Tommy Nightmare(60)

“She's not running off,” Tommy said. “She likes me.”

“Don't get cocky. I hope you dosed her up with fear before you left.”

“I did!”

“Good,” Ashleigh said. “We'll make her fear you and love me. Between those, she'll be way too confused to try anything.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“It's not a plan, it's common sense.”

“So,” Tommy said. “While we're alone, I wanted to ask you about our past lives—”

“Not right now, Tommy,” Ashleigh said. “I've got a headache, a backache, a footache...Darcy’s body sucks.”

“But I was wondering—”

“Just get me the fuck home.”

At Ashleigh's house, Esmeralda was on the couch, watching a movie on the big plasma screen, and she jumped up when they arrived.

“There's nothing to eat here!” Esmeralda complained. “I'm so hungry.”

“There's stuff in the fridge,” Ashleigh said.

“It's all spoiled,” Esmeralda replied.

“Whatever.” Ashleigh opened the fridge.

The smell hit her like a mule kick to the gut. Mold was growing on everything, and the milk jug had expanded until it was almost ball-shaped.

Ashleigh covered her mouth, but she puked through her fingers. She ran to the kitchen sink and puked her guts out into it. There were strange, rotten smells from the sink, too, which just made her vomit more.

“God, that’s horrible,” Ashleigh said.

“I told you.” Esmeralda had a little smirk on her face.

Ashleigh grabbed Esmeralda's arm with one barf-splattered hand. Esmeralda scowled and tried to pull away, but Ashleigh clamped tight, smearing vomit across the girl's bicep.

You'll like it, bitch, Ashleigh thought. She hit her with a golden wave of love.

Out loud, Ashleigh said, “Oh, this pregnancy is really hitting me hard.”

Esmeralda's face softened. “I forgot you were pregnant.”

“Yeah, it's so hard to do anything,” Ashleigh said. “You don't mind cleaning all that puke up, do you? I'd do it myself, but it's so hard. With the pregnancy.”

“Oh, sure!” Esmeralda said.

“In fact, you don't mind cleaning the whole kitchen, do you?” Ashleigh asked. “It would be such a help.”

“Yeah, that's fine.”

“And take out the trash when you're done, so it doesn't reek?”

“Whatever you need.” Esmeralda smiled. “I helped my cousin Lucia when she was pregnant.”

“Good! I could really use your experience and help.” Ashleigh injected her with another dose of love and then released her. Esmeralda immediately dug out cleaning supplies from under the sink and went to work.

“Tommy.” Ashleigh gave him her sweetest smile. “Can you go to the Piggly Wiggly for us? I'll make a list.”

Tommy shrugged.

When she'd sent him on his way, Ashleigh went up to her own room. It was very spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet, and a private bathroom. It was, in fact, the master bedroom of the house. Years ago, Ashleigh had persuaded Dr. and Mrs. Goodling that she should have it, while they moved into a smaller room.

Past-due notices had arrived for all the utility bills, so Ashleigh found one of Dr. Goodling's credit cards and went online to pay them, to keep the house running. Apparently the credit card company didn't yet know that Maurice Goodling was dead, with no living heirs, because the charges were accepted.

In her desk, Ashleigh had a PayPal debit card. This was linked to the account where people all over the country had made donations to “Ashleigh's Girls,” after Ashleigh's appearance on Chuck O' Flannery and other national media. The account held over two hundred thousand dollars, last time she'd checked, and maybe more donations were still trickling in through the website. She wouldn't use that money unless she had to—better to clean out her father's bank account and max out his credit cards first.

Ashleigh sat on her bed and opened Darcy's diary, ready to learn more about how the town had been quarantined and investigated. A small white card fluttered out from the back of the journal. It must have been tucked between the last page and the back cover.

Ashleigh picked it up.

HEATHER REYNARD, M.D., it read. Office of Surveillance, Epidemiology, and Laboratory Services. CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL. ATLANTA, GA.

“Interesting,” Ashleigh said. She continued reading the diary.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


Friday evening, Jenny waited at home, feeling anxious. She played an old Jean Shepard record to soothe her nerves, but she had to play it low because her dad had gone to bed early. The bank manager had hired him to fix up some foreclosed properties around Fallen Oak, and he came home exhausted every day.