The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Fifth Annual Collection

“T/n’s place sure isn’t big enough,” said Ruth. She stopped on the way to the kitchen and scanned the dining room. “Even if you got rid of these bookcases, it wouldn’t work. You need more space.”

“You know, Jack,” said Will, “I have a friend in the real estate business. If you need any advice. Where’s the Scotch?”

“Hold on . . .”

Chrissie winked at him as she passed. “They want to know if we’ve set the date. What do you think? Should we tell them everything?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said Will, rising and navigating for the bedroom door. “I want to hear this.”

His stomach clenched. “Where are you going?”

Will grinned. “To take a leak. That all right with you?”

“Uh, would you mind using the other bathroom? This one’s—stopped up.” Chrissie said, “It is? You didn’t tell me that.”

“I was going to. I was going to tell you all.”

“Tell us what?” asked Ruth, coming out of the kitchen.

They looked at him expectantly. There was a long pause. His hands were shaking.

“I don't know where to start,” he said. He tried a laugh but it came out wrong. “Take your time,” said Ruth. “We’ve got all evening.”

Chrissie squeezed his arm. “Who needs a drink?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Maybe we could have a drink first.”

“What’s this?” said Chrissie. She kicked the book bag on the floor, where the little girl had left it.

“Nothing,” he said. “Here. Let me give you a hand.”

He walked her to the kitchen.

“I can explain,” he said.

“Explain what? You look tired, Jack. Was it an awful week?”

He took a deep breath. “Just this. I know it sounds crazy, but—”

On his way out of the small bathroom, Will stuck his head in the kitchen. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Of course not,” said Chrissie.

“If this is a bad night for you two—”

There was a piercing scream from another part of the house.

He knew what it was before he got there.

The little girl was in the bedroom doorway, rubbing her eyes. She had on one of his shirts.

“Daddy?”

Ruth and Will looked at her. So did Chrissie. Then they looked at him.

“Oh, Daddy, there you are! I had a nightmare. There were people. Are they going now?”

“Daddy?” Chrissie stared at him as though she had never seen him before.

He focused on the little girl as his stomach clenched tighter.

“Tell them,” he said.

“What?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Daddy.”

“All right,” he said, “that’s it. You’re leaving—right now. I’ll tell them the whole story myself. Come on. Let’s go.”

“No! I’ll tell. How you picked me up at the bus stop and got me in the car in front of all those people? Or how you cheated and stole for me? Or the part where you gave me a bath and dried me and kissed me and we took a nap together?” “I think we’d better be leaving,” Ruth said.

“Yes,” said Chrissie. “That might be a good idea. A very, very good idea.” “Wait.” He followed her out. “Chris, I—”

“Don’t,” she said. “I have to think. And don’t call me.”

He watched numbly as the cars drove off. It started to rain softly, a misting drizzle in the trees above the mercury-vapor lamps. He watched until their red taillights turned the corner, like the reflection of a fire passing and moving on, leaving the street darker than ever.

“No,” he said, hunching his shoulders. “No. No. No ...”

He went back into the house.

“Where are you?” he shouted.

She was in the kitchen, helping herself to the food.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said. “You got dinner for us. Just you and me. Thank you!” “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He shook her violently.

“Daddy, you’re hurting me!”

“I’m not your daddy and you know it, you little wretch.”

“You’re scaring me!”

“Don’t bother to turn on the tears this time,” he said. “It won’t work.”

She broke free and ran.

He braced himself against the table to stop shaking while he reached for the bottle of scotch and poured a double shot.

Then he walked slowly, deliberately to the living room.

“Out,” he said. “I don’t care if it’s raining. You’ve done enough. Get your things and—”

She had the phone in her hand.

“Daddy?” she said into the mouthpiece. “C-can you come get me? I don’t know how to get home . . . and I’m scared!”

He tried to take the phone away, but she dodged him and kept on talking. “It’s cold . . . and dark . . . and there’s a man here ... I think he’s crazy! Daddy, tell me what to do! I don’t like this place!”

She gave a description of his street.

“Daddy, please come quick!”

Then she began to sing sweetly, a high, plaintive keening like the wind outside, and the rain that blew with it, settling so coldly over the house.