The Stepsister (9 page)

“But we have a real serious problem on our hands,” Mr. Wallner insisted.

“But, Hugh—”

“Okay,” he said, scratching his bald head. “Go on upstairs, dear. I'll just clean up the floor, and then I'll be up.”

“I'm going up too,” Jessie said and disappeared from the room.

“You want me to stay downstairs and we'll talk?” Nancy asked Emily.

“No. I guess not,” Emily said. She didn't know what she wanted. She wanted for this not to have happened. “Go on back to sleep, Nance.”

“I don't think any of us will sleep tonight,” Nancy said sadly. But she turned and, still hugging herself, headed up to her room.

Mr. Wallner headed to the broom closet to get a mop.

“Jessie did it,” Emily told her mother, who had hesitated at the door.

“What?”

“You heard me, Mom. Jessie did it. I know she did. She hated Tiger. She hates me.”

“Emily—” her mother started, then stopped. She was thinking hard, trying to figure out what to say. “Why do you accuse Jessie of everything?”

“Because she's the one who's doing these terrible things,” Emily said softly, slowly, suddenly feeling
very sleepy despite the horror, despite the picture of the dead dog that wouldn't leave her mind.

“But you have no proof. Just because you have a hunch—”

“It's
not
a hunch. I
know
it's Jessie!” Emily shouted, feeling the anger rise, catching her throat, making her feel about to cry. “You don't really know her, Mom. She's different from what you think she is. She acts real sweet when you're around. But then when we're alone, she—”

“You've got to ask yourself why you are always trying to blame Jessie,” her mother said. “Are you jealous of her for some reason? You shouldn't be. You know, Jessie is your sister now and—”

“Mother,
why won't you ever listen to me?”
Emily screamed.

“But I
am
listening, dear. I know that you and Jessie are having problems. Maybe the three of us should sit down and have a long talk. We could—”

“Oh, what's the point?” Emily cried, out of control and unable to do anything about it. Tears ran down her cheeks. She ran past her mother to the stairs.

Her mother made no attempt to stop her or call her back.

She has no intention of ever confronting Jessie, Emily thought bitterly as she climbed the stairs. She always thinks if she ignores things, they'll simply go away. When Daddy died, she was no help at all. Nancy and I had to do everything. She's the child in the family. We're all grown-ups compared to Mom.

The light was on in her room. Emily stopped at the doorway.

What was she going to say to Jessie?

How could she go to sleep in the same room with the girl who had murdered her dog?

I'll call the police, she thought.

No. The police wouldn't be interested in a murdered dog. Or would they? They might. Except . . . Except her mother was right. Emily didn't have any proof.

And what if it was Rich? That weirdo with his Stephen King books. He had already been caught committing one crime. Was he capable of killing a dog?

“Emily?”

“Oh!” Jessie had come up from behind in the hallway, startling Emily.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I was in the bathroom. You must be so upset. I'm running you a hot bath.”

“You are?” Emily felt totally confused. She was prepared for an angry confrontation with her stepsister. And here was Jessie acting so concerned.

“A hot bath will make you feel better,” Jessie said softly. “And you can wash off all the blood.”

“Thanks, Jess. I—”

“Go get undressed. It's almost ready. I used a lot of that bath oil you like.” She gave Emily a gentle push into the bedroom, then headed across the hall to tend to the bathwater.

Emily stood in the middle of the bedroom, feeling somewhat dazed. Why was Jessie being so nice to her? To cover up her guilt?

She kicked off her shoes, then pulled off the bloodstained
sweater. She crumpled it in a ball and tossed it into a corner.

She heard her mother come up the stairs and stop at her bedroom door. “Em—you going to be okay?”

“Yes, Mother,” she told her without turning around. “Get some sleep.”

Her mother padded down the hallway to her room.

Something caught Emily's eye on the counter Jessie used for a desk. She walked over to it. It was Jessie's diary.

Emily listened to the water still running into the tub. She picked up the diary. It was a fat, leather-bound book with a metal clasp. The clasp was open. Jessie had left the diary unlocked.

Curious, Emily flipped back through the pages, glancing at the doorway to make sure Jessie wasn't returning. The diary seemed to cover several years. In her tiny, precise handwriting, Jessie had faithfully filled in just about every day.

Reading quickly, not finding anything terribly interesting, Emily heard footsteps in the hall. She slammed the book back down on the counter and took a step back.

But it was only her stepfather on his way to bed.

Breathing hard, she picked up the diary again. Her eyes settled on a long, upsetting passage from just a few days before. “Emily blamed me again,” Jessie had written. “I don't know what to do about her. But I've got to do something.”

The tub water stopped. Emily closed the diary. She realized she was trembling.

I've got to read more, she thought.

I've got to know what Jessie is planning. I've got to know just how dangerous she is.

She carried the diary quickly over to her bed and hid it under her pillow. I'll wait till Jessie is asleep, and then I'll read more, she thought.

“Aren't you undressed yet? The water is ready.” Jessie stepped into the room, drying her wet hands on the front of her pajamas.

“Oh. Thanks.” Emily didn't move.

“Emily—are you okay?” Jessie asked, putting a warm hand on her shoulder. The touch of Jessie's hand drove the swirling thoughts from Emily's mind. “Go take your bath. You'll feel better.”

“Okay. You're being very nice, Jessie.”

“I just feel so bad,” Jessie said.

Emily finished getting undressed in the bathroom, then stopped at the edge of the tub. The bathwater smelled so good. Jessie had used a lot of the lilac bath oil Emily loved. The room was so steamy, warm, and comforting.

Emily looked down at the brown bloodstains on her hands and arms. “Got to wash this away.”

But as she prepared to step into the tub, she was stopped by a stab of fear. Cold fear.

The water.

What had Jessie done to the water?

She had poured peroxide into the shampoo. She had deliberately ruined Emily's hair with that dreadful trick.

Emily stared down into the steaming bathwater, suddenly feeling sick, feeling heavy, so heavy, weighed
down by fear, paralyzed by her realization that something was wrong here.

Was the water scalding hot?

Was that Jessie's trick for tonight?

Or had she poured something horrible into the water? Some kind of acid that would eat away all of Emily's flesh and leave her skeleton soaking in the tub?

The water was blue-green from the bath oil.

But what else was in there? What was the blue-green color supposed to hide?

Emily stared down into the water, wondering what Jessie had in store for her.

The Late-Night Visitor

T
he bathwater looked so blue. So still.

So deadly.

I can't do it, Emily thought.

She washed the blood off her hands and arms in the sink, dried quickly with a hand towel, then pulled on the nightshirt she had carried into the bathroom with her and walked back to her bedroom. Jessie looked up from her bed, a
People
magazine in her hands. “What's wrong?”

“I—uh—can't.”

“Huh?”

“I'm too tired and too upset,” Emily said. “It was really nice of you, but I think I just want to go to bed.”

“Oh.” Jessie looked disappointed. She tossed the magazine onto the floor and stood up. “Might as well not let it go to waste,” she said, and hurried past Emily to the bathroom.

A few seconds later Emily heard the splash of Jessie
sitting down in the bathtub. The water was perfectly okay.

Okay, okay. So I misjudged her this time, Emily thought, wearily pulling down the covers of her bed.

Jessie was obviously being nice now to throw her off-guard.

Again, Emily saw the blood, saw her poor Tiger lying with that long, straight cut across his chest.

She shivered. It was so cold sleeping by the window. Why had she allowed Jessie to bully her and take away her bed by the wall? She hadn't slept comfortably ever since Jessie had arrived.

How could she sleep comfortably? Jessie was a murderer.

I've got to stop thinking, Emily told herself, feeling the diary under her pillow. I've got to shut off my mind, or I'll never get to sleep, never be able to think clearly again.

She shut her eyes tightly and tried to drive away all of the horrid pictures that kept flashing across her mind. From across the hall she heard the sound of the tub plug being pulled and the gurgle of the water starting to drain from the tub.

Then she was floating, floating dizzily in the dark, the room spinning, spinning so fast, spinning her to sleep.

She was awakened a short while later by a hand gripping her shoulder. She raised her head and uttered a short cry, startled. “What?”

It was dark, so dark she couldn't see a thing. That's odd, she thought, suddenly frightened. Usually some light comes in through the window.

The hand gripped her shoulder tightly and shook her.

“Let go,” Emily said, her voice choked with sleep. “Who is it?”

The hand let go. A lamp clicked on. It was Jessie. She was sitting on the edge of Emily's bed. Her crinkly blond hair was wild and disheveled. Her eyes, usually so pale blue, were dark and alive.

“Wake up, Emily. You've slept long enough,” Jessie whispered. Her wide grin was frightening.

“What? What's the matter?” Emily struggled to wake up, to clear her mind, but it was like swimming underwater. She struggled and struggled, but couldn't get to the surface.

The bedroom light seemed to flicker and dim.

“How long have I been asleep?” Emily asked.

“Not long.” Jessie leaned down over her, still grinning.

Emily saw a shadow behind Jessie. Someone else was in the room.

“Who's that?” Emily asked.

The light seemed to brighten. Krysta stepped into view. “Hi, Emily. Sorry about this,” she said. She was grinning too, grinning at Jessie.

It was some sort of a conspiracy, Emily realized. But what? What was Krysta doing in her room in the middle of the night?

“I love your hair,” Krysta said. And both girls laughed loudly. Krysta stepped closer. She was still wearing the dress she had on at the dance.

Then Emily saw the knife in Jessie's hand.

It was a big black-handled kitchen knife. The blade was smeared with dark red blood.

“Hey!” Emily still felt as if she were swimming underwater. “Hey—what are you doing?”

“You know,” Jessie said.

“I love your hair,” Krysta said. “Really.”

“Jessie—wait!” Emily cried.

Jessie raised the knife. The blade was so red, so dripping red.

“Jessie—no!”

Jessie held the knife over Emily's head with one hand and gripped her shoulder with the other hand.

“No—please!”

Gripping her shoulder harder, she began to shake Emily.

Emily closed her eyes and waited for the knife blade to drop.

I'm dead, she thought. Jessie has killed me. I'm dead. Dead, dead, dead.

Then she woke up.

It was a dream.

A frightening dream.

The room was pitch-black.

And someone was gripping her shoulder.