Curiouser (Girls of Wonder Lane Book 3) Read online

  Curiouser

  a novel

  Christina Coryell

  Books by Christina Coryell:

  The Camdyn Series

  A Reason to Run

  A Reason to Be Alone

  A Reason to Forget

  For No Reason

  Unwrapped

  Girls of Wonder Lane

  Simply Mad

  Crowned

  Curiouser

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorChristinaCoryell

  Twitter: @c_tinacoryell

  www.christinacoryell.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. To contact the publisher, submit a request at www.christinacoryell.com.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Christina Coryell

  Cover images copyright © 2015 by Kassi Hillhouse Photography

  Curiouser

  To Mom and Dad,

  For teaching me about

  hard work and kindness,

  and for all of your love and support

  Chapter One

  Alexis

  Four years have passed since I woke up on the other side of the mirror. That morning I stared at my reflection, feeling beautiful and accomplished and ready to conquer the world. By the time I glimpsed my own countenance the next morning, everything had been ruined.

  It would seem that one would sense a huge switch like that before it occurred, but that didn’t happen for me. I dipped a toe into Wonderland, and suddenly things shifted. Everything made sense, while nothing made sense. Toxic formulas invited me to taste, mocking “Eat Me” or “Drink Me” as though they could alter reality. And I did what they suggested, making myself more noticeable or invisible, until the white rabbit appeared and I found myself careening after him, headlong into a hole.

  Things were definitely not as they appeared, and the aftereffects of the descent clouded my brain. I grew convinced that I was larger than life and my arms and legs were poking precariously through the windows of the house, yet I was so insignificant that an ocean of tears could sweep me away.

  Trapped on the wrong side of the mirror, I could see the girl before she stepped inside, innocent and trusting. The desire to warn her overcame me, but it was too late.

  There was no return, and it was too late.

  So I’ve learned to make the best of the nonsense in my own way, while I’m dwelling on the other side of the mirror. There are glimpses of beauty here, after all. Sometimes I see wonder on this side, like when I take a moment to glance behind me at the sleepy little darling in my backseat. Such beauty doesn’t belong in chaos, which is why I decided to try to break free. If I manage to get myself far enough away from where I first entered the rabbit hole, perhaps we can find ourselves on the proper side of the mirror after a time. We can start fresh, forging new identities with brand new reflections, only slightly altered by their pasts.

  But then my eyes drift to the rearview mirror and the vision of the red pickup truck pulling a trailer, its driver peering straight ahead toward my car, mocking me with his uninterested stare. This is no beginning for him, but simply a frivolous lark of an adventure. Why shouldn’t he tail us the entire way to Louisville, forcing himself into our lives and stranding my forward motion to a permanent halt? Jake McAuliffe doesn’t care which side of the mirror he’s on—he works both with ease, proffering his smile on unsuspecting new Alices, using that dimple in his left cheek to his full advantage.

  And so I force my focus back to the road ahead of me, determined to do whatever it takes to begin again, fully aware that my past is barely beyond my taillights.

  The road ahead of me stretches on with barely any traffic in sight, so I glance back at my dozing daughter, her hair the shade of brown sugar twisting in soft curls under her chin. Bailey Nicole Jennings is three and a half, and although part of me feels that I’ve always known my daughter somewhere deep in my soul, I also wake up most mornings feeling like I might have been lost in a dream and she doesn’t really exist. She is the sole individual I can credit for keeping me sane some days, but she has also been the reason for most of my downward spirals. Not that I regret her presence in my back seat—far from it. The only thing causing me consternation at the moment is the red pickup behind me, and that’s only because I’m allowing the man inside to steal my peace.

  Folks in my neck of the woods were plenty shocked when my little beauty was born and I decided to name her Jennings, completely ignoring her father. Shouldn’t I have ignored him, though, when he opted to do the same to me?

  I shake myself out of that mental torture, knowing to dwell on it now when he is so clearly in my sights will only drive me half insane. My focus on making this trip should reach no farther than the occupants of my own vehicle, making a future for myself and my daughter. What Jake feels he has to prove in following us is beyond the scope of my imagination at present, and I’d like to keep him out of my line of thinking at least until we reach our destination.

  Bailey takes the opportunity to release a slight sigh as she shifts in her car seat. She’s nearly the age I was at the first memory that I can readily recall, which almost sends me into a panic when I realize that simple fact. My wish for my daughter is to give her a life she deserves and love her enough for two parents, but when I think that she might soon be at the stage where she will remember our day-to-day happenings, it causes me more fear than I’d like to admit.

  My earliest memory always draws me back to five years old, my parents’ little house, so much red, and that fateful day when I lost a bit of my innocence.

  Nick and Crystal Jennings were blessed in the early days of their marriage with two healthy pregnancies that resulted in two very different daughters. Mom says that I was an easy baby, never giving her any trouble, sleeping on a schedule, seemingly pleased at the mere thought of being alive. From the moment she came wailing and screaming into the world, however, it was a well-established fact that Heather would be the daughter who craved attention. There was never any serious consideration given to what our roles would be within the family unit, because we simply were who we were. It didn’t seem profitable for me to thwart nature’s design, so I learned to blend into the shadows whenever Heather wanted her spotlight.

  Dad was a preacher in Jackson, Tennessee in my early years. Mom supported him by loving everyone imaginable, giving selflessly of her time and resources, and trying to raise two daughters in their parents’ footsteps. I was an easy sell to the idea; Heather, on the other hand…

  She was four when she confronted me on the validity of our parents’ convictions, and although it was par for the course with my younger sister and would be for the remainder of time, my five-year-old brain found her rebellious spirit distressing and unnerving.

  “Those cookies are for tonight’s meeting,” Mom told us both as we stood there in the kitchen, me wearing a romper with strings tied at the shoulders, while Heather was attired in the requisite pink leotard with a purple tutu. I simply nodded my understanding, while Heather’s head remained stationary, not acknowledging that she heard. The twinkle in her eye was unmistakable, because I had seen it before.

  The instant Mom left the room, Heather climbed onto a chair and placed her chubby little fist on the counter.

  “Mama
said no.” It was a superfluous statement, because Heather heard our mother just as clearly as I had, but I felt the need to reiterate the simple fact.

  “So?” Her sticky fingers reached out for a cookie, plucking it up into her palm, greedily pressing her lips together.

  “God can see you, Heather,” I whispered, glancing back at where our mother had just disappeared into the hallway.

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head at me, the ringlets that formed at the bottom of her dark hair bouncing with the movement. “Didn’t last time.”

  She was always slightly ornery at best, but she didn’t usually try to justify her actions.

  “How do you know?”

  “He didn’t stop me.”

  “You’re supposed to stop your own self,” I informed her, taking my role seriously. Look out for your sister, my parents always told me. Goodness knows I tried.

  “They just tells you that to get you to do stuff,” Heather informed me as she climbed down, pinching off a piece of that cookie to shove between her lips. My conflicted young mind watched as she swung her arms back and forth on the way out of the room. When she paused at the doorway to stuff the rest of the cookie into her mouth, she gave me a rude, smirking grin, showing me the cookie mess through her teeth.

  She strolled into the hallway as though she had done nothing wrong, and for the first time in my short life I wondered if she might be right. She had blatantly done something she was told not to do, and there was no adverse reaction. There likely wouldn’t be one, either, unless I decided to go against my nature and react like a tattle-tale.

  Her words bothered me more than I liked to admit. Though they were spoken out of petulance, they rattled something deep inside that I hadn’t bothered to try to that point. They affected me so much, in fact, that I decided to attempt to prove her right later that evening.

  We had a modest ranch-style home, with three small bedrooms and one bathroom. The bathroom situation would not prove to be a nuisance until later in life, when Heather decided she had to look her best at everyone else’s expense. On that particular day, though, I sat fully clothed on the lid of the toilet, staring at the green and black-marbled Formica countertop. It was clean, of course, just like everything always was, with no water spots or toothpaste remnants. Cleanliness was next to Godliness—another mantra from my mother that Heather didn’t subscribe to, but seemed to be written somewhere on my conscience.

  Directly underneath that countertop, in the first drawer next to the toilet, dwelled a box that held untold treasures. I had seen them when my mother readied herself for special occasions… bright colors, plush brushes, and tubes filled with richly-hued creams. We were not to touch, and even Heather had been sensible enough to obey that command. But if I was going to test it, I was going to test it in a big way, full-out and brash as though I were preparing for my own funeral.

  Rising from the toilet, I stood before the drawer, wrapping my small fingers around the brass handle. With one gentle tug it moved toward me, the yellow box adorned with a painting of blue hydrangeas coming into view. My hands closed around the box as I drew it out of the space, placing it atop the counter so gently it didn’t even make a whisper of noise. As I pulled the top of the box up, the hinge creaked and the lid sprung in the air a couple inches before I pushed it fully open.

  The choices were endless, and I knew the rules: Never touch the things Mommy keeps in this box. Understand, Heather? Off limits. She never felt the necessity to ask if I understood, because of course I did. She never had to tell me anything twice.

  Still, it was I who stood there staring at the makeup in the box, waiting for something to stop me from reaching into that treasure trove. Other than my little internal whisper of my mother’s voice, nothing was coming through. Grasping a black tube with a shock of red under the clear cap, I drew it toward me, staring at its contents. Lipstick. There was no hiding lipstick, was there?

  The cap slid off rather easily into my palm, and I pressed the waxy paste to my bottom lip, drawing a line with the deep crimson. There was no lightning, or Formica splitting in two, or the mirror bubbling as a physical confirmation of my wrongdoing. It was simply wrong, what I was doing.

  Determined to take it as far as necessary, I pushed harder, grinding the lipstick against my mouth until my entire pout was blood red. When I was finally satisfied, I placed the clear cap back on the tube and shoved the lipstick into its place in the box, returning it to the drawer. One swift push back into place and the bathroom was returned to its previous state, no sign of anything having taken place in that room besides the rather obvious stain on my face.

  I’d done it, hadn’t I? For a moment, I was as carefree about the consequences of my actions as Heather. She would have felt triumphant, I’m certain—disobeying never seemed to have an adverse reaction on my little sister, even when it led to punishment. There was no triumph in my gaze, though, as I stared at my reflection. The girl staring back at me smacked of sorrow, shame, and remorse.

  Hastily grabbing a tissue from the box on the counter, I began brushing at the red, trying to make it disappear. With each swipe it spread across my face, uglier and more distorted than it had been a moment before.

  Minute after minute passed while I tried desperately to erase my guilt, pronouncing it more boldly on my face all the while. Instead of a little pucker of color, my entire chin looked burned and bruised, the area under my nose turning the shade of a ripe strawberry. I moved to retrieve a washcloth from the linen hutch to my left, then shoved it under the faucet, running warm water until it was soaked through. After wringing most of the water free, I lifted that cloth to my face, rubbing at the red splotches until I felt my skin tingling from the pressure and the force.

  Finally, the lipstick appeared to be on the cloth instead of my skin, which was mottled with red spots that appeared almost rash-like. I wasn’t one naturally given to blushing, but it appeared that I was overly embarrassed, or that someone had slapped my cheeks. The initial results of my deed had been erased, but the consequences remained on my delicate skin.

  Dropping the washcloth into the trash, I placed a couple crumpled tissues over it to hide the evidence. With a short pause at the door to listen for footsteps, I eased myself into the hall and pretended to itch my nose so my hand would be in front of the proof, should someone happen to see me. When no one seemed to notice my reemergence, I headed straight for my bedroom, closing the door to the outside as I flung myself under my bed until the evidence passed, if it ever would.

  Hiding there under the bed, one thing was certain to me with more clarity than anything up to that point in my young life: He saw. In my heart, I felt it deeply. Heather was wrong, He saw everything, and I hated trying to hide the red.

  Chapter Two

  Alexis

  My eyes lift to the side mirror, where I notice the red pickup behind me again. Red, like the memory that was just flooding my mind. My heart was ready to be completely removed from Jake, separated by the miles and a state line. Not that he ever had a piece of my heart, or even a sliver for that matter. Bailey does, though, and I despise the fact that he can have so much influence over our lives.

  It’s been only the last six months or so that he began taking an interest in Bailey, and despite the fact that I longed to block his involvement, my sense of propriety told me it wasn’t right. At first I only allowed him an hour or two with her at a time, but once he had proven trustworthy, I allowed him to watch her on Saturdays while I was working.

  It was my own fault, I suppose. The call came about the interview in Louisville, and instead of trusting my gut instincts and leaving Bailey with my parents, I allowed him to convince me. It wasn’t difficult, to be honest…the man could be smooth enough to convince a nun to give up her vows on her deathbed.

  Had I been on the phone with him, the outcome likely would have been different. Telephone Jake is cocky to the point of seeming smarmy, that flirtatious tone in his voice grating over my nerves like the tines of
a rake scraping a leaf pile on a concrete slab. Not that he’s flirted with me in years—he basically loathes the fact that I exist, and the feeling’s largely mutual.

  There’s something charming about the face-to-face Jake, though. His words drip with earnestness, his countenance growing expressive, the tone of his voice becoming gentle. He’s practiced in getting his way, and those easy good looks don’t hurt his cause.

  He dropped Bailey off that particular day, and when I told him about the interview he casually offered to watch her for the weekend.

  “I’d like to be able to spend some time with her, especially if you’re thinking about moving.” He said that with such a sincere look on his face, I actually found myself considering his words. It would be wrong for me to withhold Bailey’s father from her when he was honestly making an effort for a change, right?

  My lips began agreeing before I fully convinced my head, and once the words were out, it was too late to take them back.

  When I answered the door that Sunday after returning to Jackson, he looked slightly worse for wear, but Bailey was in one piece and seemed happy. It was only after he left that the words began tumbling out.

  “Jay take me to see Cam. I sleeped in her bed.”

  And just like that, a million mental images flooded my mind, looking nearly identical with the exception of the minor details. Jake and some half-naked woman letting my daughter sleep between them on the bed. Jake and some half-naked woman letting my daughter sleep to the left of them on the bed…to the right of them on the bed…above them, below them…my heart constricting in my throat. Jake and some half-naked woman not sleeping while my daughter was on the bed.