sensitive.â
Careful, Erin
. Youâre not her mother or teacher, or the Film Club advisor. You barely know her.
âHey, there. You could have gone in. You didnât need to wait for me.â
The hood slipped back. The brown eyes sheâd gotten from the Greek side of her family were pained.
âWhatâs wrong?â I said. No reply. My rib cage tightening with a nascent fear, I stepped around her and opened the screen. Knocked on the door.
No answer. No footsteps.
Behind the house, Christineâs car stood under last nightâs thin blanket of snow. She hadnât gone anywhere.
I twisted the doorknob. Locked. âDid you try the studio? She must be waiting for us there.â
Stricken
. The only word for Zaydaâs expression.
At the back doors of the church, I tugged the big brass handle on first one dark red metal door, then the other. Rattled them. âChristine,â I yelled.
No answer.
So I did what any veteran little sister would do. I called my big brother.
âThe spareâs underneath the Buddha behind the house,â Nick said. âIâll be right there.â
I upended three frosted Buddha statues before finding two keys on a thin wire ring. The faded yellow paper label read BACK . Church or house? I dashed to the red double doors, mentally rubbing the stars on my wrist. Keys and I donât always get along.
First key, no luck. I swore.
The second key fit and I turned it, but nothing happened. âThe other way,â I muttered, and the door creaked open.
âChristine?â I paused in the carpeted back entry, listening.
âChristine?â Nothing. I bounded up the half flight ofstairs to the sanctuary, a long straight nave with no transepts or alcoves. âChristine?â Light poured through the tall windows behind the altar. A marble statue on a pedestal gleamed, and a pair of bronzes gave off a subtle glow.
âOh, God.â She lay on the altar, facedown. Two long red braids trailed down her back, and a thin trickle of a deeper red crawled across the yellowed oak floor.
⢠Four â¢
I did not want to see her. I did not want to touch her.
âChristine.â I knelt, taking her wrist in my shaking fingers. Warm skinâa good sign. A faint throbbing. Her pulse, or mine?
âUhhnnnh. Uhh-unh.â
âShush. Itâs Erin. Help is on the way.â I lowered my face to hers, to hear and be heard. âHang in there.â
In response came a long, painful gurgling noise. Like a fish crying for water, she scrambled for air. Her shoulders heaved and bucked as she tried to raise her chest off the worn wood floor.
Thatâs when I saw the pool of blood beneath her, the hole in her side.
Acid welled in my gut. âHang on. Zaydaâs calling for help.â An unmanned fire station stood kitty-corner across the highway, but the volunteer department could only be reached by calling county dispatch.
âShop,â she said, her speech obscured by the gasping, the gurgling, as blood filled her lungs. âLrss.â
âShushhh. Donât try to talk.â
âShop,â she repeated, her paint-stained fingers clawing and scraping.
âMy shop is fine. Tracyâs working today. Help is coming and youâll be fine. Hang in there.â She would not be fine, and we both knew it.
I held her wrist, my other hand unsure where to land, finally settling lightly on her shoulder. Liz Pinsky had made me a feng shui convert last summer, demonstrating how a space holds energy. She would say that even after decommissioning, a church holds the prayers and intentions of the faithful who worshipped there.
I called on them now, and on the saints and angels, to not abandon this holy place because evil had violated it.
That is when we need all that is holy all the more.
In reply, sirens.
And then, âIâll take over now.â An EMTâa mechanic by tradeâtouched my shoulder. I scooted