Her staff? Her merchandise? And it hits me. This woman isn’t a customer. She’s the infamous Sylvia herself. The one who beheaded the corpses, who locked my sisters in this back room. And now she seems to think this is her shop, can you believe this, Mother? Mother’s gone, must remember. When I look in the nearest mirror, there’s no one in the glass, just the garden that looks nearly underwater now. The flowers seeming to sway like sea flowers on a seafloor. The sky is a blue of light-filled water. And Mother nowhere in this ocean world. But she’ll come back, surely? I look at my sisters. Won’t she?
They stare at me with their eyes so golden and sorrowful.
“Mirabelle, did you—？”
“Sylvia, if anyone should be pressing charges, it’s me. You’ve destroyed my shop, my family.” I wrap my arm around one of my sisters tight. I look right at Sylvia, her mouth gaping at me. “I’m afraid you’ve given me no choice but to let you go.”
“That’s it,” she roars. “I’m calling the police!”
She’s about to storm out, but there’s a man standing in the doorway, blocking her path. He’s wearing a hat and a dark blue suit. He flashes something like a badge very quickly. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Speak of the devil,” Sylvia says, wiping her eyes. I can feel her wondering if she summoned him with her thoughts. “Officer?”
The man nods imperceptibly. You could say he nodded or you could say he just stood there. He looks like he walked out of one of your old movies, Mother. His dewy face all shadows and sharp angles. A scar on his cheek curved like a hook. Familiar. Where have I seen him before?
“Officer, thank god, I was just going to call.”
“What seems to be the trouble here?”
“Oh, this is so difficult. So very difficult.” She sighs and shakes her head like it’s all too much. “This,” she says, gesturing at me, “is the daughter of a friend who passed away recently, you see. A dear friend. I don’t want to press charges, but she’s been harassing my staff, destroying merchandise. She gave one of our customers a nervous breakdown just the other day. And she seems to think she still works here.”
He nods. “I’ll take care of it. Belle?” Acting gruff, but there’s a softness to how he looks at me, speaks my name. I see a rickety white bridge over the Pacific. A hotel room in the half-dark. The smell of whiskey and flowers and smoke. His face very close to my face, like he wanted to kill me. Kiss me? Wanted something, anyway.
“You’re not going to arrest her, are you?” Sylvia says. “I don’t want anything to happen to her, I just don’t want her in the shop. I’m afraid she’s not in her right mind. Maybe you could call a psychiatric hospital?” So concerned, when just a moment ago she was ready to throw me out of my own shop.
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Holmes.”
Sylvia raises her eyebrows. How does he know her name? “Have we…？”
“No, but I’m familiar. Belle, would you please come with me?” Gray eyes full of dark water. I know that his lips taste like roses—why do I know that? I don’t necessarily want to go with him, but I also don’t want to stay here with Sylvia. In the mirror, no Mother. No ocean garden anymore. Nothing now in the glass but my three sisters. Looking at me with their golden eyes. Myself standing between them, gripping one by the shoulder. There’s a gray dress form on the floor at my feet. “I’m not leaving without my sisters,” I say.
Sylvia looks at him like you see, you see?
The man ignores her. Stares at me. “So bring them along.”
21
On my couch with a detective named Hud Hudson, who keeps staring at me. He gave me his business card and that’s what it said in silvery-blue font above the words Private Investigations. “Have we met?” I ask him.
“A few times now.”
“I had a feeling.”
“Belle,” he says, “I hope you know this is getting very serious.”
“Serious?”
Hud kindly drove me and my sisters home, carried them into the apartment since they didn’t seem to be able to carry themselves. Two under one arm, one under the other. Now they’re sitting all around us, smiling. At least this is how it seems when I look in any one of the mirrors in Mother’s living room. The mirrors are where my sisters come alive, so that’s where I mostly keep my eyes. It’s lucky Mother has so many, a wall of glass right across from where we sit. Whenever I look at this wall, I see them offering various kinds of support. One sister is sitting on the carpet playing with the coffee table flowers, deranging them like she’s a florist. Another is slouched by the open window, watching the water. Leaning pretty far out, she loves to breathe the ocean air.