Come Little Children by D. Melhoff Read Free Book Online Page B

dripping sensation triggered another memory—a newer memory—which flashed over the old one, causing Camilla to see her childhood trailer’s door crash open and, instead of her father, reveal the soaking wet six-year-old boy from the Vincents’ backyard.
    He was white as a ghost.
    White skin. White eyes. White teeth in a gaping black mouth.
    The apparition burned out like a light bulb, and she was suddenly back on the second floor of the funeral home, alone, hugging her sandpaper towel.
    Camilla’s legs carried her up the rest of the stairs as she replayed the previous night in her head for the hundredth time—everything from the silhouette, to Moira’s reaction, to the scar running down the boy’s chest. That last one disturbed her the most.
    Who was he? Why was he soaking wet? Why were there towels by the back door?
The more she tried to connect the dots, the more it felt like a paint-by-number Picasso.
Why was he in the backyard in the first place, and why was Moira…nervous? Yes, nervous…
    When she reached the top of the staircase, she spotted a blazer hanging from her bedroom door and a breakfast tray on the ground below it. Instantly she rushed for the food, shelving her thoughts of the mysterious boy for later.
    She grinned as her hand shot down and pulled the lid off the tray.
    There were no sausage links.
    Or eggs.
    Or bacon strips.
    Instead there were two small bowls: one filled with milky chunks that looked like prechewed oatmeal, and the other with four or five spoonfuls of something gray and clumpy. Technically it might have been yogurt.
    Her whole body sagged.
I deserved that
. She crouched down and picked up the bowl of yogurt, noticing a piece of paper stuck to the bottom.
    Carleton: Only mediums. Wear anyway
.
    Camilla looked at the blazer hanging from the doorknob and frowned. It was a men’s coat with the Vincent crest stitched on the left breast. She glanced back at the note.
    P.S. A call came in early. Be outside by six thirty. —M
    She reread the last sentence, a spoonful of yogurt paused at the edge of her lips.
    “Psst.”
    Camilla turned around—still crouched in her towel with the gray goo dripping in front of her mouth—and saw Peter coming out of his room across the hall. He was fully done up in dress pants and a well-tailored blazer.
    “I wouldn’t eat that,” he said. “It’s been at the back of the fridge for a year.”
    Camilla lowered the spoon, not saying a word.
    Peter turned and took off down the staircase. As soon as he was out of earshot, Camilla dropped the food and grabbed her coat, rocketing into her bedroom.
    An unmarked van was waiting in front of the funeral home. It was white from bumper to bumper, including the windows that had been painted over to block the interior view from kids and nosy pedestrians. Peter and Lucas were standing by the taillights, arguing with their uncle Brutus.
    “There aren’t enough,” Brutus insisted.
    “
Yes
, there are,” Lucas shot back.
    “You need three. No exceptions.
Three
.”
    “One…two…” Lucas pointed to himself and Peter, and then at the house as Camilla came stepping out the front door. “Three.”
    Camilla looked back at the men and adjusted her blazer, which, as Moira had predicted, was too big. Her hair was pulledback and she hadn’t had time to put on any makeup. At best, she looked frazzled; at worst, manly.
    “No,” Brutus said outright. “I don’t care what your mother says, she’s too green.”
    “I’m sure she’s seen a thing or two.”
    “Stop arguing and get in.” Brutus pushed Peter’s flimsy frame aside and moved for the driver’s seat. But Lucas, being much taller and bulkier, blocked his uncle’s way like a human wall.
    “Move, boy. I’m busier than a chimp in a shit-flinging contest.”
    “There aren’t enough seats and Camilla needs the experience,” Lucas said. “Either you stay or I do.”
    Brutus surveyed his nephew and seemed to weigh the threat. He had tossed Peter