Page 88 of Fallen Creed

On the radio, the weather forecaster said tomorrow would be sunny, with temperatures near forty degrees. A slow meltdown was expected.

The first winter Brodie spent with Iris Malone and her son, Aaron, was sad, but not frightening. By then, Iris was calling Brodie Charlotte because she reminded her of her daughter, who had died years before. At first, Iris was good to her, dressing her in Charlotte’s clothes, letting her sleep in Charlotte’s bedroom and allowing her to play with Charlotte’s toys.

The woman had convinced Brodie that her parents were upset with her. Brodie understood. In the beginning, she didn’t blame them. She had disobeyed and disappointed them. She was a bad girl. A naughty girl. Brodie had never heard her parents actually say any of those words. She believed Iris because she knew she had misbehaved. She had broken rules her parents had taught her.

At a rest stop bathroom, the little girl had asked Brodie if she wanted to come see her new puppy. Brodie should have asked her father if it was okay. Instead, she followed the girl, thinking she’d simply get a quick peek. But then she became mesmerized by the RV.

The girl had taken Brodie’s hand and invited her to come up into the vehicle for a tour. It was a house on wheels with a kitchen, bedroom, and even a bathroom. Brodie had never seen anything like it before. Iris asked if she’d like a ride, and Brodie was already seated at the table enjoying a milk shake.

It wasn’t until years later that Brodie realized the milk shake must have had a drug to make her sleep. Iris seemed to have access to an endless supply. By the time Brodie woke up, they were miles away from that rest stop. Iris was on her phone talking to Brodie’s parents, who were furious with her. At least that’s what Iris said, and she was very persuasive. She said she tried to explain to them, but they were so upset they didn’t want her back right now. Brodie had never had an adult lie to her before. To her eleven-year-old brain, it seemed more believable that her parents were upset with her than to imagine a strange woman she’d just met would make it all up.

That first Christmas was tough. She’d begged Iris to let her call her family, and Iris did. Holding the phone out of earshot, Iris pretended to talk to Brodie’s mother. She remembered the sinking feeling as she watched Iris shake her head.

There was fresh snow. Christmas snow! Not the slush or ice that she and Ryder had experienced, but real snow. Aaron was only a few years older than Brodie. He taught her how to make snow angels. They took turns riding a sled down a small hill in the pasture. For a few minutes, she didn’t miss Ryder and Gram and her mom and dad.

That evening, they opened presents in front of the fireplace. There was even a stocking for Brodie, except that it had Charlotte’s name on it. Brodie really wanted a new book for Christmas, but Charlotte got another doll to add to her collection.

She remembered wondering what happened to the little girl who had asked if she wanted to see her new puppy. The one who had brought her, hand-in-hand, to the RV. She wasn’t there to celebrate Christmas with them, and even at eleven, Brodie knew not to ask about her.

There were nights when she could hear a child crying in the middle of the night. Once she even ventured out into the dark hallway, following the sound. Iris met her at the staircase, told her she was only dreaming. The next night, her bedroom door was locked. From the outside.

She still wondered about the other Charlottes. There had been many times Brodie had heard whispers pleading for help. It sounded like the voices were coming from inside the walls of the big two-story farmhouse. The ceiling creaked with footsteps in the attic. Doors rattled against locks. Not all of these things happened at night. It seemed impossible there might be other children locked away. Until it didn’t seem impossible at all.

Brodie’s own locked door quickly taught her she shouldn’t mention these incidents. When Iris started drugging Brodie’s food, it became difficult to separate out which sounds and sights were real and which were simply drug induced.

Despite the drugs, Brodie knew she was right about there being others. She had found some of their messages scribbled inside a torn corner of wallpaper, a note written in a dusty manual next to the hot water heater, and a letter tucked inside a decade old magazine.

They found no other girls or women imprisoned in the big house when Brodie was rescued a few miles away at the Christmas House. But there was evidence that others had been there.

No one seemed to know how many little girls Iris—with the help of Aaron and her brother, Eli—had taken using the same ruse they’d used with Brodie. They had found the RV in an old shed. Ryder had told her that investigators also found a hidden box with personal items from the victims. Brodie’s book, “Harriet the Spy,” a gift from her grandmother, was found inside. The special inscription Gram had written, along with a Polaroid of Brodie and Ryder, were the clues that helped to lead them to her.

But what happened to all the others?

The Charlottes still came to Brodie in her nightmares. The first time it happened in Hannah’s house, it was so real Brodie wondered how they had traveled all those miles. Last night, she almost expected to see them standing in the corner of the dark hotel room. There didn’t seem to be anywhere she could go that they didn’t follow.

The Jeep was slowing down, and Brodie saw their exit in the headlights.

When had the sun gone down?

The clouds had also broken up, revealing the first stars of twilight. The purple horizon met the white covered landscape. Behind them, the moonlight made the snow glitter. Even the lights of the city seemed to twinkle.

She wanted to remember this view of Nebraska, and not the one from slits in a boarded up basement window.

Brodie hoped Ryder was looking up at this same sky. Hang on, she told him in her mind.

—68—

It didn’t surprise Creed that Libby was still wide awake when he and Grace returned to the trailer. She stared at him the whole time he fixed Grace’s meal, using the last bottle of water to rehydrate her food. He could do it by rote, but his fingers fumbled trying to open the bottle.

Libby noticed. “It’s the blood loss.”

“What’s that?”

“Fogs the mind. The simplest things feel like an obstacle. I just thought after a certain point I’d fall unconscious.” She saw his confusion and added, “Who knew you could lose so much blood and still be alive?”

Then he realized she was comparing his wound to her, slitting her wrists. He wanted to laugh. Tell her that her self-inflicted wound wasn’t even close to the same thing. He left it alone. He didn’t have the energy to waste, because “fog the mind” was putting it mildly.

Digging through his daypack, he found a couple of protein bars at the bottom. Human ones he’d forgotten about. He pulled both of them out, waved them at Libby.