Clara swallowed the bile in her throat as she slinked through the empty hall toward the lobby. The entire inside of the main building was decked out in creepy fake cobwebs, sparkly pumpkins, and haunted house cutouts. By the door was a vampire statue with red blinking lights for eyes.
Halloween was coming. The idea brought a smile to her face. It was always one of her favorite holidays. As a child, she’d loved dressing up in her mom’s homemade costumes. For a few hours she could be someone else. Not a Destacio. Not a rich kid showered in too many expensive things. Not the daughter of a careless alcoholic. But a princess or a witch or Minnie Mouse or whatever her imagination wanted. She could be scary if she wanted, and growl at the kids who made fun of her. Or she could ignore them altogether because it was Halloween and it didn’t matter what ugly thing they said about her. Sometimes she’d even wished she could actually be what she dressed up as. Someone new altogether.
That desire didn’t fade as she grew. And now she was someone else. The Clara Destacio she’d been born as was transformed.
She almost giggled as an image of the old Michael J. Fox movie Teen Wolf flashed through her mind. The imagery wasn’t that far off if you considered the way her legs had looked the day before.
Clara ducked behind the counter to rifle through the lost and found once again, but came up with nothing. She spotted a set of winter gloves. They’d be useful. And it was likely they’d been sitting here waiting to be claimed since last winter. But she couldn’t bring herself to grab them. The guilty sensation she was normally able to push aside niggled at her chest, pressing its ugly face against the window of her soul.
How many things were in that book of hers? How many times had she taken what didn’t belong to her in the name of survival. It wasn’t right. She’d chosen the woods. Chosen to separate herself from society. To live off the land, free of the eyes of people. But who was she kidding? She wasn’t living off the land. She was living off other people, haunting them as surely as a ghost trapped in their attic.
Shame filled her until her cheeks were hot with it.
She shoved the gloves back in the basket, hating that she couldn’t take something she needed, hating that she needed to take them in the first place.
Hating herself.
She clenched her teeth together, willing herself not to cry.
The kitchen. She’d been on her way to check the kitchen. She’d noticed a desk in the corner with note pads and menus. It was obviously where the cook planned his meals. Perhaps he’d left her notebook there, among the others.
Clara went through the dining room this time instead of directly into the kitchen. It was smart to never take the same way in. Change things up.
The room was empty and dark, so she ghosted past the tables and sidled up to the swinging doors that separated the dining area from the kitchen. Her hand caught in a fake cobweb and she jumped at the feel of the sticky strings in her fingers.
When she was free of the decoration, she peeked through the window in the door. The kitchen was empty, with only one row of lights on. She remained watching for several minutes just to make sure, but there was no one else around. Cautiously, she pushed through the door, blinking against the brighter light. Zeroing in on the desk in the corner, she started for it, but her eyes caught on the prep counter and she stalled.
Several containers of food sat tempting her, but what pulled her forward wasn’t the smell of savory beef. It was the scrap of paper sitting next to it. Old, and with pink lines instead of the usual blue. It was from her lost book.
With shaking hands, she reached for it, eyes tumbling over the scrawled words written there.
Write down what you need and I’ll get it for you. But you have to quit stealing from us or I won’t be able to help you.
Clara’s throat burned with the threat of unshed tears. Help her. The cook wanted to help her? She looked at all the food he’d left her. She let the note fall to the counter and wrapped her hands around the foam cup. Whatever was inside was still warm. She lifted the lid, holding the steaming drink to her nose. Hot chocolate. With cinnamon like her abuela used to make.
She choked up. He made her food. She’d stolen from him, stolen from many, and when he’d caught her, he didn’t shun her or turn her in. He made her food. And it was clear he’d read her book. He knew how awful she was. How many things she’d taken. But instead of judgment, this man had chosen kindness.
Her hand went to her chest, pressing against the sharp pain there. It wasn’t the first time someone had extended kindness to her when she didn’t deserve it. And just like the last time, she wanted to run from it.