Downtown smells of car exhaust and the fumes of fast food restaurants. Lacey curls her nose at the pollution of it all, but all the same, her stomach growls when her nose chows down on the scent of hot fries here, fried chicken there. She's hardly eaten all day in anticipation for this dinner with the Almeidas, but as she traverses the walkway towards where she remembers Stella's house being, she considers just giving up, turning back, and ordering a day's worth of food.

No. Both ideas make her stomach churn. I'm stuck. She takes a deep breath and gets another strong whiff of grease and salt. Suck it up. Get it over with.

The sidewalk is endless, concrete diverging in a spiral towards each of the porches of the duplexes in this small community. Or maybe they're called "semi-detached." Eh, real estate isn't in her future, oh well. Regardless, she recalls it being close, friendly, quiet. Those things can probably be attributed to the fact that the village is fenced in with tall iron gates, and there's a separate driveway near the entrance, no garages or driveable paths within.

There must be disruption here, though, she thinks, pressing her gaze against each of the buildings. Knowing that someone else in an apartment that looks just the same as their own - one full story of reddish-brown bricks and grey slate roofs, all of them small, bland cubes for houses - could be taken, taken and killed. Knowing that their neighbors might start dropping like flies despite this security blanket of a place. That'll cause disruption, all right. It's in the air. Still and cold. Like death.

"You should try to talk more than usual tonight," Jeremy says, and she looks up at him. "I mean, I've just noticed that you don't uh, you don't talk very much when they're around, and we'll be here a while, so I just, y'know, think you should give it a...shot."

"Or you could talk more to make up for us both," she offers.

He scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, well, I was sort of hoping you talkin' would mean I'd need to talk less."

Yep. He's my dad, no doubt.

The brassy address numbers come into view and they march up the two chipped steps of concrete that compose the porch. There's a small section beside it with flowers planted to give the place some color, but the rain must be drowning the magnolias out, because they lay heavy and flat against the mulch. Staring at the poor, sopping plants, she sighs. "We can still book it before they know we're here."

Jeremy doesn't say anything. He merely reaches out and drives his finger into the doorbell. Lacey sticks her tongue out.

Within a few seconds, the heavy door and accompanying screen door open, and with it comes the scent of food, but not like any of the greasy shit out there; no, it smells like home, like spice and warm bread, like it hasn't been processed through a bone grinder and tossed into the deep fryer. She might've lifted her feet off the ground and floated inside to follow the heavenly aroma like they do in the cartoons.

But there's Maria, standing in the threshold, ruining the dream. She doesn't try to force a smile. Just looks Lacey in the eye curtly and nods at Jeremy. She makes way and waves them inside. "Mama, the Waits are here."

Lacey steps in first, engulfed initially in air burned by the heat from the stove, and then in a pair of thick arms, strangling her before she has time to take a breath that'll last. The arms pull her this way and that, and she nearly loses her footing in an attempt to follow and appease. The woman steps back, hands pressed to Lacey's shoulders. "It's been forever since I've seen you! You've grown!" Her eyes, a lighter brown than Stella's, roam Lacey's face, and she returns the favor: Stella's mother has gotten more plump, the corners of her eyes more wrinkled from smiling and laughing and age, and her hair lays soft and black and short, curling at the nape of her neck and around her ears. She's a cute oldish woman. Would be cooler if she let go.

"Hi, Rosalin," Jeremy says. Lacey can't see it, but she knows he's accompanied the greeting with an awkward wave. "I hope Eli sent you my best yesterday. I'm sorry I didn't catch up."

Rosalin waves him off and lets Lacey go with a gentle pat on the back. While the two of them converse, she scurries far enough away to avoid being dragged back into her grip.

It's surreal being back here, everything just as it once was, hardly changed except for some rearranged decor and replaced pictures. To the left sits the kitchen. Within stands Elijah, who busies himself with marching from one side to the other, grabbing one container and exchanging it for a utensil. He seems better, feels better, even. That uncomfortable looming that's been associated with him as of late is weak, pushed aside like it's not there at all. The distraction of cooking probably helps.

On his way to the fridge, he catches sight of her. "Evenin', Lacey. Y'all got here right on time, I've only got a few more minutes left on this stuff." He gestures with a sauce-laden spoon towards the living room to the right of the front door. "Why don't you go sit with Maria 'til it's done? I'm sure you can find somethin' to talk about, and if you can't, well, we've got TV." He returns to stirring the steam out of a pot.

Ah, great, she thinks while crossing her arms stiffly in front of her chest. She tries to press her lips into a passive smile, but it comes out flat and weird, so she leaves her own expression alone as she wanders into the cramped space.

They've managed to fill this small area with a surprising amount of furniture. It doesn't feel like excess, though; it feels homey, like someplace a family lives and breathes and gets along. Maybe it's the lighting. Each of the dim lamps slathers everything in a deep yellow, a soft orange, making the true color of the walls unclear. The curtains are drawn, like always. Nothing's changed.

Except Maria. She sits on the end of the couch closest to the window, arms crossed, legs crossed, leaning into the arm with a set of pursed lips. The television screen reflects on the lenses of her glasses.

Lacey doesn't even think about trying anything. In as unobtrusive a way as possible, she sits herself down on the opposite end of the couch and sinks into the cushions. And so, the wait begins.

Together, yet separate, they keep their eyes trained on the screen. Images flash by; blue and white and red strike against the eye, but she doesn't absorb any of it, too busy eavesdropping on the roaming conversation between Elijah and Jeremy and Rosalin. It's mostly small talk, but she keeps an ear open just in case they say something about Stella, before or after the incident. Have they felt a chill in the air, her presence lingering? Had they known something only to be shared amongst family friends?

A twitch of guilt makes her tighten her arms around herself. I should find a way to tell them. But I can't. No, they'd think I was nuts. And disrespectful, to boot. I hate knowing.

She sends all the scorn towards the screen, but she doesn't realize what images she's glaring at until Rosalin calls out and Maria feels compelled to pick up the remote and change the channel from the true crime documentary to one of those new sub-par Disney channel sitcoms (nothing else has been able to live up to That's So Raven). Lacey sends a curious glance through the corner of her eye, and Maria looks beyond, as if she isn't even there.

"Girls! Instead of resting those bums, why don't you help me set the table here, yes?"

Maria hops up without question and appears pleased to be occupying her hands with something. Lacey rises on knees that pop and wanders over at a gentle pace. With reluctant hands, she picks up a stack of plates and drifts over the table.

It's longer than your typical square - that's called a rectangle, stupid - and the surface is glass supported by blackened iron. Undoubtedly, it's been recently cleaned, but it's already collecting dust. She tries to wipe it away as she lays the plates down but it just leaves behind a clear fingerprint smudge. A cringe fills her face and she continues around.

If anyone were to look in through the window, they'd find a perfectly stable group of family and friends. A father cooks, and a mother taste tests straight from the spoon; a man loosens up with the help of a beer, and two girls dance around the table playing who-can-avoid-eye-contact-the-longest.

As warm as it seems, though, things hang on threads. They might notice an old hutch in the corner with a small box TV nearly scraping the ceiling atop it, trembling atop its perch whenever someone walks by it. It's an easy thing to ignore - everyone else does, after all - but that small clattering wobble is still ever-present and demands acknowledgement. The father's eyes sadden and the mother's lips twitch; the man pulls from the bottle just a little too long and the girls, well, ignoring the other person can only lead to one thing, and they bump into one another as they both reach out.

Maria finally throws her a look, a searing one devoid of its previous flatness. "Really?" she asks, plunking a fork down on the table. The noise catches attention, and everyone turns to the scuffle.

"Sorry," Lacey mutters. Her cheeks redden and her chest grows hot. It's not even my fault. She's making a big deal out of-

Rosalin curls her hands beneath a towel and smiles, but it's strained. "Lacey, I'll help Maria. Why don't you go get Sonia and- and Sonia?"

It's not like she has a choice, so she nods, but honestly, once she steps into the hall and out of sight, a weight lifts as eight eyes disappear. She can almost pretend everything is like it was before, trailing her hands along the wall. The hall is the same as before, some spots chock full of pictures and decor, and some spots completely bare, like there's no symmetry or reason to it at all. It was always something she liked, but maybe she's biased. These are inherent parts on the way to Stella's room, where they'd make beds on the floor and whisper beneath forts and tell ghost stories which, truth be told, got old really quick.

Maybe these inherent parts are what make her forget, momentarily, that she needs to turn into the door on the right, and instead sends her to the door at the very end of the hall.

It is left ajar, and the warm glow of a burning lamp peers through the crack - left on, perhaps, to give a semblance of normalcy to the situation. Lacey's knuckles press against the wood and the room folds out in front of her, just as she remembers. Well, not exactly. There's a shelf of trophies and awards up on the far wall where a band poster used to be, little cork boards and whiteboards stick above the desk unwashed, and a stack of books and binders sit precariously in the corner.

Most glaring of the changes, Stella isn't sitting on her flowered blankets with a goofy face to make her laugh. The room loses its color without her, its luster. It's just a room with a light that has nobody to shine on.

Lacey ducks her head and sighs. She takes a step back, ready to move on, but when she does she feels another foot under her own, and she yelps. A whirl takes kindly to her feet and a rush of adrenaline skirts along as she realizes that oh, God, she fucked up. "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't-"

"It's okay," Sonia says. Her smile is weak and her eyes striking with painted wings stretched away from them. She gestures vaguely to the door. "We can step inside for a minute, if you want."

Although Lacey furrows her brows with skepticism, she steps inside, and Sonia follows after. She lets the door click to a close before turning back, letting her gaze wander about the room. "It's weird," Sonia says, "not having her here. You get so used to being around the same people day in and day out, you forget they're not there, sometimes. You go, 'oh, she'd like this, I should show her' or 'she probably knows the answer to this' and then you come in here and realize you can't do that anymore. Expect to see her there and ready, I mean." She shoves her hands deep in the pockets of her jacket. "Have you ever lost family before?"

"I, uh..." Lacey rubs her arm through the fabric. Ah, now I have to contribute. "No. Not like that. When my parents divorced, it was a little like losing someone, but when we moved my mom just pretended like dad never existed. He sorta just faded out, I guess. I knew I couldn't go to him anymore." She adds, quickly, "I know that's not the same though since I can always visit or call."

"Hm."

They stand in silence for a moment, staring at the various bits and pieces of Stella that are left. Then, Sonia takes a deep breath. "I never thought it'd be her. Y'know? Maybe me, since I'm the oldest. If it was me, it'd be different. A little easier to swallow." She parts her lips, clamps them shut, then opens them again. "Even though she was the middle child, she was always the favorite. I think it's harder on everyone because of that. She could..." A short huff. "She could do no wrong. Makes you wonder where the balance in the world is."

Lacey has no idea what to say. It's a lot to unpack, and she's someone who tends to grab things out of the suitcase only when she needs them. Fortunately for her, the stove beeps, signalling the end of a boil, bubble and toil, double, double toil and trouble. Sonia steps out of the room and down the hall. For the next few seconds, she relishes this time she has alone.

On the way out, her eye catches on two glinting bells tied to a ribbon, the ribbon hanging from a nail on the wall. As she steps into the threshold she lets her fingers drift across the cool surface. There's a small tinkle of silver bells (silver bells!) and a rush skitters through her fingertips because it's Christmas time in the city and she can't bring herself to detach from them because they ring-a-ling (ring-a-ling) and she hears them ring (ting-a-ling) and with one sucking breath, the world morphs and darkens and fills her ears with a symphony of instruments because soon it will be Christmas day.

She sits within her own body, but it's a body years younger than it ought to be. The scene is immediately familiar: the ceilings slope up, high and magnificent, above the theater seating, above the stage. There are rows of people with instruments, blaring tubas and whistling flutes and Stella, there, with the trumpet. None of the other musicians matter, because Lacey's eyes don't dare drift elsewhere; no, Stella alone deserves all of her attention. That's what friends do. A friend would also readjust the bells slung over her shoulders and behind her neck by a ribbon, but she can't exactly run up and ruin the Christmas special, now, can she?

The song ends and the band is replaced by the orchestra. Lacey's chest tingles. That was the last song Stella will be playing tonight, and they'd agreed to meet in the lobby right after. Using the classic bathroom excuse, she struggles to pass Jeremy and her mother and the other strangers grunting in displeasure at her ungraceful exit. Eventually, though, she scurries up the slope and into the brightened front lobby.

It's a few minutes before Stella meets her there, but once she does, Lacey grabs at her hand eagerly and starts to drag her to the double doors. "C'mon! I want to make at least five flash snow angels before they figure out we did this."

Stella's laugh tinkles like the bells around her neck, and Lacey slows to finally readjust them so they don't hang precariously. Then, the chill kisses their cheeks, and a light flurry of snow dusts their hair, and a night downtown is dark but oh, so bright.

Lacey tugs her forward again and this time the two of them fall back in the snow side-by-side. She lashes her arms out against the snow and tufts of powder spray Stella's nose. The latter laughs and retaliates, until the both of them are flailing wildly in a snowbank like a couple of little kids. And, just like little kids, they tire easily until they're not moving at all, just staring at one another wordlessly.

Stella grins, but with it comes a violent shiver that wracks her whole body and makes the bells around her neck chime-

A bell chimes, and a violent shiver wracks her whole body. Stella's frown deepens.

The washer beside her has just finished its cycle, and the violent vibration of metal against concrete ceases to exist. For a moment, she stiffens, and the fingers tighten against the nail in her hands so hard that now she may very well have to worry about tetanus. She'd found it underneath the washer earlier that morning and been sawing away at the ropes ever since, but the silence gives her pause. The ceiling above creaks as someone walks. Dust sprinkles into her eyes. They burn with a subtle pain that flickers into something excruciating until she manages to blink it away.

It doesn't sound like anyone's coming down. She continues digging into the ropes binding her wrists.

What she can hear, however, are voices, two of them, as if caught in an argument. Their genders are indiscernible, morphed through the vision, and although Lacey isn't part of this scene, an angry heat washes over what must be her detached being.

"What do want me to do? What, in the everloving fuck, did you think I'd be able to do when you brought her here?"

"Fuck you. You owe me. You owe me everything. That's why I brought her here. I- I didn't know what else to do."

"And you thought I would?! What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Someone with a lot of things to hide. Things that I know about."

The washer bell chimes again, and a loud grunt of frustration emanates from above, followed by creaking floorboards. Stella's eyes widen, raw and wet, and she curls the nail into her palm again as the creaking descends down the stairs into this gritty basement. She keeps her head down, eyes only daring to trail after the feet of this stranger.

They scrape a white basket from the floor. As they fling open the washer lid and start digging clothes out, Stella's eyes drift towards the dark blue jeans they wear, jeans that cling tight to the legs. They don't share any words, but the lid slams and Stella flinches, and whoever the person is sighs, stands there for a moment picking around in the basket of clothes. "Can't believe we need to burn these," they say. The voice is foggy. "I liked this shirt."

Just go, Stella thinks, just go, just go. The nail peels into her skin.

The person eventually treks back upstairs, and the door shuts behind them. She immediately gets back to work tearing through the ropes, and five minutes later, she feels a distinct loosening around her wrists. It's so much of a relief it brings tears to her eyes, and she almost whimpers with the overwhelming rush of hope that fills her throat. She chucks the nail to the other side of the basement and wriggles out of the restraints. Her trembling fingers fumble with the ties around her ankles and her ears strain to keep track of where in the house above her the two are.

There. They're on the complete opposite side. Now. She needs to do this now.