My Name Was Emily (3)

Emily

We drove along a lengthy and quiet road. I'd noticed a “Welcome To Royston” sign. I had lost track of how long we'd traveled. I knew it was a number of hours, though.

I'd tried shouting once when we hit a pit stop, but I had barely managed to move my lips. The surgery had rendered me seriously weak, weaker than I'd felt when we left the woods. My face was throbbing, and slightly sore. A number of drugs were combating the pain.

“We're getting closer now,” Mrs. Porter called, sitting in the passenger seat up ahead. She sounded excited, but nervous too. She couldn't be as nervous as I was, though. What had that mad doc done to me?

I studied my reflection in the thick glass pane, seeing tense eyes amid bandages. My hair was black. It wasn't a wig. Someone had bathed it in a powerful dye.

I had a whole bevy of questions now. What was going on? Where were we headed? Would my family figure out where I was?

I glanced toward Chloe on the opposite side. She was staring outward, avoiding my gaze.

* * * *

The house was rather different from their previous one. That wasn't the case with my room, however. I was astonished when I stepped inside. It looked exactly like Lizzie's room — the one in Black Hall that I'd known so well.

“Let's talk now, sweetie,” Mrs. Porter said, sitting with me on the bed's left side.

I'd felt Lizzie's presence everywhere of late, and I could surely feel it in the home right now. It comforted me, like a blanket would — but I was half wary of embracing that. Maybe Mrs. Porter had intended this, to soften me up, for whatever she wanted.

Over the next ten minutes or so, we talked about Lizzie, and not much else.

Then she announced the most startling part: Mrs. Porter claimed I was her child now. They'd brought me here so I could live with them.

“Mary's made it clear that she'll never change.” She spoke of my mother with obvious spite. “She doesn't deserve you.” She pulled me close. “And I need you more than she ever will.” Her bare feet rested on top of my own. “You live with us now.”

“No!” I shouted, pulling away, vowing once again that I wouldn't comply.

Mrs. Porter sighed, then pulled her phone, entering a PIN to unlock the thing. She called a contact who replied right away. Everything was switched onto speakerphone. “Nick,” she said, “send the photographs of Mary Lonergan.”

Within a few seconds, I saw several pictures of Mom on the phone, Mrs. Porter scrolling through each of them. I felt my jaw dropping as I stared at the screen.

“And all of these were taken yesterday afternoon?” Mrs. Porter asked.

“That's right,” Nick said. He sounded cold.

She glanced at me, then leaned toward the phone. “Tell me again how you can take her out.”

“It can be done any way you want. Knife to the throat when I find her alone. Running her over when she's out in the street...”

I felt a deep chill rushing through my veins. I eyed Mrs. Porter in obvious fright.

“Not yet, Nick,” she said quietly. “I think we'll arrange it next time we speak.”

“Got it,” he answered.

She ended the call.

“Mrs. Porter!” I rose. “Don't hurt my mom!”

“I'm your mother.” She stood as well. “And whether Mary lives is up to you.”

I got it now. Loud and clear. I had to comply for my mother to live. I eyed the plush carpet. My heart had sank.

“Do you understand?”

I made a little nod. “Yes,” I muttered, still looking down.

“Yes what?” she asked.

I knew what she wanted.

“What is my name?” She lifted my chin.

I stared at her, my eyes watering. “Mom,” I said.

She hugged me again.

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