my nose. "I'm spending senior year at a prep school in London. I've been offered a modeling contract there. My dad's renting Jeb a flat. It's win-win all around. Jeb can make connections for his art through the people I'll meet, and we can hang out at his place on the weekends. Cozy, right?"
My chest constricts.
She eases back. There's panic behind her expression. Why? She's annihilated my one chance to ever have Jeb's friendship to myself again. She's won everything.
"Wow. You really thought you had a chance, huh?" Taelor taunts. "Just because he asked you to pose for a few sketches, that doesn't mean he's hot for you."
My jaw drops. Jeb's never asked me to pose for anything. There were times he had his pencil and sketchbook out while we were together, but I never would've guessed he was drawing me.
"His art is all about death and tragedy, so of course he likes your mortician style. It's not a compliment. Don't delude yourself that it is."
I'm too stunned to respond.
"We both care about him." Her voice softens, and it's apparent that for once she's being sincere. "But do you care enough to let him do what's best for him? He has way too much talent to get stuck babysitting you for the rest of his life like your poor dad. Don't you think that would be a colossal tragedy?"
The urge to scratch out her eyes boils in my veins. "At least I have a dad who cares enough to be there." The words shoot out like poison arrows. Her wounded expression makes me regret them instantly.
The doorbell chirps and the scent of espresso wafts in.
"Oh, fark." Jen evil-eyes Taelor as the door slams behind her. "What are you doing here?" She stops next to me, setting down a croissant and a fruit smoothie.
Taelor clears her throat and her mask of nonchalance drops back into place. "Alyssa and I were just discussing London and why she won't be welcome to stay with Jeb and me." She snatches up her shopping bag. "It stinks here in the land of the dead. I'm out."
The minute she's gone, Jenara turns to me. "One of these days, she's going to slip up and show Jeb her ugly side."
I pluck at the edge of my croissant. "She's why he didn't want me to go. He didn't want me getting in the way of… them."
Twisting her fishnet tights with a pen, Jen doesn't answer.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Her eyes fill with regret. "I just found out about her going this morning. And I didn't know how to tell you when you came in. You've got so much crap going on with your mom."
Folding my Wonderland notes, I study the blank computer again. What does it matter that the website's gone? Jeb doesn't have my back anymore, and we'll never have what we once did.
"Al?"
The sobs I've been smothering since my fight with Dad gather in my chest. They burst like a thousand acidic bubbles, silently eating away at my heart. But I refuse to cry.
"C'mon," Jen nudges. "If anyone can convince him to give her up, it's you. Tell him already. Tell him how you really feel."
I think of Jeb's amazing paintings. Of all the things he can be if given the opportunity. He doesn't need any more emotional baggage to hold him back. And I've got enough to sink an oil tanker. Besides, I can't bear to have him turn me down to my face. He's already chosen Taelor over our friendship.
I tuck my notes into a skirt pocket. "Nothing to tell. I crushed on him when we were in sixth grade, so it doesn't count." She starts to say something, but I shut her down. "And you're not spilling, either. Pinky swears are forever."
A worried wrinkle appears on her forehead as she gathers her prom dress and makeup. "This isn't over."
"It is. Jeb's made his choice."
Shaking her head, she leaves.
The instant the door closes, I turn to The Crow. The emo guy stares back, his eyes bleeding black tears as if he knows my pain. I have the strangest longing to be in his arms—wrapped up in leather.
I'm waiting inside the rabbit hole, luv. Find me. His gaze burns the challenge into my soul like a brand.
Startled by our deepening connection, I step back and topple the pen holder with my elbow. A pencil rolls off the counter in front. I walk around to pick it up and am surprised to see Taelor's purse on the floor. She was in such a hurry to leave, she forgot to get it.
I fight the urge to toss her things out into the street. Instead, I lift the purse's straps to store it under the counter until she comes back. One half of the zipper gapes open, revealing a huge wad of cash.
Almost in a daze, I dig out the money, unrolling the lump of twenties and fifties. There's over two-hundred-and-forty dollars. If I added it to my savings at home, I'd have enough for a one-way ticket to England with a little left over for a fake passport and expenses; then all I'd have left to do is find an address for the sundial.
It wouldn't be the first time we owed the Tremonts a debt. In fifth grade, Dad took out a loan from Taelor's father to help pay Alison's medical bills. That was how Taelor learned about my ancestry to Alice Liddell in the first place.
So, in a way, this is justified compensation. Taelor's payment to me for all the years she made my life miserable.
My fingers quiver as I shove her gutted purse into the bottom of the trash can, piling papers on top. I reach under the counter to grab the air freshener and slide it—along with the money—into Persephone's tome on mystical crystals. The book has an elastic band sewn into the binding that holds the pages shut.
I turn to the poster again. The darkness behind the guy's eyes seems to be driving everything I do, and there's nothing to pull me back from the brink this time.
No mother, no father, and definitely no Jeb. Not even his smile could save me now.
