The Girl in 6E

by Alessandra Torre

“I…don’t know.” This conversation is going nowhere, tumbling downhill like an out-of-control skier gathering speed. I hear the weakness in my voice and hate it.

  “Why don’t you explain what you do know?” I sense the touch of kindness behind the efficient steel.

  “I know that I have had multiple conversations with Ralph Atkins, in which he has been obsessive in his desire to have sexual relationships with a young girl named Annie.”

  “Did he provide a last name for Annie?”

  I grind my teeth. “No.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to the authorities?”

  “I’ve been trying to get more information—about Annie—who she is, if she even exists.”

  “How long have you known Ralph?”

  “I don’t know him really. He’s a client. I’m an Internet sex operator. I have cybersex with men for money.”

  “And it was in one of these sex sessions that he mentioned Annie?” I’ve lost him. I can hear it in the tone of his voice, the disbelief that coats his words.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have his address?”

  I give it to him, both hope and regret flooding my body. Hope that she will be found and regret that I won’t be able to kill the monster myself.

  We end the call, and I sit on the floor and think. Long ago, I lost any respect for the police, for their inability to find the truth, even when it is thrust, front and center, in their faces. My call might lead them to Ralph; it might even lead them to the rescue of Annie. But in anticipation of their failure, I need to take action.

  I open the file Mike sent three hours earlier and start to search the depravity of RalphMA35’s computer and mind. It doesn’t take long to find what I am searching for.

  I receive confirmation of Ralph’s sickness in his movie and photo files. In his e-mail, I find subscription confirmations, forum postings, and e-mail correspondence in all things pedophile. It is in his web history that I hit the jackpot. Craigslist searches for rentals. Two postings he returned to more than five times. I go back to his e-mail account, looking for correspondence on either listing, and find a two-week-long e-mail trail and what looks like a final conclusion—a six-month lease, written in some bogus-ass name. Deposit was mailed in the form of a cashier’s check, and the lease began on April 1.

  Bingo.

  Staring at that lease, looking at an address that could possibly hold Annie, I feel woefully unprepared. It is almost laughable when I look back at the last three years. Three years of thinking about death, about me taking the life of another. And now, when the time to act arrives, I don’t have the faintest idea how to properly go about it. My failure with Jeremy, his body easily overtaking mine, my weakness against his strength, is too fresh in my mind. Maybe I can’t do it. Maybe I will fail. But it is there, that word that has been held off for so long, in my mind as clearly as its Wait predecessor. GO.

  GO.

  CHAPTER 52

  KNIFE: CHECK. I push all my books off the old, faded suitcase they sit on. After unzipping it, I pull out the sole item it holds: a black stiletto knife. Depressing the button on its front snaps out a long, thin, ridiculously sharp blade. I had bought it in a moment of weakness—or rather, four hours of weakness—in which I had meticulously researched different knives and switchblades, looking for the most effective and efficient killing tool. My fantasies center mostly on death by blade. Knives result in more blood, more suffering by the victim, and a slower death if you stab the right places and avoid main arteries. Not that I was going to restrict myself on this mission. I stuff the knife in my sweatshirt’s pocket.

  Gun: Check. When I moved out of my grandparents’ house, a pawnshop was one of my first stops. I applied for a permit and now own a Smith & Wesson 317. I carry my desk chair over to the fridge and stand on it, reaching back till I feel the space between the wall and the appliance. My fingers brush the edge of duct tape, gritty and peeling at the edges. I reach farther, gripping the cloth bag that the tape holds to the fridge. Yanking on the cloth, I rip off the duct tape and pull the bag over the edge, then cradle it to my chest and step carefully off the chair. When I first got this gun, I made cleaning it a full-time job. I loved the feel and weight of it in my hand, loved examining the mechanisms that made it deadly. Back then, I visited the gun range two or three times a week, my fantasies having a field day with the targets in my scope. If anyone at the range found it strange that I used lifelike target cutouts, they didn’t say anything to me about it. I haven’t cleaned or touched the gun in over two years. It is a bittersweet reunion.

  Car: No check. I need a vehicle. I log online, trying to find the closest rental company. Enterprise’s site indicates that they will pick me up, so I call them first. It is almost five o’clock. The rep who answers the phone says that they won’t be able to get me until the morning. I start looking up taxi companies.

  A knock sounds on the door—two quick raps.

  Jeremy.

  He holds flowers, a ridiculous gesture now that he thinks about it. He sweats in front of her door, the wilted daisies looking sad after sitting all day in his hot truck. This is his last stop of the day. He pushed her to the end of his route, hoping that she reconsidered his note and that today will be the day she will let him in.

  The door swings open, startling him in its unexpected movement, and she stands there, smaller than he remembers, dressed in black. She reaches forward, grabs his shirt, and pulls him inside.

  His fantasies pop their heads up, ready for a reunion of orgasmic proportions, maybe a deep kiss leading to ripping of clothing and a fuckfest right here on the worn-out floor. She leaves him standing in the middle of her apartment, in between the two bedroom areas, the stupid flowers weighing down his arms. His fantasies wilt slightly, his cock taking a detour toward soft. She paces to a desk, leans over the computer, and types furiously into it, tossing words over her shoulder at him. “Do you have a car?”

  “A car?”

  “Yes. A car.”

  “Yeah—but I’m driving the delivery truck right now. I brought you flowers.”

  “Toss them. Trash can is in the kitchen.” She finishes typing, then reaches behind the laptop and unplugs it, coiling the cord around her hand in a quick, hurried motion. “Thank you,” she says suddenly, turning to meet his eyes, the words an afterthought. “Trash. Kitchen.”

  “Right.” He walks over to the kitchen and pushes the rejected daisies into the trash, squashing TV dinner boxes in the process. So much for that gesture. Come to think of it, maybe she isn’t a hearts-and-flowers kind of girl. He turns to watch her, her feet moving quickly as she opens a black backpack and slides her laptop inside, the cord along with it.

  “Are you done with your route?”

  “Yes. Are you allergic to flowers?”

  “Where is your car?”

  “It’s a truck. It’s at the distribution center.”

  “How far is that from here?”

  “Umm…like ten minutes. Are you going somewhere?” It is a ridiculous question to ask her, but she seems to be going through the normal activities of someone who would actually step outside. Leave the apartment. She even has shoes on.

  “We.”

  “We what?”

  She stops, turning to him, an irritated expression on her face. “We are going somewhere. I need a car. Take me to yours, and I will pay for you to take a taxi home. I’ll bring your car back to you in the morning.” She turns back to her bag, shoving in a thick black object and a bound stack of cash. His eyes follow the cash, his mind questioning his vision even as it focuses on the cash’s wrapper: $10,000?

  “Uh…no.”

  “No?” She turns, her eyes flashing at him—dark and confident. Wherever the crazy, I’ll-stab-you-to-death persona was, it has taken a break and is sipping coffee somewhere else in this girl’s mind. “We’ll talk in your truck. Let’s go.” She grabs a ring of keys, shrugs into the backpack, and heads for the door. With no clear option in sight, Jerem
y follows.

  She avoids the elevator, hesitating briefly before banging open the stairwell door at the end of the hall and jogging down the steps. She takes the six flights of stairs quickly, time seeming to be a valuable commodity. He follows closely, trying to figure out what is going on and if he should toss his box cutters into the closest trash can. At the bottom she pauses, takes a deep breath, and presses open the exit door, stepping into the light.

  Vampire. His niece’s diagnosis pops into Jeremy’s mind when he sees her reaction to the sun. She sways briefly, her legs glued to the ground, and squints into the sun—seeming to notice and avoid everything in one brief moment. Looking around urgently, her eyes lock on his truck, and she moves toward it, her feet stumbling slightly.

  CHAPTER 53

  IT SOUNDS RIDICULOUS, but I was scared to press that stairwell exit handle. Scared that my dark side would go apeshit when presented with the unlimited opportunities the outside world offered. Scared that a little girl would have to listen to the words I’ve heard for the past two weeks. Scared that she would be afraid and alone while I am out killing strangers, mutilating the body of the gorgeous delivery driver who now stands just a few feet away. I don’t even crack the exterior vent in my apartment, worried about the triggers that might exist, the sounds and smells of normalcy that might awaken my psychosis or, even worse, my memories of what normal feels like. And that is my biggest fear when I step out this stairwell door. That I will taste normal, step on its street, ride in a truck and smile on its face, and not be able to resist. That I will psychologically paint over my situation and convince myself that I can handle it. Lie to myself because I want so badly to return to the world. And then, snap.

  After I appropriately freaked myself out, I pushed on the exit handle and stepped into the light.

  The sensation of being outdoors surprises me, even with my mental preparation. You don’t realize how much damn activity there is, all the noise and smells that assault your senses, when you do something as simple as stand on a public street. I have been shut away too long. The gritty feel of pavement beneath my shoes, the weight of actually wearing shoes—my feet feel heavy and hot. My nose recoils from the smell of car exhaust, my skin prickles from the feeling of warmth and nonartificial light from the sun, harsh and powerful to my raw senses. My eyes squint and I look around, wanting the cover and protection of a vehicle. Jeremy’s truck is at the curb, and I step unsteadily toward it.

  He beats me to the passenger side, pushing a jacket and box off the seat, flashing me an embarrassed grin. I move past him, climbing onto the truck, and sit on the warm vinyl seat. The outdoor world distracts me briefly, a rainbow of colors and sights before me as the beauty of everyday life beckons. Images and memories—rolling on the grass with Summer—hit me, a wave of nostalgia interrupting my focus. Jeremy climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the truck, and a roar fills the air, the truck shaking briefly before settling into a constant vibration. The lack of protection in the truck unnerves me; the missing doors and loud engine are strange to my sheltered senses. I focus, pulling out my laptop and logging into Ralph’s hard drive to look for anything that I might have missed. Jeremy is saying something, a garble of words in the background that I tune out. All of my thoughts and focus center on finding Annie and getting to her as soon as I can. I feel something jabbing me, and I look at my shoulder, following the finger, to the hand, to Jeremy’s irritated face.

  “Pay attention—I’m trying to talk to you.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap, scrolling through files, opening occasional documents.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need to visit someone. It is very important that I get there as soon as possible.”

  “Why don’t you have your own car?”

  “I don’t leave the apartment. A car is an unneeded expense.”

  “Why don’t you leave the apartment?”

  “This is all a waste of time. Please focus on driving to your car as quickly as possible.”

  “I’m not letting you take my truck.”

  My eyes snap away from the laptop, alighting on his face. Fuck. This might be a problem. “Why not?”

  “Can you even drive?”

  “Yes. I’m an excellent driver. I haven’t had a ticket or accident in over three years.” I say the words with a straight face, while my mind rolls hysterically with laughter, clapping myself on the back for my wit. “What do you want?”

  “Want?”

  God, it was like talking to a parrot. “What do you want in exchange for letting me use your truck?”

  His face twists in frustration. “I want to know what’s going on!”

  “I don’t have time to explain what’s going on; I can tell you that I need your help. If you won’t let me use your truck, then drop me off at a car rental place. I’ll pull one up on my phone.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “Absolutely not. It’s hard enough for me to sit next to you right now.”

  The wide smile that crosses his face makes me realize the error of my words. “Not for that reason, Fabio.”

  “Oh.” His face falls. “You’re still on that kick about hurting me?”

  I grin, despite my irritation. “Yeah. I’m still on ‘that kick.’”

  “I can defend myself.”

  “Whether that is the truth or not, I don’t have the time or the energy to fight you. I have something else I need to take care of.”

  “A date.”

  “What date?” I find a folder titled “Annie” and open it, seeing hundreds of photos, the most recent candid ones of a blond girl who in one image wears a pink boa and crown and sits in front of a cake. Annie. My joy at finding her is instantly dampened by the idea that someone would want to hurt this perfect little individual.

  “You asked what I wanted. If you take my truck, I want to take you on a date.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  We pull into an empty parking lot, clones of our UPS vehicle lining spots to our right. Jeremy focuses on driving, pulling forward and then backing into a spot on the far right. He shuts off the engine and turns to me, his eyes studying mine.

  I fight the urge to fidget, my eyes flitting from his to his keys. GO. The command pounds in my head. “Please,” I manage, the word awkward on my lips. It is a word frequented in my cam chats but neglected entirely when the camera is off.

  “A kiss.”

  I scowl, understanding the negotiation behind the words. A kiss is the last thing I want to do right now. “Four hundred dollars. That should more than cover the use of your truck.”

  “No,” he says softly, his eyes on mine—pale green eyes that remind me of a dress I wore in high school. My gaze travels down from those incredible eyes and rests on his mouth, remembering him above me, mouth on mine, hands on my naked skin. GO. I lean forward and sigh, closing my eyes and pursing my lips stiffly.

  He clears the hurdle that is my resistance with the first touch of his lips. My body melts, forgetting everything but the feel of his hand on my neck, gripping my hair and pulling my mouth tight on his—his mouth taking everything in smooth, perfect movements. He disorients my world, captures my spirit, and heals a little of my soul, all in the course of seconds—my mouth responding to his, hands releasing my bag and traveling into his hair, greedily pulling and grasping, unable to get enough.

  GO. I push him away, my hands lingering on his strong shoulders as we separate, his cloudy green eyes concerned. I breathe hard, my eyes fighting to not look at his mouth. “Please,” I whisper. “I have to go.”

  He nods, stretching out his legs, pulling out a key ring, and holding it out to me.

  “My truck is the gray Ford, in the back of this building.”

  A wave of relief floods me, and I smile, reaching out and grabbing his keys. “Thanks. I owe you one.” I grab my bag and turn, my escape stopped by his firm hand on my knee. I turn questioningly.

  He holds out a business card. “The date.
Think about it. My cell is on the card.”

  I hesitate and then nod, grabbing the card and hopping out. I round the bumper of the truck, flash a quick smile to Jeremy, then take off at a run toward the back of the building.

  Jeremy watches her go, her stumbling steps of before gone—urgency now making them strong. His initial diagnosis echoes in his head. She’s hiding from something. It doesn’t look as if she’s hiding. It looks as if she’s running full force to tackle confrontation and eat it for dinner.

  He shouldn’t have given in, shouldn’t have handed over his vehicle in exchange for, of all things, a kiss. But she needed it, the urgency spilling out of her, panic interlaced with determination in her eyes. Wherever she is headed, if it is from someone, or to something, it is important. It is certainly more important than the inconvenience of him finding a ride home.

  He frowns, thinking about their initial meeting, the madness in her eyes, her bloodthirsty quest for violence. In the course of the last hour, he has overlooked that part of her, pushing it to the side in his excitement at being near her, being acknowledged, included. She had seemed, in this interaction, normal. Sane. Was it a trick? A new take on the sexual deception that she had tried at their first meeting? There is the sound of his truck engine, the rip of tread against asphalt as she leaves the parking lot and turns north, headed to parts unknown. And he hopes, a knot of dread growing in his stomach, that he hasn’t just enabled a madwoman.

  CHAPTER 54

  THE LAST RELATIONSHIP I had was Jesse Howell. I met him when I was eighteen, at Taco Bell, when he offered to pay for my eighty-nine-cent taco. He had shaggy hair under a backward cap and a loose Abercrombie tank top over lean, tan muscles. We dated for four weeks, enough time for him to realize I wasn’t gonna put out, then he moved on. It was for the best: we weren’t going to work out. He didn’t understand my obsession with slasher movies, and I liked how his skin fit so perfectly on his face. It seemed like a waste to rearrange his features, to ruin a perfectly good face in the name of bloodshed. He woke up one night and found me above him, my hands wrapped around a knife I had taken from the kitchen. I was in the middle of trying to decide where to stab him first, in the neck or the chest, when his eyes flipped open. It was easier when his eyes were closed, when I couldn’t see into his soul. When he was just a blank canvas, ready for the splatter of wet blood.