by Frankie Rose
******
Humming.
The sound of lapping water.
A familiar whirring.
My head is killing me. I struggle to open my eyes, instinct telling me that I need more than my sense of hearing right now. Burning pain sears through my head as I manage to crack my eyelids, the light flaring into blinding brightness and then dulling a little. Not enough for the pain throbbing behind my eyes to dissipate, but enough to allow me to see.
I’m strapped to a chair. And I’m in the basement. The pool cover has been removed and the water throws marbling reflections of light up onto the ceiling and the walls. My father’s projector sits on top of a wooden chair—one of the breakfast bar stools from the kitchen. It’s switched on, but there’s no film loaded and so a solid plain white square is the only thing displayed on the wall at the opposite end of the room.
I spin around, but I’m alone.
Terror rips through me then. Whoever tied me to the chair has left me down here, with God knows what in mind, and I have no means of getting away. The bindings tying me to the chair are strong and tight. I tug against them but the effort is wasted.
“I’d save my energy if I were you,” a low voice echoes off the walls. It’s twisted at first, strange in my ears, until I work out that it’s being distorted somehow. Leather boots complain as someone, my attacker, makes their way down the stairs into the basement. My body seizes as they walk slowly towards me, face and body still entirely covered.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, paralyzed by panic.
The figure holds a small black box to his mouth and presses a button. “Is this where we cue the stupid questions?”
I don’t answer. The figure doesn’t say anything else. He paces carefully to the projector where he opens up an old film canister, not one of my dad’s, and threads the film into the feeder. He works in silence, cueing everything up until the job is complete.
“I have a video of your father that you probably haven’t seen yet,” he tells me, speaking into the voice distorter. “I thought we could watch together.”
I yank on the restraints pinning my hands behind my back and locking them to the chair. It feels like a zip tie, the plastic cutting into my skin. The figure stalks towards me and strikes me across the face with his gloved hand.
My cheek stings with the force of the slap, and tears spring to my eyes. I’ve always thought I would be more defiant in a situation like this, but the reality of being held captive, fearing for your life, is terrifying and I can do nothing but whimper. The man in black moves back to the projector and pick up his voice distorter again. “I told you not to bother, didn’t I?”
He doesn’t say anything else. He sets the film rolling, and suddenly my father’s face is on the back wall of the basement. His eyes are filled with tears, and his lower lip is bleeding. A sinking stone of dread pulls at my insides. “What…what is this?”
The man in black strides towards me quickly and grabs a handful of my hair, forcing me to look up at my dad. “Watch,” he growls into the voice distorter. And I have to. Dad’s eyes are bright, like someone’s shining a light into them. A male voice off screen begins to speak.
“You’re a very lucky man, Max. Do you consider yourself a lucky man?”
My father swallows. “Most of the time.” His voice shakes.
“Only most of the time? You have a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter. A good job. You’re respected in the community. You’re a goddamned saint, in fact. Isn’t that so?”
“I suppose so,” he says softly. He sounds uncertain, like he doesn’t know if he’s saying the wrong thing.
“So what makes you think you’re lucky only most of the time?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be here if I were lucky all the time,” he breathes out, his voice hitching.
A person off screen huffs out a burst of laughter. “Your presence here today is very lucky, Max. You just don’t understand why yet.” The sound of boots grinding on concrete fills the basement, and my dad’s eyes move to the left. Someone is moving around him. “Do you want me to explain why I say that, Max?”
“Ye—yes.”
“Okay, then. I will. Here’s how it is. A hand appears on screen in front of my father’s face, and in it is a rectangular piece of paper. I can’t see what’s on it, but my father does. He lets out a pained cry, his face crumpling into tears.
“No! No, don’t. Please! Please!” he begs. The hand spins the piece of paper over and I see that it’s not a piece of paper but a photograph. Of me. Fourteen year old me, smiling out of the glossy image. My stomach rolls.
“You see, Max. One of our own wanted your little girl to be sitting where you’re sitting right now. But you’re a special case. Your holier than thou, virtuous personality has rubbed quite a few of us up the wrong way, see. We voted on it, and we decided that you should be given an opportunity here.”
“Adam, please,” my father whispers. “Please don’t do this.”
Adam? Adam Bright? Like the movement of an old pocket watch, the gears and cogs of my mind begin to turn. Mayor Bright’s brother, Breakwater High’s basketball coach, Maggie’s father is the person threatening my dad? The man in black pinches hold of the back of my neck, digging his fingers deeper into my skin. I wince, staring at the video unfolding before my eyes. Adam moves into the shot fully as he leans forward and punches my dad in the jaw, hard. His rocks back with such force that I cry out. Adam remains on screen now, a familiar face, Maggie’s dad, my father’s work colleague.
“So, this is your opportunity, Maxwell Breslin. You’re being given a choice. You can take your daughter’s place. You can remain a sanctimonious asshole and kill yourself with this,” he produces a gun from the back of his waistband, shoving it into Dad’s face so he can see every gleaming black inch of it, “or you can let your daughter be our sacrifice. What d’you say, Max? Are you willing to make the trade?”
Oh, God.
The trade.
“NO!” I scream so loud it feels like my vocal chords are tearing in half. No. No, no, no! This is what my father had meant—this is the trade he made. My life for his. He died to save me. Bile burns the back of my throat, my eyes filled with tears. My father’s shoulders sag. He exhales heavily, and then leans forward and spits blood onto the floor.
“I’ll do it. I’ll kill myself.”
Adam turns to the camera, a hundred watt smile grinning right out at me, a specter from the past. “You heard the man, Jeff. He’s making the trade.” Adam seems over the moon that my father has agreed to his sick ultimatum. Jefferson Kyle, one of the other men my father was accused of killing, speaks, his body out of sight.
“Wouldn’t gloat too much, Adam,” he snaps. “You know Chloe’s gonna be pissed about this. She has her heart set on the Breslin girl.”
Icy cold fingers of alarm grip hold of me. Chloe? Chloe! No. No, how can that be? But sure enough, when I jerk my head back to look at the person digging their fingertips into the back of my neck, the ski mask has been removed and Chloe Matherson is staring down at me.
Thirty One
Unexpected
