“What is this place,” I asked while looking at the sconces on the walls.
“This is where I come to relax.”
“Relax?” This was hardly the place for that.
“Some people go for a walk, others paint. I come down here.”
“And do what?” Why did I ask that? I didn’t want to know. Then again, maybe I did.
“Piss me off, and you’ll find out.”
That was comforting.
What does one use a dungeon for these days anyway? That was what I’d call this place. The Dungeon of Death. All dank and sad, with no natural light or fresh air. Why would anyone need something like this? It was one thing to kill someone, but this was a whole other level of demented.
I had no idea how true that thought was until Preston typed a code into a pad, opening a door on the right.
My jaw dropped to my feet. Metaphorically, of course.
The room itself was basic. A little outdated—the couch, TV, table, and carpet were all fifties style. It was the woman in a blue floral print dress that shocked me. Her pleated skirt flowed as her blue high heels clicked off the floor.
I was so stunned that all I could get out was a quiet, “Lillianna?”
Her red-painted lips twisted into a large smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Preston, you brought a friend.”
That happy, chipper tone was so out of character for the Lillianna Whitley I knew. Happiness didn’t exist in her world. She was the cause of misery for so many people in this town. Riley and her mother, Tico, and even Lana Crawford, who married her son, weren’t beyond her wrath. I once heard her call Riley’s dad a traitor because he married a woman from Mexico.
That was Lillianna Whitley. An arrogant, self-absorbed, bigoted bitch that deserved all the miseries hell had to offer. Yet here she was with a frilly apron tied around her waist and a bun in her blonde hair. I couldn’t stop staring at her.
I barely heard Preston say, “This is Marnie.”
“You two are just in time. I made cookies.” She sang in a sweet tone that further confused me.
Sweet was not a word to describe Lillianna Whitley. I don’t think I’d ever seen her smile, let alone dance over to a cookie jar in the corner. What the hell was happening? She’d clearly been through something. Two of the fingers on her right hand were gone, so was her left ear, and she had a large scar curling up from the corner of her mouth to her forehead. Yet her eyes shone brightly.
“I thought she was dead.” She looked pretty good for a dead person.
“She is.”
He was not going to make me question my sanity this way. His mother was not a hallucination. Anyone could see her. “She’s right there, Preston.”
“But is she?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“Look at her, happy as a clam baking shit.” He leaned in and added, “Could you see my mother doing something like that?”
Well…no. But the evidence stated otherwise.
“Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to someone. Isn’t that right, Lillianna?”
“That’s right, dear.” With the smile still on her face, Lillianna twirled around and set a plate of cookies on a small table. I watched her stare at the plate as if searching for something, then jumped back when she clapped her hands. “Milk! You can’t have cookies without milk.”
“That’s not your mother.” That much I was sure of.
“No,” Preston agreed. “That’s Ava’s mother.”
Preston walked over and placed his hands on the table to lean down and look into his mother’s eyes.
