Carolina Moon

blinked. “Take it? Don’t you want to run out and see it first?”
    “I have seen it. I’ll write out a check. First and last month’s rent?”
    “Yes.” Lissy shrugged. “Just let me print out the rental agreement.”
    Less than thirty seconds after the deal was signed and sealed and Tory walked out with the keys, Lissy was on the phone spreading the word.
    This, too, had changed. The house stood as it had always stood, back from a narrow dirt lane a short spit from the swamp. Fields spread on its west side, the tender shoots of cotton already sprung up out of the earth, their rows neat as docile schoolchildren. But someone had planted azaleas in pink and white, and a young magnolia tree near the bedroom window.
    She remembered the screens going rusty, and the white paint going gray. But someone had taken care here. The windows sparkled, and the paint was a fresh and soft blue. A front porch had been added, wide enough for the rocking chair that stood alongside the door.
    It was almost welcoming.
    Her pulse beat dull and thick as she walked toward it. There would be ghosts, but ghosts were why she’d come back. Wasn’t it better to face them all?
    The keys rattled in her hand.
    The screen door squeaked. She told herself it was a homey sound. A friendly screen door should squeak, and it should slam.
    Bracing it open, she fit the key in the lock, turned it. She took one deep breath before stepping inside.
    She saw the ragged couch with its faded roses, the old console TV, the frayed braided rug. Dull yellow walls with no pictures to brighten the space. The smell of overcooked greens and Lysol.
    Tory! You get in here and clean yourself up this minute. Didn’t I tell you I wanted this table set for supper before your daddy gets home?
    Then the image winked away, and she stood in an empty room. The walls were painted cream, a plain but serviceable color. The floors were bare but clean. The air carried the faint scent of paint and polish, more efficient than offensive.
    She stepped through to the kitchen.
    The counters had been redone in a neutral stone gray, and the cabinets painted white. The stove was new—or newer than the one her mother had sweated over. The window over the sink looked out to the swamp, as it always had. Lush and green and secret.
    Gathering her courage, she turned and headed toward her old bedroom.
    Had it always been so small? she wondered. Barely big enough to swing a cat in, she decided, though it had been large enough for her needs. Her bed had been close to the window. She’d liked looking out into the night, or into the morning. She’d had a little dresser, and its drawers had swelled and stuck every summer. She’d hidden books in the bottom drawer because Daddy didn’t approve of her reading anything but the Bible.
    There were good memories mixed with the bad in this room. Of reading late into the night in secret, of dreaming private dreams, of planning adventures with Hope.
    And, of course, of the beatings.
    No one would ever lay hands on her again.
    It would make a reasonable office, she decided. A desk, a file cabinet, perhaps a reading chair and lamp. It would do.
    She would sleep in her parents’ old room. Yes, she would sleep there, and she would make it her own.
    She started to go out, but couldn’t resist. Quietly, she opened the closet door. There, the ghost of herself huddled in the dark, face streaked with tears. She’d shed tears of a lifetime before she was eight.
    Crouching, she ran her fingers along the baseboard, and they trembled over the shallow carving. With her eyes closed, she read the letters with fingertips, the way the blind read braille.
    I AM TORY
    “That’s right. That’s right. I am Tory. You couldn’t take that from me, couldn’t beat that out of me. I’m Tory. And I’m back.”
    Unsteadily she got to her feet. Air, she thought. She needed air. There was never any air in the closet, never any light. Sweat sprang to her palms as she backed up.
    She turned to dash from the room, would have run from the house. But a shadow wavered outside the screen door. The afternoon sun poured in behind it, outlined it into the shape of a man.
    As the door squeaked open, she was eight years old again. Alone, helpless. Terrified.

4
    T he shadow said her name. The whole of it, Victoria , so that it flowed out like something rich poured from a warmed bottle.
    She might have run, and it shamed and surprised her to find there was still that much rabbit