THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

15. House Visit

It had taken Renata years of practice to master the perfect knock. "A quick, steady flick of the wrist," she would always tell young novices eager to learn. "One, two, three times, using the three innermost knuckles. Three knocks; three knuckles. Any less, and you will not be heard. Any more, and you will be considered intrusive by your host." It was the same technique she would be employing for this particular visit. At six o'clock sharp, she arrived at Dahlia's penthouse suite, bringing along a bag of her old clothes, and she knocked: one, two, three times.

Stepping back, Renata patiently waited for the girl to answer. "One minute," she counted as her fingers grazed the nape of her neck, searching for any hairs that might have escaped her tight bun.

"Two minutes."

Her red eyes narrowed into an impatient glare. "Three minutes."

Still, no answer.

Renata checked her watch. "... Four minutes?" She tapped her foot to the steady rhythm of her ticking mental clock. "Four minutes and thirty seconds."

Five minutes had passed, but to Renata it felt like five hours. She let out a quiet huff and then started digging through her bag. "I swear, nobody has manners anymore ... Ah, here it is!" She took the antique silver key and unlocked the door.

"Good morning, Dahlia," she said in a pleasant voice upon entering the suite. "Rise and shine. It's a beautiful day outside."

Receiving no answer, she proceeded to the bedroom, tiptoeing around and over the girl's soiled clothing (even the most personal of garments, which Renata considered most crude) and spoiled leftovers. Before entering the bedroom, she had to hop over a river of sticky, melted chocolate ice cream, and then she walked over to the bed and peered down at the lump beneath the satin sheets.

"Dahlia," Renata whispered, poking the lump with just the tip of her index finger. "Dahlia, wake up, please. Wake up!"

She went to the head of the bed and lifted the sheets to reveal ten dirty little toes. At the foot of the bed lay the rest of Dahlia's body, which was just as filthy, but her sleeping face held a sweet, serene quality. She was like a little angel who'd fallen asleep in a puddle of mud.

Renata tapped her cheek three times. "Dahlia, wake up."

"Hmm?" The girl's eyes fluttered open and slowly focused on the pale-faced woman beside her. "Renata? What are you doing here?"

"I brought you some clothes, just as promised."

"What time is it?"

Again, Renata glanced at her watch. "Six thirteen ... fourteen now."

The girl let out a groan and tried to throw the covers back over her head, but Renata caught her wrist and dragged her out of bed.

"Come, let's get you cleaned up. You look like you've spent the night sleeping in a pig pen. – Have you? – Oh, never mind, it doesn't matter. And what's this?" she asked, looking down at Dahlia's bloody palms. "You've cut your hands. What happened?"

"I don't know," Dahlia uttered, staring at her hands in horror. "I don't remember cutting myself. I don't remember anything after ... I had a drink with a very handsome man. He was so nice, and he treated me so well. I didn't want to leave, but I had to. I had to find Émile."

"Émile? Who is that?"

"A friend."

"Well, did you find him?"

"No, I must not have."

The musky odor of Dahlia's dried blood was starting to affect Renata. "Let's get you cleaned up," she said, "and then I'll bandage your hands and get you dressed."