The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (read this if txt) 📕

the door. "I ain't know what madness you talking, but I’m on board." He shook his head and picked back up the paper. “I’m tired of being the only sane person in here."

* * *

EVERYTHING HOLDEN needed to bring Eileen back in his life was within a one-kilometre radius: his house, the biscuit factory, a rum shop and a craft store. He spent another hour at the funeral parlour, preparing part of his surprise for Eileen and by the time he left to go to her house, he was a little dusty, a little sweaty, but happy that he had done everything in his power to make things right.

The drive to Hampstead Village was nerve-racking, but to his consternation, Eileen wasn't at home. Her car wasn't in the usual spot at the side of the building and only the apartment beneath hers displayed any signs of life. A quick check with the downstairs neighbour confirmed that she hadn't been home all evening. Holden was practical if nothing else, but the irrational part of his brain didn’t cooperate and immediately wondered if Eileen was out with a man. He had gone to her house braced for a possible argument, probably an emotional one that would devolve into him cajoling her to see reason. This anti-climactic outcome and the envy that made Holden's head pound was too much to bear. His father's voice echoed in his head, propelling Holden as he took the box from the car, walked up the stairs and left it by Eileen's door. "A moment of discomfort or a lifetime of discontent," he murmured to himself as he stared down at the box. It glowed back at him in the dark, an apropos metaphor for the glimmer of hope he held on to. As he drove away, he had to hope it was enough.

Chapter 29

A Deadly Realization

As Eileen packed her things to leave work, she made up her mind that it would be her last day at Happy Home. It was hard enough working in the same industry and having to pass Holden’s funeral home every day on her way to work, but listening to Dorothy drop tidbits about Holden’s and Clifford’s predilections was emotionally taxing. She had searched through the paper earlier and found two job options which she felt positive about. Tentative though she was, neither of the women who answered the phone numbers she called sounded like the Cane Slasher. She broke the news to Dorothy after she had put the wreaths away in the refrigerator and to her chagrin, Dorothy had insisted that they have tea together before Eileen left. Even though she was reluctant, Eileen didn’t want to appear rude, especially since Dorothy hadn’t paid her yet. After closing the funeral parlour for the day, Dorothy prepared a tray while Eileen sat at the front of the building in the enclosed gallery that overlooked the funeral home’s roadside garden. Its exterior put Eileen in mind of a quiet country house, only marred by the modern addition of a payphone next to the hibiscus hedge.

It was much quieter than Buckworth Street’s and it’s noisy stream of traffic, almost idyllic with the exception of the loose hydrant cover in the middle of the road that clattered every time a car drove over it.

Dorothy’s sensible shoes thumped across the burnished floors, her chatelaine jingling on her waist as she walked. She set down a tray of scones and two teacups in front of Eileen as she asked conversationally, “You didn’t know my brother Lloyd very well, did you?”

“Uh…no,” Eileen said as the parliament clock bonged. Eileen wasn’t sure why but she suddenly felt uncomfortable when she heard the sinister gong.

Dorothy adjusted her wig as she sat down. “People often misunderstood Lloyd. They thought him grumpy and anti-social. But Lloyd possessed a far superior intellect to most other people,” she said as she dusted a smattering of yellow dust off the sleeve of her black dress.

Probably pollen, thought Eileen. Since she’d been at Happy Home, she often found lots of it on her clothes covered whenever she brushed against the potted flowers that Dorothy kept throughout the building. Her sleeve clean, Dorothy busied herself turning over the teacups as she chattered on about her brother. But Eileen wasn’t paying attention.

She thought it was a trick of the light when Dorothy sat forward to pour the tea; the sleeve of her blouse shifted and Eileen caught a glimpse of waxen scars on her arm, scars that looked identical to the ones Eileen had seen on Lloyd’s arm in the photos in the waiting room. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as Dorothy’s eyes followed hers and realized Eileen was looking at her forearm.

“If you don’t mind, I have to go,” Eileen said as she stood up too quickly. Dorothy — Lloyd — stood up slowly, shaking his head.

It was hard to believe Eileen didn’t see it before, but the person who walked around the chair and stood in front of her was very clearly a man with a cheap grey wig atop his head. He took off the big spectacles, exposing the bottomless dark eyes behind them. Her mind went to the black Mustang GL at the side of the clean grey building; the sleek black car could easily be mistaken for Paul’s. She had never pieced the clues together before, never suspected matronly Dorothy to be guilty. Eileen’s pulse hammered in her throat as she stared at him, trying to understand what she was seeing. “You’re Lloyd.”

He grabbed Eileen’s shoulder, spinning her around until her back was pressed against his chest. “I should have known from the day I met you that you’d be a problem. I saw from the jump how fast those eyes of yours moved.” He twisted her hand so hard that Eileen felt a small pop in her wrist; she whimpered in pain.

“What did you tell Holden about me?”

“Nothing,” she gasped as she tried to straighten her