Road Trips Read Free Page B

bolted up the stairs. “Angel?”
She cried.
    Her daughter’s bed lay empty and unused. Maude felt the
clench of fear tighten around her neck, suffocating. “Angel,” she screamed.
Only her echo responded. Maude stumbled backward, felt as if the room was
reeling. She rambled down the stairs, slipping, and ran into the kitchen,
looking for a note—some indication where they might be. She found no note.
Walking toward the garage entrance, she found a small trail of blood. The door
handle to the garage was smeared with the viscous fluid, dripping. Maude
reached out her hand to turn the knob, but could not touch it; she could not
open the door.
    A sedan of dizziness and panic broadsided Maude. Fear
consumed her, rising to her mouth with the sick taste of bile. She stammered to
the bathroom. As she knelt, her vomit splattered the toilet, floor, and wall.
She moaned in pain. “Where are you?” She crumbled to the floor in despair. “Where
are you?”
    Curled in the fetal position, Maude rocked herself.
Suddenly, she was struck with the realization of urgency. She jolted to her
feet, rushed to the phone. She was a good mother. She had to save her daughter.
She fought with the tangled phone cord, tapped out 9-1-1.
    “911. What is your emergency?”
    “My daughter,” Maude whispered. “Help me save her.” She
collapsed to the floor—
    —Painful light bore into Maude’s skull as she languorously
flicked her eyes open. She was strewn across a hospital bed. She was confused.
She had just been at the party—no! She had just been home...Angel! Oh, her
precious child! Maude tried to sit up. Heat seared through her arms.
    She looked down at her wrists. Bandages crisscrossed them.
Craning her neck, Maude looked to the man sitting in the chair next to her. It
was her husband, but he was dressed in a policeman’s uniform. He glared down at
her. “Why did you do it?” He spat.
    Maude shook her head feebly. “Do what?”
    “Why did you kill your daughter?”
     
    Maude stumbled through the house. Phantasm , she
thought. This is all just a bad dream. She had to find Angel before they killed
her. She had to save her daughter. Maude tripped through the garage door as she
pushed it open. She caught herself on the edge of her car, hoisted herself up.
The nanny’s lifeless body lay slumped, hanging in the seat belt. Her hands
flopped over the steering wheel, useless. Ligaments and tendons were cut away.
Blood flowed from her slit wrists, coagulating in a puddle on the floor. Maude
saw her red reflection in the blood and brought her hand up to her mouth to
stifle her scream. Unlike her sanguine image, the nanny’s face was ashen. The
garage burned red. Red like the blood. Red like the nanny’s hair.
    Maude stumbled back, slipping in the puddle of blood. Her
body fell back, sliding across the cement floor through the blood. She landed,
looking at the front end of the car. It had been smashed. Blood was splattered
all over the hood and windshield. A sledgehammer lay next to the demolished
car. Hair and brain matter spattered the floor. Thick gore clung to the
passenger side front tire with clumps of flesh and blonde hair. Curled in a
ball, a small, lifeless body lay there too—
     
    “—Why did you do it Ms. Lynn? Why did you kill her?” The
officer screamed. He was no longer her husband, but a young, fierce cop. He
spat his words at her with deep contempt and anger. He ripped his badge from
his shirt. “There’s nothing worse than a child killer,” he cursed. He opened
his clenched hand, slapped Maude.
    She fell from the bed onto the floor and a crimson trail of
blood flowed down her chin. “But I didn’t,” she screeched. “I loved her!” She
racked her mind, searching. The nanny—yes, it was the bitch-nanny! She had
killed Angel! Then she killed herself.
    “But it was the nanny,” Maude screamed, as if the revelation
would save her.
    The officer looked down. His stern gaze was certain. “There is no nanny. There