Imaginary Strangers (Dangerous Strangers Thrillers) by Minka Kent

Author:Minka Kent [Kent, Minka]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2024-07-23T00:00:00+00:00

26

“Mommy, guess what Imaginary taught me today?” Georgiana is pure giggles when I pick her up Friday afternoon.

“Her name is Imogen—Ms. Carrey,” I remind her. We’ve talked about this countless times now—specifically that the woman’s name is Imogen, not Imaginary, and that she needs to keep her distance from her because some of the things she’s sharing aren’t appropriate. The first time, we talked about what appropriate meant in this context and I watched as Georgiana’s big blue eyes glazed over and she checked out of the conversation altogether.

She doesn’t want to hear—or believe—that her sixty-year-old best friend is anything other than what she wants her to be.

“She said I didn’t have to call her Ms. Carrey,” Georgiana pipes up.

Steeling my nerves, I decide to pick my battles and let it go so we can focus on the more critical details. “All right.”

“Okay, guess what Im-o-gen taught me today?” she restates her question, swinging my arm as we walk.

My jaw tightens, my body bristling in anticipation. “What did she teach you?”

“A song.” She clamps a chubby hand over her grin. “You want to hear it? It’s kind of scary.”

I don’t want to hear it . . . but I need to.

“Hush, little girlie, don’t you cry, Mama’s gonna sing you a lullaby, if this song won’t make you sleep, Mama’s gonna give you nightmares to keep,” she sings, though I already know where this is headed. Lucinda used to sing this to me all the time. My stomach churns with each off-pitch note and warped lyric, tuning her out until she gets to the end of the hauntingly familiar melody. “So hush, little girlie, close your eyes, Mama’s gonna give you a big surprise, sleep now, girl, in the cold night air, Mama’s love is twisted, but she’ll always be there.”

I have no words.

“Mommy, isn’t that song so silly?” She tugs on my hand. “It’s a Halloween song.”

It’s not a Halloween song.

It’s a song created by a demented mother to frighten her child for her own sick amusement.

“It’s terrifying, Georgie. Why do you think a mother singing to her child about giving them bad dreams is funny?” My heart is in my throat, lurching, ricocheting with the profound fear that I might have given birth to the second coming of Lucinda.

Dr. Runzie always said sociopaths were made, but psychopaths were born.

“Dreams aren’t real,” she says. “You told me that. That’s why bad dreams never scare me.”

“Yes. But not everyone is as brave as you. I don’t want to hear you sing that song again, okay? Not to your brother, not to me or your father, not to anyone else at school.”

“Okay.” She folds her chin against her chest as we make our way home. We’re lucky Will worked a half day today—subbing in on a four-hour outpatient procedure this morning as a favor to a colleague—and is holding the fort down with Jackson. I’d hate for Jack to hear—or repeat—a single line of that wretched excuse for a nursery rhyme.

We stop at the foot of our driveway several minutes later.

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