Chapter 7: Who to Trust
Emma was conflicted. A part of her wanted to stay. To tell them everything. To trust them. But reason and experience pulled her in another direction. If she stayed, if she trusted, could they protect her? If she told them everything, would they believe her?
Donnie was wrapping the girl's tender wrists in gauze when Leo returned from walking April home.
"Leonardo," said their father casually, "if memory serves, your room does not require a map and several days' rations to navigate."
Frowning, Donnie opened his mouth to argue—then he remembered the spoils of his latest junkyard run still piled on his bedroom floor—and held his tongue.
Mikey just grinned proudly.
Smirking, Leo nodded in understanding and started toward the staircase. "I'll get a clean set of sheets."
"I can help!" Mikey called, grabbing another slice of pizza before racing after his older brother.
Donnie carefully secured the gauze and sat back on his haunches with a pleased smile. "There," he said. "A couple ibuprofen and a good night's sleep and you'll feel better in no time!"
Liar! Emma thought irritably several hours later, tentatively touching the butterfly bandage over the cut on her forehead. She didn't feel at all better, not about anything.
She sat on the floor of Leonardo's room, her back against the newly-made bed, a change of clothes in a pile beside her. With her knees pulled up under her chin, she had listened to her hosts settle in for the night with all the audible efficiency of a train wreck:
"—whole afternoon's efforts wasted."
"I'm certain you will sort it all out tomorrow. Though perhaps you can spare the kitchen appliances? I just bought that toaster."
"D'you fink she'sh—"
"Mikey! That's my toothbrush!"
"No i' i'nt!"
"Take it outta your mouth, moron!"
There was a short pause, then, "ARGH!"
"Ew!"
"Mikey!"
"Dude, nashty!"
Someone groaned. "You just spit toothpaste all—"
"Don't throw it!"
"Donnie! My mowf! I'm infected!"
"This is bullshit!"
"Raphael!"
"Why do I gotta clean up Donnie's crap?"
"Why do you feel the need to continually wrestle your brothers in the front room?"
"'Cause they continually feel the need to bug the hell outta me in the front room!"
"Stop! Dad, Mikey's drinking the hand sanitizer!"
"No! Give it back, Don! It's a matter of life and death! I'm feeling broody and violent! Loo' a' my tongue! I t'ink I've got Raph parasites! Call the center for disease and nasty stuff! I can see a light!" There was a loud thud and a series of dramatic choking noises.
"I can't take you seriously when you act like this. Your tongue is hanging out of the wrong side of your mouth. And we've been over this, you don't call the Center for Disease Control in an emergency, you call an ambulance."
And so it went in a long, drawn out cacophony of noise: fights and running, shouting and laughter, overloud disputes over toothpaste and toilet seats and dirty underwears. And even more baffling was their ridiculous tendency throughout all this to whisper and shush each other every time they passed her door.
By the time everyone had finally settled in for the night, Emma was convinced she had been admitted into some sort of asylum. But as the silence crept in around her, uninterrupted, Emma let her legs slide slowly down in front of her as she considered her options.
"We're the good guys!"
"They gotcher back."
A part of her wanted to believe them, to tell them everything and trust they would believe her.
"I have a new question for you," said the detective as he re-entered the room.
Emma scowled impatiently, not bothering to turn her head in his direction.
"Who are you really?"
Emma blinked.
"Customs records show Dr. Claire Hughes and her daughter, Emma, haven't been in England for over six years," he told her matter-of-factly.
Emma jumped at the slap of paper on the table in front of her.
"So why don't we start over?" he continued. "And this time you can tell us who you really are."
No one had believed her! The authorities in London found nothing: no body or blood or witnesses. Nothing. The men. Her mother. They were just gone. Like nothing had ever happened. Like Emma's whole world hadn't come crashing down around her in a matter of moments.
Shaking her head, Emma stubbornly clambered to her feet, carefully making her way to the door. As her fingers curled around the cool, metal knob she paused, bolstering her courage and resolve with a deep, if slightly unsteady, breath. Rotating her wrist, her movements painstakingly slow; she tried to listen for any signs of detection beyond the hard rapping of her heart against her ribs.
Silence.
Slowly, she pulled the door open just enough to slip through and released the knob. Moving as quickly as she dared and staying close to the wall, Emma skimmed her left hand along the textured paint, wary of unexpected furniture and sudden corners. After minutes that felt like hours, she was standing at the top of the stairs. There was no carpeting on the four flights of steps she had climbed several hours earlier and she could only hope the landings had been cleared of the clutter that had been there before.
She paused to have another listen.
Silence.
With another fortifying breath, Emma started down slowly, keeping close to the banister, her left hand sliding over the smooth, cool wood. One flight, a landing, another flight, another floor. She paused again, licking her lips.
Silence.
Another flight, another landing and Emma gingerly made her way down the last few steps, heart fluttering in her chest despite her success. Shaking her head, she stood at the base of the stairs; she could hear the hum of the central heating but otherwise—
Silence.
Heart in her throat, Emma took the first cautious step into the large, open space of the living room, the fingers of her left hand hesitantly slipping away from the banister as the fingers of her right hand stretched out before her, feeling for any obstacles in her path.
Raph chased a handful of aspirin with long swig of water, hearing the quiet footsteps on the stairs behind him and smirking. Apparently even the steadfast Leonardo was no match for Mikey's snoring.
Good ol' Mikey, loud and obnoxious even when he was unconscious.
Grinning, Raph turned to harass his older brother and froze.
What the—!
Little Reckless was standing at the base of the staircase, still dressed in her torn, bloody clothes, one hand gripping the banister, looking for all the world like a ninja on a mission.
Except that all the lights were on.
Arching an amused eyebrow, Raph leaned against the kitchen island.
Cautiously, she stepped away from the stairs, raising one arm in front of her and then the other.
Raph swallowed a laugh. She looked like a damn zombie! "Goin' somewhere?" he chuckled.
The girl whirled in his direction with an ear-piercing shriek, the sound so unexpected that Raph dropped his glass, which shattered on the kitchen tile at his feet.
Scowling at the mess, Raph swore under his breath, hearing movement upstairs. Looking up at Reckless, however, made him regret his earlier amusement.
Her one eye was open wide, her face pale and fists raised in front of her, chest heaving with frantic, uneven breaths; she looked terrified.
Yorik moved swift and silent down the stairs, his heart like a jackhammer in his chest. He could hear his sons shuffling less quietly in their rooms and was almost positive Mikey had just fallen out of bed with a loud thwump.
Rolling his eyes, Yorik slowly rounded the corner of the final landing. He could see the girl near the bottom of the stairs, her body trembling and tense, fists raised.
Leonardo stopped beside him, wide-eyed and alert.
Yorik caught his son's eye and shook his head once.
Stay!
Brow furrowed, his eldest nodded and Yorik cautiously descended the final few steps only to find Raphael standing in the kitchen, his expression shifting from guilty to irritated.
"I ain't armed," Raph growled.
Leo released an audible breath of annoyance. "It's just Raph," he grumbled at Donnie and Mikey, who had stopped on the steps above him.
As they all came down, the girl slid back a step, turning slightly so she was facing everyone, fists still raised.
"Raphie," said Mikey around a yawn, "you haven't hit a note like that since that spider crawled up your pan—"
"Wasn't me, ding dong," snapped Raph. "And I didn't scream like that."
Mikey chortled sleepily. "Dude, you put little girls everywhere to shame."
Their father shot Mikey a quelling look before raising an expectant eyebrow at Raph.
"Don't look at me!" said Raph with a shake of his head. "Little Reckless here's the one tryin' to sneak out."
They all looked at the girl.
She looked so lost and alone—Leo swallowed hard and shook his head. What happened to you?
Running a weary hand through his hair, their father took a step closer. Leo could see the pulse in her neck flutter and, just like that, the girl's entire demeanor wilted before them, her arms dropped to her sides, her body almost curling in on itself as she slumped toward the floor.
All of them moved at once, but their father caught her before she hit the ground.
Shaking, Emma felt her defenses collapse, felt the weight of all the fear and pain and exhaustion consume her.
"These're good guys here."
"You are a remarkably resourceful little twelve-year-old, Miss Hughes."
"We're the good guys!"
"Who are you really?"
"Stay still," her mother whispered urgently. "No matter what, do you understand?"
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