Conjured

“Oh, it’s you,” Aunt Nicki said. “I was hoping for something more interesting. Like a delivery of soap.” She waved her hand at Malcolm’s car, and he drove away. The street was empty except for parked cars and recycling bins. Aunt Nicki checked outside and then waved Eve inside.

Eve lingered in the hallway, looking for other changes that she might have missed in the morning—other clues to what she was supposed to know. She flipped through a stack of mail scattered on a small table. Most of the envelopes were addressed to “resident” or “occupant.” She supposed that was what she was, an occupant. She didn’t feel like she was home. She was merely occupying space.

Aunt Nicki bustled past her. “Worst part about this babysitting duty is that housecleaning isn’t included. Not enough cleaners with the right security clearance. Okay, obviously, that’s not the worst part.”

Eve faced the wall with the photo of a dead tree. She tried to force herself to picture “home,” to remember what it felt like to be there. If she was so sure that this wasn’t home, then what was? Did it have a smell, a sound, a color, a temperature? Anything? Remember! she shouted at her mind. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. Her hands clenched into fists. She tried to focus on the single word “home.”

A towel smacked into her stomach, and Eve flinched.

“You dust,” Aunt Nicki said as she went into the living room.

Eve examined the towel. It had a smear of grease on one side, and the edges were frayed. She must have helped Aunt Nicki or someone clean before because she knew she was supposed to wipe down surfaces with it. At home? Or only here?

She peeked into the living room. The vacuum lay across the carpet. Aunt Nicki was squirting blue liquid onto the mirror and then wiping it away. Eve entered the room and began dusting the coffee table. It had a thin film of gray dust that smeared as she rubbed it with the towel. Coffee rings were permanently ingrained in the wood. She moved aside a stack of magazines: Country Gardens, Better Homes and Gardens, Fine Gardening, and Guns & Ammo. “You like flowers?” Eve asked.

Another squirt on the mirror. “I like guns. Malcolm likes flowers.”

Examining the magazines, Eve tried to picture Malcolm in a garden. He’d loom over daffodils and crush any seedlings.

“He claims that weeding is therapeutic.” Aunt Nicki wiped the mirror and then squirted again. “He has his entire backyard mapped out so the plants bloom clockwise from spring to fall. Plus an entire wall of rhododendron bushes in garish fuchsias and purples. I know, I know, you wouldn’t think it to look at him. But he’s a mush inside. Likes to nurture flowers and puppies and broken kids.”

There was that word again. Broken. She’s broken. Could it have been Aunt Nicki’s voice? She hadn’t caught the voice, but the memory of the rest of the vision was as strong as a real memory, maybe stronger. She could picture the box she’d been trapped in: a wooden box, encrusted in jewels, with a silver snake-shaped clasp. The box was the size of a person’s hand. She’d been shrunk to fit inside it. Inside the box had reeked so badly that it had made her eyes sting. But she remembered worse smells: decay, a putrid and acidic stench that wafted through the air, and thick, cloying incense, overlaid to hide the odor. “If I’m not a witness, why do you want me to remember so badly?” Eve asked.

Aunt Nicki stopped wiping. Blue dripped down the surface of the mirror. “Who said you weren’t a witness?” Her voice was careful, casual.

“Aidan. He said we’re merely targets.”

“Aidan isn’t supposed to discuss the case.”

Eve noticed she hadn’t denied it. “So I am a witness?”

The blue pooled on the mantel. “That boy has never had a truly casual conversation in his life. He always chooses his words. He doesn’t slip. What else did he say?”

Eve wished she hadn’t spoken. She pointed to the mantel. “The blue is dripping.”

“Yeah, and you missed a spot.” Aunt Nicki waved her hand at the coffee table. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking. You might be dense as a rock on an average day, but still …”

She remembered that Aidan had said, Don’t play dense. It doesn’t suit you. The same word. She wondered if that meant anything. “He said I wasn’t. Dense. I’m not dense.”

“Apparently not anymore. What is going on with you? Lately, you’re asking as many questions as a toddler.”

Eve shrugged and looked down at the towel that she was squeezing and twisting and strangling in her hands without realizing it. “Nothing.” She didn’t want to talk about herself anymore. “How was your day?”

Aunt Nicki’s eyes bulged like a bullfrog’s. “You have never once asked me that.”