Chapter Two
I stood there for a while, watching the moonlight dance on the remains of a rubber tire, a cluster of flowers hanging loosely from my right hand—tangible proof that I was not hallucinating, before I decided to make my way back to the hotel room.
The TV was tuned to a documentary, but I knew Jasper had been watching the doorway. He smiled when he saw me, but there was a hint of surprise in his eyes. I suppose I wasn't as relaxed as one should be after an almost four-hour stroll on the beach. He opened his arms, inviting me to curl up against his chest.
"Ugh, I need a cigarette." I pouted.
He chuckled and ran his fingers down my cheek. "What's wrong, my princess?"
I propped myself up on my elbow and turned to face him. "I saw her." I filled in the details, and understanding flickered across his face as he picked up the flowers that had fallen onto the champagne colored carpet.
"What do we do now?" He asked as he squeezed a bud between his fingers. He didn't like being here. He thought this endeavor would be completely fruitless and would only leave me baffled and hurt. I was beginning to see his point.
I spent the next two days rummaging through articles, obituaries, anything and everything pertaining to my family or St. Veran's Hospital: the only two things that I could think of that would tie me to Flower Girl. I couldn't help but assume we were, indeed, connected in some way; something in those electric eyes recognized me, spoke to me… haunted me.
"St. Veran's fire… one of the saddest things to happen to this community; took the life of the best damn doctor Biloxi had ever seen." A soft voice spoke behind me.
I turned to see a middle-aged man reading over my shoulder. He noted the confusion in my eyes, and nodded towards the paper in my hand. I had been so intent on forgetting the vision of the Flower Girl I hadn't noticed the headline:
'Twenty-five Die in St. Veran's Fire; Arson Suspected'
"They printed up a memorial page," he continued, "it should be in there somewhere"
"Thank you" I called after him as he toddled off to help a woman track down a copy of The Devil Wears Prada. I located the spread easily, and scanned it for any trace of familiarity. I could feel the frustration mounting and just as I was on the verge of giving up, when my eyes met a familiar stare. Even in black and white the Flower Girl's gaze was stunning. There wasn't much written about her, a pang of empathy shot through my chest.
Margaret Ruth Allen was just another 'special' girl, shunned by an intolerant society and thought dead by her family. I saw so much of myself in her innocent face; I knew I wouldn't rest until I understood every facet of her troubled mind. I had never felt as determined, as driven as I did in that moment.