Little Last Words: Georgiana Germaine, #7

CHAPTER 1

Penelope Barlow leaned back in the driver’s seat, her thoughts drifting to the events that had taken place over the last several weeks of her life. It had been almost a month since she’d moved back to the seaside town of Cambria, California. After spending the last six years in a verbally abusive relationship, she’d packed some bags, waiting for the night she’d find the courage to leave Dean for good.

Courage came at long last when Dean accused Penelope of smiling at another man while they were out for dinner. After they returned home, he’d hit her for the first time, striking her so hard across the face it sent her hurtling onto the wall. She’d slumped to the ground, curling into a ball as she waited for subsequent blows to come, even though they didn’t.

He spent the next hour apologizing, but it was too late. In that moment, she’d realized it was time for the hell she’d been living through to be over.

She waited for Dean to fall asleep and then tiptoed her way to her five-year-old daughter’s room to play a secret game they’d been practicing. The game was simple. All Sadie had to do was follow Mommy out of the house without making a peep. If she made it inside Mommy’s car without waking Daddy, Sadie would be rewarded with two scoops of ice cream the next day.

That night, mother and daughter fled toward a fresh start in a familiar town, the same town where Penelope had been raised. Family and friends welcomed them with open arms, ready and willing to offer their help and support.

Life was full of new beginnings in the tight-knit community, a town brimming with old memories.

Some memories were good, like the first kiss she’d had in the ninth grade.

Some were bad, like the argument she’d had with her mother after high school graduation.

There were other memories still, some she didn’t like to think about.

As her thoughts returned to the present, Penelope peered into the rearview mirror and smiled. Sadie was fast asleep in her car seat, her head tipped to the side. Her arms were wrapped around a stuffed pink koala, a gift from her grandmother. Staring at her daughter now, Penelope noticed how peaceful and content she seemed, a lot more content than the child had been in a long time.

Turning down the street toward home, Penelope rolled to a stop in front of one of the smaller homes on the street. It was the first place she’d ever lived on her own. At twenty-seven-years old, it felt good to stand on her own two feet, providing a life for her and her daughter.

Penelope opened the driver’s-side door, and Sadie’s eyes popped open.

She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and said, Mommy, I’m tired.

I know, honey. Let’s get you into your pajamas, and then you can go to bed.

Sadie shook her head. I don’t wanna go to bed yet.

Penelope laughed, unbuckled Sadie’s car seat, and scooped her into her arms. I’m sure you don’t, but it’s after your bedtime. Mommy’s going to bed soon too.

Can you read me a story first? Pleeeease?

Penelope considered the request. All right. A quick one.

Oh…kay.

Half a story later, Sadie was fast asleep in her mother’s arms. Penelope tucked her daughter into bed, gave her a kiss on the forehead, and went outside to get the groceries she’d left in the trunk of the car. She took the first load into the house and went back for the second. In the distance, a neighbor’s dog began to bark. Soon after, the dog was joined by a second and then a third, until all the dogs in the neighborhood seemed to be barking in unison.

Penelope took one last look around and grabbed the two remaining bags and brought them in. After the groceries were put away and a quick check on Sadie, Penelope crossed the hall into her bedroom. If there was one thing she needed right now, it was a shower. But when she stepped into the bathroom and flicked the light switch, the light didn’t come on. It seemed odd—there were five bulbs in the light panel, and all of them had been working this morning.

How could all of them burn out on the same day?

Maybe they had, or maybe it was an electrical problem.

She checked her bedside lamps, the light in the closet, and the one on the balcony just off to the side of her room.

All those lights turned on, which made the situation even odder.

Penelope made a mental note to speak to her mother about it in the morning, and then she stripped off her dress and grabbed a large, three-wick candle out of the hall closet. She set the candle on the bathroom counter and turned, watching the soft glow of the candle’s flames cast flickers of shadows along the bathroom wall.

Pulling back the shower curtain, she froze.

Someone was behind the curtain, someone who grabbed her by the hair, jerking her forward as they uttered the last words Penelope would ever hear: You didn’t really think I wouldn’t find out. Did you?

CHAPTER 2

THE NEXT MORNING

Iwas thirty minutes into my morning walk when I noticed my shoelace had come undone. As I bent down to rectify the problem, I was reminded of the day my father taught me how to tie my shoes for the first time. I was five years old, and we’d been out buying Christmas presents. On the way out of the shopping mall, I’d tripped over my undone lace and faceplanted onto the cement, skinning both knees in the process. My father was quick to rush to my side, wrapping his arms around me as he asked if I was all right.

I wasn’t all right.

My scraped-up knees stung like I’d stumbled into a bee’s nest.

But even back then, I remained unflappable.

I didn’t like anyone seeing me cry—not even my parents.

As onlookers glanced in my direction, their expressions full of pity, I bit down on my lip and put on a brave face. My father helped me to a sitting position and sat beside me. He said he was going to teach me something fun—how to make bunny ears with whiskers with my shoelaces. He proceeded to go through each step, finishing off with a double knot to ensure my laces stayed nice and tight.

Thinking back on the memory now, it was hard to believe it had been forty-one years since my shoelace lesson. Glancing down at the sneaker I’d just tied, I smiled, realizing my father was the reason I double knotted to this day, a day which just so happened to be my birthday.

I stood up and closed my eyes, breathing in a lungful of crisp coastal air. On mornings like this, I felt grateful to be alive, listening to the waves shatter against the rocky shoreline below as the birds above began their morning chatter.

My peace of mind was soon interrupted when a jogger whizzed by me, sprinting with gusto like he was heading toward a finish line. Jogging had never appealed to me. With a life as busy as mine, I preferred walking and the meditative connection I felt when I surrounded myself with nature and all its beguiling beauty.

As the breakfast cravings set in, I exited the seaside hiking trail and headed for home, thinking about the egg dish I’d make when I got there. Quiche sounded appealing. Or maybe a French omelet. I was hungry enough for both, and given it was my birthday, it was easy to tell myself I deserved both.

I rounded the corner at the bottom of my street and glanced at the uphill climb toward home. Some days I wished my house wasn’t nestled at the top of such a steep street, but finishing my walk always gave me a satisfying sense of achievement.

I made my way up the sleepy suburb, passing familiar homes along the way. Many of my neighbors started each day with a similar routine. The retired couple living in the white two-story contemporary-style villa with a bright blue front door was sitting outside in their usual spot, enjoying their morning coffee. They always gave me a slight nod as I walked by, then he resumed reading his morning paper, and she continued reading her book. No words had ever passed between us.

A few houses up from theirs was a residence I’d labeled Party House. At times when I passed by in the past, I’d spy a woman exiting the lavish home in a typical walk-of-shame manner. Never the same woman. Always a different one. Always with disheveled hair and a face smeared with the remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Most of these women never made eye contact with me. Those who did often offered a sheepish grin as they scurried to their car.

Today, Party House was quiet.

Then again, it was a Monday.

Then again, I didn’t recall seeing a woman enter or exit the home for the last few weeks.

Across the street was another house I’d labeled Tiny Home. Compared to some of the other grandiose residences on the street, it looked more like a vintage shack than a house. Maybe that’s why it was my favorite. With its seafoam green exterior and matching scalloped café-style awnings, it was the most charming home on the street. About a month earlier I’d spotted a few cardboard boxes in the driveway, but I had yet to set eyes on the home’s new occupants.

Thinking they weren’t early risers, I almost didn’t give Tiny Home a second thought as I passed, until something caught my eye. Sitting on the porch was a little girl. Her knees were bent, her head buried over them, blond hair cascading over her legs. In one hand, she had a tight grip on a stuffed pink koala.

I looked at the time: 6:35 am.

It seemed a little early for a child so young to be out and about without parental supervision.

The child was dressed in a nightgown, and I ballparked her age at around five years old. I wondered what she was doing, sitting outside at this hour. Perhaps her parents were still asleep, and she’d managed to walk outside without stirring them.

I glanced through the kitchen window. No lights appeared to be on, and I saw no movement inside the house. As I stood there contemplating the situation, I took a few steps toward the child and noticed she was crying. She tried wiping her tears away, but they kept on coming.

My curiosity was piqued, questions flooding my mind.

Where are the child’s parents?

Why did she wander outside?

And why is she crying?

Perhaps it was something as simple as being locked out of the house on accident.

And perhaps it was none of my business.

Whether it was or wasn’t, I was about to make it my business.

Not wanting to startle her, my approach was slow and steady.

If she heard me coming, she showed no indication of it, her head remaining buried as her whimpers grew louder. I got within a foot of her and froze. On the side of her pale-yellow nightgown was a red stain—a stain that looked a lot like blood.

CHAPTER 3

Ibent down, meeting the child at eye level, and placed a hand on her shoulder. She was shocked to see me squatting in front of her, and she gasped, jolting back.

So much for my subtle approach.

I’m sorry, I said. I didn’t mean to frighten you. My name is Georgiana. My friends call me Gigi. What’s your name?

She blinked at me but said nothing.

I live up there. I pointed at the house I shared with my boyfriend, Giovanni. See that big white one, the one with the gate around it?

She looked in the direction of where I was pointing, then back at the ground again. She seemed disinterested in making conversation, which meant I needed to find a better way to connect.

I thought about the best way to get her talking. I lifted my cell phone out of my pocket and scrolled through a few photos, stopping on one I’d taken the day before.

I have a dog named Luka, I said. He’s a fluffy, white Samoyed. Do you want to see what he looks like?

She blinked at me for a moment and then nodded.

It was a start.

Sometimes he walks with me in the morning, I said.

Her focus shifted from Luka’s photo to the street, her eyes darting left and right like she hoped he would spring out from behind one of the bushes.

I’m sorry, sweetie. Luka was too tired to go walking this morning. If you’d like to meet him, I could stop by tomorrow. What do you think?

She offered a slight shrug.

Do you have any pets? I asked.

She shook her head.

Is your mommy or daddy home? I asked.

I was starting to think I wasn’t going to get any answers out of her and that the best course of action might be for me to knock on the front door to make sure an adult was present. If they were, I’d let them know the child had wandered outside.

I approached the door, and she whispered, Daddy's not here.

At last, she was talking.

Where is he? I asked.

He’s at his house.

Where does your daddy live?

Far away. I don’t see him anymore.

She didn’t see him anymore.

I wondered why.

Is your mommy home? I asked.

She is, but … She squinted up at me like she was trying to think about what to say. I like to lay with Mommy in the morning when I get up. She wasn’t in her bed today.

What’s your mommy’s name?

Grandma calls her Poppy, but that’s not her real name.

What is her real name?

Penelope.

What a beautiful name. Where does your grandma live?

By my new school.

What grade are you in? I asked.

I’ll be in first grade when school starts again.

Can you tell me what your grandma’s house looks like?

It’s a brown house with a big fountain in the front yard. It has dolphins in it, but they’re not real. Water squirts out of their mouths.

Your grandma lives here, in Cambria?

I think so.

When your mommy wasn’t in bed this morning, did you look for her? I asked.

Yeah.

Did you find her?

She nodded. Mommy is in the bathroom.

I turned my attention back to the stain on the girl’s nightgown, a lump in my throat forming as I considered the possibilities of what I might discover inside the house. I didn’t like going to such a dark place in my mind, but the more she talked, the more I worried something troublesome may have occurred.

What happened to your nightgown? I asked.

She glanced at the stain and tried to flatten a hand over it. I don’t know.

Well, that wasn’t the truth.

Had her mother decided to take an early morning shower, slipped in the bathtub, and injured herself in some way?

Had she fallen asleep in the tub, and her daughter was unable to rouse her?

Was she in the shower now and didn’t know her daughter had wandered outside?

Or was something far more sinister at play?

What’s your mommy doing in the bathroom? I asked.

Another shrug. I don’t know.

My anxiety was beginning to take the reins.

If something had happened to her mother, I needed to know.

Honey, will you take me inside so I can talk to your mommy? I asked.

I ... I don't know. Mommy says never to let anyone in the house if I don't know them, and I don't know you.

I understand, and your mommy is right. You should never let strangers into the house. But if she’s hurt, maybe I can help. Is she hurt or is she okay?

She thought about it a moment and then said, Do you know the secret word?

I’m not sure.

It’s five letters.

Her mother must have given her a safe word, something to let her know she could trust anyone who knew it. Smart woman.

I don’t know the secret word because I’ve never met your mommy, I said. But if she’s hurt, I’d like to try and help her.

She began shaking her head, wailing, I want my mommy! I want my mommy! I want my mommy!

As bad as I felt for her and as much as I didn’t want to break her trust—a trust I had yet to earn—if something was amiss, time may be of the utmost importance.

No more talking.

I needed to get inside the house—now.

I twisted the knob on the front door, breathing a sigh of relief when I discovered it was unlocked.

The child looked up at me but didn’t say anything.

I’m going to open the door and call out to your mother, I said. Okay?

She thought about it and then said, Okay.

I cracked the door just enough to poke my head inside. "Hello, is anyone home?