Read Online Another Little Piece by Kate Karyus Quinn - Free Book Online

another suggestion from a shrink. The letters didn’t say much. Mostly that she missed Annaliese and thought about her all the time. Still they managed to ramble. None of them were this short or to the point. The only part of this note that felt like the mom was the “love and hugs and kisses” at the end.
    I didn’t really care. The important thing was that I hadn’t been abandoned, and soon the mom would be home. She would keep that horrible boy away from me. Or maybe I should worry about keeping him away from her, so he wouldn’t tell her about the real me. The me stowed away inside of her daughter.
    I sank to the floor with that thought.
    But I didn’t stay there long before getting up again. I was all business this time.
    Turning off the oven, I took the plate of waffles and bacon out. They were toaster waffles, but she had pretoasted them for me. For some reason this struck me as funny. I laughed a little desperately, even as I shoved the food down the whirring garbage disposal. After it was gone, I dirtied a plate with a few strategically placed crumbs and a few dots of syrup, and then placed it in the sink.
    Getting rid of the cigarette-smoke smell came next. After checking several times to make sure there was no sign of the boy, I flung the front door open. Using it like a giant fan, I swung it back and forth. When I was done, the sheer drapes covering the little window next to the door still stank like smoke if you stuck your nose right into them, but I could only hope the mom wouldn’t do that.
    My last task was disposing of the manila envelope. I slipped out the back door, intending to bury it in the trash can. The cigarettes had lost their appeal at the same instant I’d gained a new scar. But there was something else still there at the bottom of the envelope. I feared that wrapped lump. The redheaded boy wanted to hurt me, that much was certain. The cigarettes were up-front about their dangers, a warning helpfully printed right on the package. That made them the lesser danger. The other thing would hurt more.
    I’d had enough hurting; I wanted no part of whatever was at the bottom of that envelope.
    I lifted out a few sacks of trash, until I found the perfect one, heavy and reeking with rot. Holding my breath, I carefully untied the bag and eased it open just wide enough to reach inside. With the envelope clutched in my fist, I plunged my hand into the heart of the assorted waste.
    If I had uncurled my fingers, and left the envelope there, the whole thing would’ve been lost in a distant landfill within the week.
    Cursing softly, I jerked my hand back out, and the envelope with it. It wasn’t the best time to be indulging my curiosity. It might’ve been the worst. Still, I couldn’t let it go without seeing what was inside.
    I tore the envelope apart and stuffed it into the trash bag, and then the cigarettes and lighter went in too. That left me with a wad of paper towels, sealed with duct tape.
    I gave it a squeeze. Layers of softness gave way and then stopped, where something hard and solid sat at their core.
    As I stared down at the misshapen lump, red began spreading out from my hand, racing across the paper towels, slowly yet steadily consuming the white.
    Blood. My whole hand was sticky with it.
    I tore the red parts off, like I was unwrapping a cursed mummy, but the blood continued its advance. When the last bit of paper towel fell away, a single-edged blade folded into a wooden handle sat in my hand.
    I recognized it instantly. This was the blade I’d given Annaliese. The one she’d used to cut me open.
    Names were carved into the wooden handle. The blood still oozing out around the razor had filled the tiny crevices and outlined them in red. Eight names in all. Anna began the short list; Annaliese ended it.
    The razor slid from my hand and fell to the ground.
    Only then did I notice the deep cut across my palm. It wasn’t from the blade tucked away inside the handle. Instead, the culprit