Deadly Little Secret

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  I try to kick him again, but Matt pulls me closer, and I almost lose my footing. He pins me against the side of his car with his knee and then smacks me in the jaw.

  The canvas behind my eyes goes black. Stars spray out all around me, and my head begins to swirl.

  48

  “You’re starting to come around,” a voice whispers. I open my eyes. Things are blurry for a second. And for one relief-filled moment I think that maybe what happened was a dream. But then I feel my jaw ache—a gnawing, singeing pain—where he hit me. And I realize that this isn’t a dream at all. It’s just that Round One is over. And I’ve lost. Now that the blur of colors is lifting, I’m able to see Matt. He sits cross-legged right in front of me. “How are you feeling?” he asks. I try to swipe a strand of hair from in front of my eyes, only to find that my hands are still cuffed together, only they’re behind my back now. “Where are we?” I ask, looking around. It’s dark except for a small lantern positioned between us. We’re sitting on the floor of a tiny room. Aside from a TV tray in the corner, there’s no furniture, no appliances, nothing mechanical, just a thin layer of carpet beneath us.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “We’re in a safe place.”

  There’s a stash of food and a bunch of bottled waters sitting on the TV tray, as if maybe he plans on my being here for a while.

  “I think this will make you more at ease.” He reaches into a paper bag, pulling out my stuffed polar bear—the one I couldn’t find last night. “I want you to feel comfortable here,” he says, dropping it onto my lap.

  I tug my hands away from the wall, surprised when they move—that the cuffs aren’t attached to the wall itself.

  “I’ve given you a little slack,” he says, reaching behind my back. He pulls forth a piece of jump rope—I can tell from the plastic handles. “I meant to bring real rope, but even with all my planning and lists I somehow forgot to buy it. Isn’t that always the way?” he smirks.

  I peer over my shoulder, able to see a metal loop sticking out of the wall, by the floor. He’s attached the cuff chain to the loop with the jump rope. “I’ve given you a little wiggle room, but you won’t be able to stand. I thought it was only fair, seeing as you’ll be sleeping here.”

  “What?” I ask, feeling my insides tighten up.

  Matt smiles in response, thoroughly enjoying this. Meanwhile, my skin ices over, and my forehead starts to sweat.

  “And before you even think about attempting to untie the knot,” he continues, “save yourself some aggravation, because I’m somewhat of an expert.”

  I look back at the webbing of knots. There have to be at least forty of them, each tangled over, through, and under the next.

  “Impressive, wouldn’t you say?” he asks.

  I ignore him and continue to look around the room, noticing a narrow door behind him and a window to the right. The window has its shade down and there are curtains hanging at the sides. “What do you want?” I ask, meeting his eyes.

  “You,” he whispers. “I just want to be with you.”

  Keeping my shoulders steady, I try to wriggle free of the cuffs, but they’re way too tight. “We’re friends,” I remind him. “You can be with me whenever you want.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “It is,” I say, trying to sound convincing, running my fingers over the knots. I try to pull at one of them, but it doesn’t budge one bit.

  Matt sweeps back the strand of hair that hangs in front of my eyes and then moves in closer.

  “If you let me go, we can start over,” I say. “We can even start dating again.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” he snaps. “Don’t lie to me!”

  My heart beats hard. My head starts to ache.

  “You’ll be happy here,” he assures me. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

  “I want to be let free.”

  “Not now.”

  “Then when?”

  “When you can say you love me and mean it.” He moves the lantern to the side so he can scoot in closer. He smells like the inside of his car—that thick, poisonous scent.

  Hot, bubbly tears work their way into my eyes, until I can’t see. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” I whisper.

  “Deep down, you wanted this,” he says; this is followed by a kiss on my lower lip. “You asked for it. And I aim to please.”

  “No,” I insist, drawing my face away.

  “Yes,” he says, moving in even closer. “You asked for it with the way you flirt, and how you always want to be the center of attention, and your recent attraction to danger. I know that’s why you’re attracted to Ben. You want some adventure in your life. You like the idea of dating someone with a dark side. And so that’s what I’ve given you.”

  I shake my head, trying not to lose it completely.

  “I should think you’d be grateful,” he says, continuing to kiss me. He makes an invisible line of kisses that travels from my mouth down to my neck and then back up again.

  I try my best to play along, to hold back my tears by focusing on something—anything—else. I look over his shoulder in search of something sharp. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a knife sticking out from the pile of food.

  “I have something to show you,” he whispers into my ear, sending icy-cold chills straight down my back. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a folder full of photos.

  They’re pictures of me—at the beach, in front of my house, by the shopping mall, and at the bakery downtown.

  “I just can’t get enough,” he whispers. “I’d look at these when you weren’t around, reminding myself it was only a matter of time before I’d have the real thing.”

  “Please,” I say, hearing my voice shake.

  “Shhh,” he hushes, kissing me. “Everything’s going to be just fine. You’ll see.” He kisses me a couple more times and then sits back on his heels. “I hate to leave, but I have to go. People are going to be wondering about you.”

  “They probably already are,” I say, hoping it makes him nervous.

  “All the more reason to get back. We don’t want anyone putting two and two together when they notice I’m not around, either. If you’re the only one missing, everyone will assume Ben’s the one who’s responsible. Even if they can’t prove it or find a link, he’ll get so ridiculed he won’t have a choice but to leave.”

  “And then what?” I ask. “When they can’t prove it’s him, they’ll still keep looking.”

  “Hopefully by that time you’ll realize what’s good for you. We can say you ran away from home—that your parents weren’t paying any attention to you and you wanted to get away.”

  “So, you don’t intend to hurt me?”

  “Not unless you do something stupid.” He turns his back to me, starts sifting through the stash of food. “It was fun shopping for all your favorites. I’ve got yogurt-covered pretzels, corn chips, and granola bars.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you sure? I can feed you something before I go.”

  I shake my head, keeping an eye on the knife. It sits underneath the bag of corn chips.

  “You really should eat something,” he says, “or have some water. I don’t want you to get dehydrated.” He twists the cap off a bottle, holds the spout to my lips, and watches my neck as I swallow.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, wiping the dribble from my mouth. He brings the TV tray to my side and dumps a bunch of yogurt pretzels onto it. Then he fills a plastic bowl with water and sets that on the tray as well. “You should be able to eat and drink without too much of a problem. The lantern has fresh batteries, in case you were worried, so I don’t expect it to go out. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

  I nod and glance at the knife again. Matt notices and pulls it from beneath the bag of chips, runs it down the side of my face. “Dangerous enough for you?” he asks.

  “I don’t like danger.”

  “Sure you do. Deep down, it�
�s what you crave.” He holds the knife right below my jaw and presses it against my neck. “Sleep tight,” he whispers.

  My lower lip trembles. My eyes fill with fresh tears. Matt nibbles my lip to still the shaking and then gets up, stabbing the knife into the wood right above the door.

  Finally, he leaves. I hear him lock the door from the outside. Meanwhile, I try my best to hold it together and to focus on the knife, but I can barely see through the blur of tears running down my face.

  49

  Alone in the room, I listen for a car engine, wondering if Matt parked right outside, but it’s eerily quiet. The scent of a burning campfire lingers in the air from the moment when Matt opened the door, giving me hope.

  Maybe someone’s nearby.

  When I suspect he’s gotten far enough away, I go to work at the knots. I run my fingers over them, searching for one with a bit of give. Adrenaline courses through me as I twist the rope, trying to pull at any bump or gather.

  After just a few minutes, my wrists start to ache. The metal of the cuffs cuts into my skin and makes my fingers tingle and go numb. Still, I continue to work, trying to figure out where the knotting begins and where it might end. But it all feels the same. And my wrists are stinging now.

  I try to slip the cuffs off until my bones ache and I can feel cartilage move beneath my skin, but it isn’t working, even when I scrunch my hands to make them as narrow as possible.

  I scoot forward on my butt to see how much slack I actually have—it’s about two full feet. I take a deep breath and pull with my wrists—so hard I think the bones might crack—seeing if I can yank the metal loop out of the wall completely.

  But it won’t budge, either.

  Breathing hard, I tug some more, until I hear myself cry out in frustration—a loud, high-pitched scream that tears out of my throat.

  My legs flail. My forearms burn. Sobbing now, I let out several more screams, until drool drips out of my mouth and my throat is raw.

  But still, nothing happens, and no one comes.

  After a couple more minutes, I notice the room begin to darken and swirl. I glance toward the lantern, but it’s still well lit. Meanwhile, my head continues to ache. Bile creeps up into my throat, filling my mouth. I lower my head, and the room spins even more, making it hard to distinguish the floor from the ceiling.

  I close my eyes, but it doesn’t help. My stomach lurches. A whirl of colors bleeds over my eyes, turning everything black.

  The room closes in around me, and I feel my body soften and fold. I’m pretty sure my head hits the floor. I’m pretty sure the piercing shrill inside my ears is a side effect of what I’m feeling. The room blackens and boxes me up. And I feel myself fade.

  50

  Still slumped over, I open my eyes and sit up. My arms are asleep. My head throbs. I try to whisper the word hello, but my throat is burning. And so are my wrists—a stinging, searing pain snakes down my fingers and crawls up my arms.

  There’s a spill of some sort beside me. At first I think it’s a drink or some food, that I toppled something when I passed out. But then the smell hits me—an odor like sour milk—and I realize I’ve thrown up.

  The bowl of water still sits beside me on the TV tray. Half of it has spilled out onto the rug and my jeans. Did I do that in my sleep? Is it from all my thrashing around? I lean toward it, thirsty for a drink, but suspicious that it’s the water that got me sick in the first place.

  What did he put in there? How long have I been passed out? What time is it now? I look up at the window, but the shade and curtains block out all light. I wonder if anyone’s noticed I’m missing yet, and if they’re on their way to save me.

  My eyes fill up with tears again. I try my best to blink them away, to convince myself I’m going to get out of here. Glancing first at the knife still stuck above the door, I survey the room. It’s actually not much bigger than a walk-in closet. I scoot forward so that my feet reach the side wall; then I kick against it, noticing that the interior walls are covered with fake paneling.

  The room shakes with my kick. More water splashes out of the bowl on the TV tray. I kick harder, and there’s more shaking, like the room doesn’t have a solid foundation, as if maybe I’m not in a house, or even a building at all. I take a deep breath, remembering the trailer I saw in the woods earlier, wondering if that’s where I am.

  My pulse races. I continue to kick against the wall. The room bounces back and forth. And then I hear something outside—a screeching sound.

  I strain to hear, and then I scream at the top of my lungs, until my voice breaks.

  Still, no one comes. I can only hear the calling of birds outside now.

  I close my eyes and kick harder, imagining the force of my blows actually toppling the walls over. But instead it’s the knife that topples. It falls from above the door and lands in the center of the room.

  Quickly, I reposition myself, scooting to the side and extending my legs. A cramp runs down my outer thigh. I do my best to breathe through it, to make my muscles relax. Meanwhile, the knife lies just beyond my foot.

  I reach for it, but my leg cramp worsens, causing me to fall back. My shoulders ache. My left arm is numb.

  I let out a breath and try a little harder. The handcuff squeezes against my bones, and I feel something snap. At the same moment, my leg muscles relax a bit, enabling me to move forward just a little farther.

  My foot grazes the knife, and I’m able to slide it toward me. I scoot back and sit up straight, dragging the knife toward my hands with my foot. After several attempts, I finally manage to wedge the blade under my shoe, just inches away from my cuffed wrists. My arm still numb, I try to cut through the knots but end up slashing my thumb with the blade. Blood trickles down over the rope, making it hard to see what I’m doing. Still, after several strokes against the knife, the rope is cut, and I’m free from the wall.

  51

  Though my wrists are still cuffed behind my back, I get up and stumble toward the door.

  Blood drips from my thumb, spilling onto the rug and making me queasy. I position my back against the door and try to turn the handle, but it won’t budge.

  My heart bounds up into my throat. Did he padlock the door from the outside? I look behind me, noticing a lock. I flip it open, hear a click, and reach for the handle once more. This time it moves beneath my grip—only I’m not the one turning it.

  The door flies open, and Matt stands before me.

  “Going somewhere?” he asks.

  I let out a scream—as loud as I can manage, in spite of my dry and splintery throat. Matt pushes me, and I fall on my backside. I glance behind me to see if I can somehow reach the knife, but it’s too far away.

  Matt starts to shut the door, but before he can, I jam my heel into his shin, as hard as I kicked the wall. He lets out a grunt and comes at me. Teeth clenched, he grabs me by the jaw.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, trying my best to soften my face.

  Matt’s breathing is labored. His chest heaves in and out, but after a few seconds he softens, too.

  A cool breeze filters in through the door, which is still open a crack. It’s daylight outside.

  He takes a moment to look around, following the trail of blood to the knife by the wall. “I’m impressed,” he says, moving to reach for it.

  At the same moment I draw up my leg and kick him in the gut. Matt lets out a wail and stumbles back. His head knocks against the wall.

  I get up and hurry through the door. Outside in the woods now, I see that I’m in the middle of a campsite. There are trailers scattered around, but it looks as though they’ve all been closed up for the season.

  I run as fast as I can, maneuvering through the undergrowth with my shoulders and legs. I can hear Matt somewhere behind me.

  “Run all you want!” he shouts. “You’ll never find your way out of here—not before I find you.”

  I scurry down a narrow path, hoping it eventually leads to the street. Panting now, I see
a dark blue trailer in the distance with a car parked outside it. At the same moment, a long, pointed branch scratches at my face, drawing blood. I can feel my skin open up.

  I hobble forward, the cramping sensation in my leg returning.

  Finally, I get to the trailer. The car parked beside it is abandoned. It has no wheels, the grill is crushed, and there appear to be bullet holes in the side. It reminds me of my work-in-progress at the studio.

  I crouch down behind it and try to catch my breath. After a few seconds, I venture to look out. Matt’s nowhere in sight, and I can no longer hear him. My legs shaking, I manage to stand up again. I turn around to continue on toward the street.

  But Matt’s standing right in front of me. He smacks me across the face with the back of his hand—a stinging, biting pain—and then grabs my shoulders, shoves me again, and points the tip of the knife into my neck.

  I try to bite his hand, but he jabs the knife deeper— until my teeth unclench.

  He starts to drag me away. My legs flailing, I try to anchor myself, to kick his shins, but he still manages to bring me to the front of the blue trailer.

  And that’s where we find Ben.

  He lunges at Matt, tearing me from his grip. I feel myself fall to the ground. Matt comes at Ben with the knife, but Ben is able to grab Matt’s wrist, twist his arm back, and grab the knife right out of his hand. He throws it deep into the forest.

  Matt barrels into him, but Ben pushes him away, and punches him in the jaw. Matt lets out a groan and stumbles back, but still he rebounds. He comes at him again.

  Ben punches him once more—this time in the gut. Matt goes reeling backward, tripping over a rock. He lands on his back, hard, against a cluster of rocks.

  Finally, he passes out. Police sirens sound in the distance.

  “Are you okay?” Ben asks, making his way over to me. His expression is a mix of fear and fatigue.

  I nod, and he grabs my forearm to help me up. Only he doesn’t let go.