Slain (21 page)

The next Monday, I go to her office again after school to begin my second week of punishment. She’s the Women’s Ministry director, and has an office on the second floor of the North Wing. It’s smaller than my dad’s, and positioned almost directly below his. Both of their windows face west toward the mountains, but only my dad can actually see them from his higher vantage point. My mother’s view is almost totally blocked by the school across the street. Only the very tips of the mountains peak out from above the roof.
 

While I do trig, she chatters to someone about table decorations for a banquet to raise money for some missionaries the Women’s Ministry is sponsoring in the Middle East somewhere.

I’m working through the first problem when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance up to see if my mom is looking, but she’s still talking, nearly oblivious to my presence. I sneak the phone out and look at the screen. There’s a text from Jackson.
 

I slide it back into my pocket. “I’m going to use the restroom,” I say.

She looks over and nods absentmindedly. Whatever she’s working on, she’s absorbed in it as usual.

I go to the restroom where I lock the door and press my phone to life. His words jump out at me from the screen.

Going crazy. Need 2 see u.
 

I think we should come clean.

Can u meet me?

What the hell does that mean? I text back fast.

?????????

Lots to tell u, but grounded, can’t meet.
 

Hang tight. Will call 2nite.

Love you.

I wish I could call him now, but it’s not worth the risk. He texts back immediately.

Please. I need u.

The park? After bed?

Please.

Something is wrong. I have no idea how, but I need to figure out a way to see him.

Ok. midnight. See u there.

Love u. B strong.

It’s only a little after four. This is already killing me. I walk back to my mother’s office. How am I going to get through until midnight?

The following hours pass like a hot summer day: slow and relentless, where all you want is escape but the sun won’t let you, refuses to go.

First, it’s home for a too-silent dinner, then it’s back to church where my parents have their weekly Parents of Teens Bible Study. I should be at dance, but since I quit I’m hoping the night will be free and I’ll get a chance to call Jackson. Not so. When we get to church, my mom informs me that she’s volunteered me for childcare duty in the preschool area of the Kid’s Korner.

Ugh. I hate working in the Kid’s Korner. I spend the next two hours avoiding snotty noses and sticky palms and generally hating life.

When parents start showing up, I want to go, but I can’t yet. The kids and parents get matching bar code bracelets. We have to scan them all and make sure every parent gets the right kid. Like somebody’s gonna take one of these brats if they don’t have to. It takes forever.
 

Eventually, when we’re down to a handful of kids, I make an excuse and take off. I race over to the main floor of the North Wing, where the adult Sunday school rooms are. I peek through the window of my parents’ classroom. Things were supposed to end at 9:00, and it’s 9:15, but they’re still in there.

They stand in the center of a circle. The other adults pray around them, their hands extended. I can’t make out what’s being said, but I can guess it probably has to do with me. Around here, everyone always knows all your business. Prayer requests spread gossip fast, and without all the guilt.

The prayer comes to a close, and people start to gather their things. Several husband-and-wife duos stop to say a kind word to my parents as they filter out. I’ve slept over at these people’s houses, gone to their sons’ and daughters’ birthday parties for years. But none of them say a word to me as they exit, even though I know they notice me standing by the door. It’s like they’re banded together, wounded veterans in a war against teenagers.

My parents are the last to leave, and they’re surprised to see me when they finally come through the door. I tell them I’m tired. I tell them I want to go home. But my dad has something to get from his office, and we’re interrupted by someone who wants to talk to my mom. I say I will wait in the car.

It takes another thirty minutes for them to join me. There are always hands to shake, small talk to make, questions to answer of a congregant who wants one more piece of you before you go. It was stupid of me to hope to leave right after their class. But we finally do.
 

I go straight to bed. I wait for the sounds of the house to die down, wait for FOX News to silence, wait for the lights to go dark and listen for my parent’s door to close all the way upstairs. Then I wait some more.

A
T
ELEVEN
THIRTY
, I creep through the house and enter the night. My car is in the garage, and it would wake my parents to take it, so I have to go on foot. It’s probably better this way anyway. I’m certain there’s an undercover police car parked at the mouth of my cul-de-sac. I’ve been trying to notice which cars seem to be around a lot, and there’s no question that I’ve seen the one on the end of the block at both school and church too. So I can’t drive my car anywhere I don’t want the police to know about, or go through the front door.

I turn off the motion-sensor light out back and use the storage chest to scale the back edge of the fence. I hop into the neighbor’s yard, then go through their side gate to the block behind ours.

It takes me several blocks to stop looking over my shoulder to see if I’m being followed. The air is crisp, but not cold enough to see your breath tonight. It’s nice being out in it, alone, free. It’s usually my favorite time of year, and would be even more if everything was the same as just a few weeks ago. But it’s not.

I let my mind wander to the things I used to conjure up when I needed comfort: dorm rooms and Jackson’s guitar and new, interesting friends and salty sea air and a world without limits. But instead of comforting me, they make me sad. They feel farther away than ever now, almost impossible.

The park isn’t far, just a couple of miles. I’m on a main road now, Colfax, and nearly there. Cars whizz past even this late on a weeknight. My heart jerks. Was that last car the one parked in my cul-de-sac? I watch to see if it turns around, but it’s hard to tell in the dark.

What if they are following me? It will lead them straight to Jackson, to our meeting secretly in the middle of the night. I can’t let that happen. I just can’t.

I text him right away, hope I’m not too late.

Not our spot!

Police might follow.

Safeway on Alameda.

Go in, wait by milk.

I’ll find you.

This is all so much to keep track of. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Jackson texts right back.

See u @ Sfwy in 10

I release the stale breath in my gut, and take in the fresh air. That was too close. I feel like I’m getting sloppy, like my brain is too small to hold all the twists and pockets of possibilities.

What would life be like if I could always be honest? If I could always be who I really am? The thought of it feels as free as dropping down the highest hill on a roller coaster, hands up and screaming the fear away from me. But that’s not really possible, at least not right now.

I see the sign up ahead and cross over to the next block. From the direction I’m coming, I’ll be able to see the back first.

A low rumble comes up behind me, turning from Alameda onto my street. I look down at the sidewalk to hide my face, just in case. The headlights grow brighter as the car gets closer, then it goes past, and all I see is a blinking turn signal as it rounds the next corner.

I take a deep breath and turn on the opposite corner, almost there. Tall street lamps illuminate the loading dock behind the grocery store. All I can think about is seeing his face. It feels like I haven’t seen him for years, even though it’s only been a little over a week. I try to calm myself down, I’ll need to wait a little longer. He may not even be here yet. It’s only been a few minutes since I texted.

I start to cross the last street between me and the back lot. Then I hear it.

A low rumble, and a screech. It’s a car, I think, but I don’t see headlights.

The sound grows louder. Too loud and too urgent. I look toward the noise as I approach the middle of the road. A maroon mass flashes under a streetlight. It’s hurtling straight toward me, only half a block away.

It takes a second for my brain to register it. And another to process that it doesn’t matter which side I go to. I just need to move.

I dash across, toward the parking lot, toward where I hope Jackson is waiting.

I chance a glance at the car, but I can’t make anything out but a blurry black shape behind the wheel. The glance costs me. My legs pump hard, but not fast enough.
 

SLAM.

The car catches my back foot in midair and twists my body into a grotesque pirouette. I spin into the air, then crash into the pavement, my left foot screaming.

Ahead, the car stops. Maybe they didn’t see me. Maybe they’re stopping to help, but nobody’s getting out. I lift myself onto my elbows to get a better look. The first three digits of the license plate read, 8MK-.
 

White reverse lights blink on.

No.

The car revs to life. Another squeal.

This is no accident. I have to move.

I roll away, toward the curb. My cell flies out of my pocket, but I don’t have time to grab it. The car is milliseconds away.

Fear drives the adrenaline I need into my muscles. I pull myself onto the sidewalk as the car whizzes past, crushing my phone to pieces underneath its wheels.

The car stops again. It’s going to take another pass, run me down, sidewalk be damned.

I only have one chance to escape it. I have to get inside that store.

I force myself up to standing. The pain in my foot is excruciating, but I propel myself forward. There’s another screech as the car lurches toward me again.

I race to the store. Only twenty feet separates me from the loading dock.

I hear a grumbling clunk as the car jumps the curb, but I can’t look back.
 

Only five feet now.
 

The car is close. I feel the heat of the engine licking my heels.

I scream, force my body forward until it slams into concrete and I launch myself up onto the loading dock.
 

I am out of the car’s reach, but not the reach of the person driving it. I have to get inside.
 

I pull myself up, yank on the back door. It won’t open. It’s locked.

I pound on the door.

“Help! Please! Help me.”

I see a security camera mounted above the door and wave furiously at it.

“Help! Help!”

The car has stopped. It’s idling in the spot reserved for delivery trucks. The driver is bent over, reaching for something.

I bang on the door. I imagine elevator music and a sleeping security guard at this late hour.
 

“Please! Please!”

I hear the click and push of the car door as it opens. And then I hear a buzz.

I try the door, and this time it opens. I tear inside and slam straight into the bloody chest of a butcher’s apron. The door slams shut.

“Whoa, honey. What’s the matter?” a heavy voice asks.

“8 M K, 8 M K, 8 M K” I keep saying it, over and over. I can’t forget, no matter what.

“I can’t understand you.” The butcher puts his hand on my shoulder, leans down to look into my face.

There’s a screech outside. I pull the door open. The car is gone.

I
HAVE
NO
IDEA
what time it is. Hospitals look no different in the middle of the night than they do during the day. The halls are always dark, the fluorescent lights always flickering. I’m in the intake room, sitting in a bed whose only privacy from the ten or so other beds is a thin curtain.
 

My parents are off somewhere speaking with the doctor. What they could possibly need to discuss with a total stranger that they can’t discuss with me, I don’t know. When my parents arrived at the hospital they didn’t chastise me for sneaking out. They didn’t say anything at all. They didn’t have to. Their eyes said everything.

I shift, trying to get comfortable. It’s impossible. Everything hurts. My body feels hard and weak at the same time, frozen taffy one strike away from shattering. There are scratches on my knees, on my palms, purple splotches on my arms and thighs. My foot’s gone numb from the ice. I’m lucky, they say. It’s not broken. But everything below my ankle is swelled up to double what it normally is.
 

But what really hurts isn’t my body. My greatest pain is internal, my head flooded with questions. Jackson never showed. I kept looking for him, hoping to see his face break through the throng of police, illuminated by the flashing lights of the ambulance, but he never came. He’s the one who texted me. He’s the one who asked me to meet him. Okay, maybe he got spooked by the police, but didn’t he even care enough to check and see if I was okay?

There are darker thoughts too. Could he have had anything to do with what happened tonight? Could he have had anything to do with what happened to June? There has to be some explanation, doesn’t there?

The pain killers are starting to kick in, and all I want to do is sleep, quiet my mind of these ideas for even a little while. I shut my eyes against the light and hear the curtain slide open on the metal rail.

But it’s not my parents behind it. It’s the detectives: Dumb and Dumber. Fabulous.

“Did you find him?” I ask. I’ve already told my story to the police who showed up at the store.

They look at each other, deciding who should talk first. It’s Boyer who does.

“Why don’t you tell us exactly what happened, Emma?” She seems almost sarcastic, like her showing up at all is just her humoring me.