Read Online Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 by Melyssa Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melyssa Williams
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canvas backdrop. Her pointy little boots stuck out to the side in a ballerina’s stance, and her hands were clasped in a dainty fashion in front of her stomach. Every man and every boy couldn’t pull their eyes off her, and every girl and every woman wanted to be her. I motioned to her to put her arms to her side and spread her fingers. She did so without hesitation or qualm. The only movement she gave me as the first knife found its mark in the bull’s eye was a bored little yawn.
“ She’s never worn gloves before,” Solomon explained to the police later when they arrived. “They made her hands slippery. She’s only a child. It was a tragic mistake.”
“ Whether or not the victim lives, we’ll have to shut you down,” the police told him. “Pack up, but don’t go anywhere until this is sorted out.”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ And you, girl. No more playing with knives, do you hear?”
I didn ’t want to talk to him, but Solomon nodded at me, urging me to. “Yes, sir.” I muttered.
“ We wouldn’t want more accidents. Play the piano; take up painting. But for God’s sake, don’t play with knives. Tragedy happens when you miss what you’re aiming for. Could have happened to anyone now.” He looked at me with sympathy. “Could have happened to anyone, child. Anyone can miss.”
When he leaves, I run to Solomon, and he ruffles my hair and calls me Goose.
“I didn’t miss,” I say into his chest.
7
We did not stay put as the police instructed. Solomon knew what I had done and knew I wouldn’t feel the need to lie about it either, so he spirited me away that night cloaked in blackness, me in a dress of black with my black boots, he in a black cape that he took from Lulu’s peg above her wagon, the one she used it to cover her twin when she didn’t want attention. He swung me up on Vlad, the largest horse in our caravan, and we left the gypsies forever.
It was the closest I think I ’ve ever come to crying out of sentimentality. Though they did not love me, I felt at home with them and did not relish the severing of our ties. Also, I worried and fretted that Solomon was angry with me, for they were his home too, and now he could never go back. Solomon was all I had; I couldn’t bear it if he was angry with me.
I was his progeny, and I loved him so.
Thoughts of Rose and her madness plague me all the next day. I can’t seem to escape from her, but ironically I am so busy at the hospital that I never have a chance to crack open the diary again and catch up on my reading. I am also becoming a bit concerned at the little red volume; I have a superstitious dislike of flipping to the last page, but it seems to me that when I picked it up off the floor that time when it had hurled itself across the room, the last good bit of the manuscript was blank. It had lain on the floor with its spine open before I had mustered up the courage to pick it back up, and blank white pages had stared up at me, hadn’t they? I am now preoccupied with worries that it will end abruptly and I’ll never get any answers to my questions. I want a nice tidy ending of some sort. I feel she owes me that after haunting me the way she is.
Haunting. What a peculiar word to drop unbidden into my thoughts. It fits though. Rose is stuck like a burr to my thoughts.
It’s after the sun goes down and I am back at my flat that I finally find time to read. I make tea and tuck my hot water bottle deep inside my covers where it can warm my chilled feet. I am weary to the bone from scrubbing and fetching and washing and fluffing and pushing wheelchairs and all the other tedious chores and errands Miss Helmes had me running, and I need a hearty meal and a hot bath, but nothing will keep me from discovering where Rose and Solomon hid themselves.
The handwriting is wretched once again. I sigh and take a bracing sip of strong hot tea before I squint and force myself to concentrate. Slowly the chicken scratch becomes letters, the
“ She’s never worn gloves before,” Solomon explained to the police later when they arrived. “They made her hands slippery. She’s only a child. It was a tragic mistake.”
“ Whether or not the victim lives, we’ll have to shut you down,” the police told him. “Pack up, but don’t go anywhere until this is sorted out.”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ And you, girl. No more playing with knives, do you hear?”
I didn ’t want to talk to him, but Solomon nodded at me, urging me to. “Yes, sir.” I muttered.
“ We wouldn’t want more accidents. Play the piano; take up painting. But for God’s sake, don’t play with knives. Tragedy happens when you miss what you’re aiming for. Could have happened to anyone now.” He looked at me with sympathy. “Could have happened to anyone, child. Anyone can miss.”
When he leaves, I run to Solomon, and he ruffles my hair and calls me Goose.
“I didn’t miss,” I say into his chest.
7
We did not stay put as the police instructed. Solomon knew what I had done and knew I wouldn’t feel the need to lie about it either, so he spirited me away that night cloaked in blackness, me in a dress of black with my black boots, he in a black cape that he took from Lulu’s peg above her wagon, the one she used it to cover her twin when she didn’t want attention. He swung me up on Vlad, the largest horse in our caravan, and we left the gypsies forever.
It was the closest I think I ’ve ever come to crying out of sentimentality. Though they did not love me, I felt at home with them and did not relish the severing of our ties. Also, I worried and fretted that Solomon was angry with me, for they were his home too, and now he could never go back. Solomon was all I had; I couldn’t bear it if he was angry with me.
I was his progeny, and I loved him so.
Thoughts of Rose and her madness plague me all the next day. I can’t seem to escape from her, but ironically I am so busy at the hospital that I never have a chance to crack open the diary again and catch up on my reading. I am also becoming a bit concerned at the little red volume; I have a superstitious dislike of flipping to the last page, but it seems to me that when I picked it up off the floor that time when it had hurled itself across the room, the last good bit of the manuscript was blank. It had lain on the floor with its spine open before I had mustered up the courage to pick it back up, and blank white pages had stared up at me, hadn’t they? I am now preoccupied with worries that it will end abruptly and I’ll never get any answers to my questions. I want a nice tidy ending of some sort. I feel she owes me that after haunting me the way she is.
Haunting. What a peculiar word to drop unbidden into my thoughts. It fits though. Rose is stuck like a burr to my thoughts.
It’s after the sun goes down and I am back at my flat that I finally find time to read. I make tea and tuck my hot water bottle deep inside my covers where it can warm my chilled feet. I am weary to the bone from scrubbing and fetching and washing and fluffing and pushing wheelchairs and all the other tedious chores and errands Miss Helmes had me running, and I need a hearty meal and a hot bath, but nothing will keep me from discovering where Rose and Solomon hid themselves.
The handwriting is wretched once again. I sigh and take a bracing sip of strong hot tea before I squint and force myself to concentrate. Slowly the chicken scratch becomes letters, the
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