Page 11 of Cruel Kiss

4

CALI

I don't sleep much. Or at all, really.

For the most part, I just lie on top of the covers in my clothes, listening to the house make its little settling noises, jumping at each and every one like it's yet another masked murderer here to drag me into a fresh new nightmare on Elm Street. Every time a pipe knocks or the fridge hums downstairs, I sit straight up and grab for the butcher's knife I've temporarily or maybe permanently relocated to my bedside table.

But nothing else happens. The night just goes by. Who knew boredom could be so terrifying?

At some point, I do drift off, because the next thing I know, there's morning light in the window and a small, warm, familiar weight squirming up onto the bed beside me with all the grace of a fish out of water.

"Mommy. Psst. Psst, Mommy. Mommy, are you awake?"

I open one eye. Isabella is kneeling on the mattress next to my pillow in her nightgown, holding Doctor Fuzz's shoebox againsther chest. Her hair is a rat's nest that spits in the face of gravity and her face is creased all over from her pillowcase.

She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

I want to grab her and hold her so tight she squeaks.

I don't. She'd want to know why, and I'm not so sure I'm ready to answer those hard questions just yet.

"Hey, bug," I say instead. "You're up early."

"Mommy." She leans in close, whispering, like she's about to tell me a secret. "Did I have a dream last night? A bad one?"

My whole body goes cold.

Here it is. The moment I've been dreading since I heard her little voice come through her bedroom door in the middle of the worst night of my life.

She heard something.

She saw something, maybe.

And now, she's asking me to tell her it wasn't real.

And I want to. Lying would be the easiest thing I've ever done.Yes, baby, it was just a dream. A big, silly dream. Go back to sleep.

Maybe I would've done it, if the past few weeks hadn't changed me so much. Preserving the status quo, just to duck the difficult parts of life? Uh, yes please. It's called "coping," and I'm better at it than everyone else alive, pretty much.

But I look at her little face and I decide, then and there, that if I'm sick of lies, my little girl is probably sick of them, too. And even if she isn't, what kind of mother would I be if I just passed my trauma down to her? It's not easy on a person, being told over and over again that the ground under their feet isn't where it is.

I won't do that to her. Not even to protect her.

Especiallynot to protect her.

"No, baby," I say as seriously and still comfortingly as I can. "It wasn't a dream. Mr. Ronan was here last night. There was a loud noise, and it scared you, and that was real. But you're safe. You were always safe. Mommy and Mr. Ronan made sure of it."

Isabella considers this with the extreme seriousness of a six-year-old. She nods slowly.

Then:

"Oh. Yeah. I know."

"You—" I blink. "You… you know?"

"I know Mr. Ronan was here." She says it like I'm a little slow. "He's here right now."

My stomach does a cartwheel. "What do you mean, he's here right now?"