R/Nosleep (Get Spooked)

Frances Isn't Who I Thought She Was (Suburbia Part 7)

By u/firesidechats451

"We need to talk."

For a moment, I just stared at Frances, sitting at my kitchen table at 2 in the morning like she belonged there.

"Yeah, we do," I said, setting my mask on the counter. "How the hell did you get in my house?"

"What happened down there," Frances continued as though I hadn't spoken. "It's not what you think. The HOA is lying to you. They're using you."

"I don't have time for this." I scrubbed at my eyes and turned to leave. "I have work in the morning."

"What do you do for a living?"

I stopped. "Excuse me?"

"Your job. What do you do? You never talk about it."

"I work with spreadsheets." God, it was so late and my head hurt from crying. "Data entry."

"And what data do you enter?"

"Numbers!" I snapped. "What the fuck else would I enter?"

"Numbers for what? A budget? Inventory? Conversion rates?" Frances leaned forward, her dark eyes more intense than I've ever seen before. "Who do you work for, anyway? What's the company name?"

"It's . . ." I fumbled, the name escaping me. I searched my memory, but it was completely blank. It must be because I was so tired—I needed to get to bed, I would feel better tomorrow—

"What do they do?" Frances rose and walked around the table, her eyes never leaving mine. "Do they work in insurance? Retail? Home dinner kits?"

"Stop it." I rubbed my temples, the headache growing. I couldn't remember what my company did—what was on my paychecks? What were the contents of my emails? It was all a blank. "It hurts . . ."

"They're lying to you." Frances's hand on my arm was gentle, but strong. She moved my hand away from my face, drawing me closer until there was nowhere else to look but her. One hand cradled my cheek as she spoke, her voice heartbreakingly sad. "I don't know what you think you did, but it's a lie. That ritual is a spell to modify memories—whatever you think happened, it didn't."

A woman screaming, then sobbing brokenly. "My babies . . . my babies . . ."

"You're wrong." I pushed Frances away and stepped back to clear my head. "I know what I did. I know what I deserve."

"What did you do?" Frances didn't move toward me, but she watched me like I was a cornered animal, ready to bolt any moment.

"I . . . I ki . . ." My voice failed. I'd never spoken it out loud. "I was driving. It was late. And snowing. I-I fell asleep. There was another car." My throat closed up with tears, but I pressed on. "I don't really remember what happened. There was honking and I opened my eyes and the car was coming right for me . . . my SUV rolled. I woke up upside down, in a ditch. The other car . . . there was a woman screaming . . . h-her k-kids . . ."

I broke down sobbing. Suddenly, Frances's arms were around me. I clung to her instinctively, weeping uncontrollably and dribbling snot onto her shirt. Eventually, I quieted. I waited for Frances to let go, but she still held me, rubbing my back soothingly until I stopped shaking.

"There was an accident," she said quietly, her voice close to my ear. "But there was only one car. You didn't kill anyone."

I pulled away, confused. "What? How would you know?"

"I went to the scene myself. Look." Frances reached into her pocket with one hand and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her photos, then showed me the screen. I peered, dumfounded. There was my SUV, upside-down in the snow, police loitering around it. With a sensation as though the world was tilting, I took Frances' phone and flipped through the photos. There were dozens—photos of the SUV, of the trail it'd cut in its descent from the road, of the road itself, partially covered in snow. There wasn't a single sign of another car in any of the pictures.

I kept scrolling, but I'd seen the last photo of the accident. I was about to hand the phone back to Frances when the new picture made me stop dead. It was a picture of Frances . . . and me. We were smiling at the camera, each of us with a glass of wine. The next photo was another of us, throwing peace signs as we reclined on a couch. The next was a photo of me alone, in a very nice red dress, my hair done up. The background looked like some sort of restaurant.

But it was the next photo that made me stop. I was in the red dress, and Frances was in a suit with nothing under the low-cut jacket. The angle was a bit off because Frances wasn't looking at the screen. She was too busy kissing me. And I was kissing her back with a look of pure bliss.

I turned to stare at Frances, who watched me carefully. She'd stepped back to give me space, and her posture was as calm as ever. The only thing that gave away her feelings was the glimmer of tears in her eyes.

"I . . ." I stared at the photos. Was this a trick? I didn't remember any of this. Then again, I didn't remember anything. When I tried to recall my life before Blessed, the only thing that surfaced was the accident. "Who . . . who are you?"

Frances released a shaky breath, and it was only then I realized how anxious she must be. "My name is Francesca Donjon. I . . . we were together. Are together. For over four years now."

As she said it, I knew it was true. It just made sense. How familiar she seemed. How instantly we seemed to click when we first met. How she'd cared for me the past few days—how she'd protected me from the moment she got here.

"And you," Frances—Francesca—said, extending her hand tentatively. When I didn't flinch away, she caressed my face, her palm warm against my skin. "Your name isn't Sheila.

"It's Kate. Kate Monroe. You have a family—a mom, dad, three older brothers. You're a social worker, you work with kids dealing with trauma." She cupped my face with both hands. "The people in charge here, they stole you. They stole everyone here. And they're using you."

My hands closed instinctively over hers, our fingers interlocking. "For what?"

"I don't know." That hard glint reappeared in Francesca's eye, a look that was even more familiar. "But I'm going to find out."