You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  Valentine steps closer. “You’re scared?”

  “Yes.” The trembling is spreading from my hands up my arms to my spine, until all of me is one quivering mess.

  “You’re scared of him, and you want to stop?” Valentine’s breath is still sharp and fast.

  “I think I have to.” A few tears break free and tumble down my cheeks.

  I knew we were in danger before. I knew the cost. I told myself I could be smart enough, quick enough, to bring him down, and everyone would be safer for it.

  I was wrong.

  “No,” Valentine says. “We’re not giving in. He’s not getting away with this. Not again.”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room is our shared gasps for breath as we try to control our tears.

  Valentine crosses the room and kneels in front of me. “Listen to me.” He takes my hands. His grip is painful on my cuts, but I don’t care. “Listen. That monster took away the one person I ever cared about in the world. He ruined my life. Today he tried to take you away, too, like it was nothing. Like it was easy. He’s not going to stop. We can’t run from this. I tried, and it didn’t work. It’s gonna hurt, it might cost us everything, but we have to take that bastard down.”

  I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Not after the way Cass looked at me. After Olive in the hospital. After the way my grandfather’s shoulders shook with his suppressed sobs.

  “There’s something else.” I open my eyes but keep them trained on my lap. Not looking at him. Not looking at our entwined hands. “Something I should have told you.”

  “I don’t care.” He squeezes my hands harder. “Do you hear me? I don’t care. We’re in this together. We’re not giving up.”

  I don’t want to tell him, but I’ve learned that lesson, if nothing else.

  “Someone’s been watching us,” I say. “I received photos. Surveillance pictures. Of me and my family. Of you. I should have told you right away.”

  I brace myself for him to pull away, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

  “Well, this is your life, isn’t it, Red?”

  “What?”

  Valentine squints at me. “This is your life, this sort of thing. Bad men chasing you. Getting hurt. This is what you chose for yourself. Things like this will never stop happening.”

  This is the moment. The moment yet another person realizes I’m not worth it. That I ruin everything I touch.

  “It changes nothing,” Valentine says heavily. “This means nothing to me.”

  I pull my hands from his. “What do you mean, nothing? Don’t you get it? We’re in danger, you’re in danger, and I lied to you.”

  “Yeah, that was real stupid of you. So? I’ve fucked up enough times, it was your turn. You’re a dangerous person to know, Flora Calhoun. And I threw in with you anyway.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I never thought you were Nancy Drew. You’re not some cartoon character, running around with a magnifying glass. I meant it when I told you before—you’re the real thing.”

  Somehow, this is worse. This faith. Trust. I feel ready to fly apart at the seams again. I wrap my arms around myself to stop the loose bits of me shuttling off in all directions. I clamp my teeth down around the little half scream, half sob that threatens to rip out of my throat.

  A week ago, I was sure. I was so sure. This time was going to be different. I was going to be better. And I fucked it up again, like before. Someone’s going to get away with it. Like Lucy. Like Valentine’s sister. No one will pay for Ava’s death, and she’ll be just another body who was once a living, loved girl.

  This is the truth I’ve known for a long time. There are those with power, and with a flick of their wrists they can will us dead. The repercussions for them are nonexistent. The repercussions for the rest of us are life-and-death. And we all choose to look the other way, pretend this isn’t happening, because the real truth is too terrifying: we are—I am—ultimately powerless.

  “Hey,” Valentine says. “Hey. Look at me. Flora, look at me.”

  I open my eyes. He’s still kneeling before me. I meet his gaze full on. His pure, wild fear matches my own.

  The tears start again.

  “Hey, hey. No. None of that.” He grabs me by the arms. His grip isn’t gentle. “We’re not doing that now. We’re not falling apart. You got me? We’re not.” His voice is low but insistent. “Listen to me, you crazy girl. You pulled me into this. Into the heart of darkness with you. I’m fucking terrified, but I’m seeing it through. Yeah, there are people who want us dead. But we are not falling apart. Do you get me? Be scared. Be terrified with me. But you’re not going to run. Not going to hide. We’re fighters, you and me. Scrappers. We don’t lose, not like this.”

  Valentine looks at me that way again. The way I usually shy away from. Too close. Too much. Only now, with everyone else gone, I don’t want to push him away.

  “I know how you’re feeling right now,” he says. “I’m not going to tell you it’s not your fault. Won’t tell you it’ll be okay. But I am right here. Right next to you. Ready for the fight. I see you, Flora, and I’m not running from you. You with me?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

  He nods. “Yeah. That’s okay for now. You will be.” He stands. “Go get in the shower.”

  I stare at him.

  He tugs my arm until I get to my feet. “Shower, take a minute to yourself. Turn the water up hot, have a nice cry, get it together. Then we’ll come up with a plan.”

  I can feel it, as though from far away, the familiar impulse to snap back with some punchy retort. Banter. Roll my eyes.

  Instead I ask, “Where are your towels?”

  I take the longest, hottest shower I can bear. I don’t cry. I feel shriveled, dehydrated. The tears have finally run out. As the water warms my skin, that candle flicker of rage comes back to life in my belly, and it’s a relief.

  I’m ready to hurt, to maim, to kill.

  I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. In the kitchen, Valentine looks up from the pot he’s stirring, and his eyes sweep over every inch of me. He swallows. He doesn’t resume stirring. I look down and finger the edge of the threadbare oversize shirt he lent me. It smells like him. Soapy and boyish.

  “What are you making?” I peer into the pot on the stove, even though I can still feel him looking at me. It’s mac and cheese, the fluorescent-orange kind.

  “Is this what you usually eat for dinner?” I laugh.

  “No”—he looks defensive—“but you need some comfort right now, yeah? Nothing more comforting than Kraft.”

  “True.” Still, it makes me think of something my grandfather said. You’ve never grown up at all.

  He continues stirring. I trace the edge of one of his kitchen tiles with my bare toe.

  “Shit.” Valentine hisses in pain.

  I look up. He’s sucking on one of his knuckles. The skin is still peeling and bloody from when he punched the wall.

  “Stop. Your mouth is a cesspool of bacteria.” I take his hand and inspect it.

  “It’s a scrape.”

  “Please, you’re totally mangled.” I brush my finger over one knuckle. His skin jumps and tenses beneath my touch. I look up, and he’s smiling at me in a goofy, dreamy sort of way.

  Here, in his kitchen, over Kraft mac and cheese, all masks are finally stripped away.

  For good, I hope.

  I hold out my hand for the spoon. “Gimme. I’ll stir, you shower. Clean yourself up.”

  He hesitates. “You sure? You don’t mind being alone for a minute?”

  “Take care of yourself, then we’ll eat.”

  I man the stove while Valentine showers. It’s soothing, in a way, stirring the radioactive orange goop.

  My phone buzzes, and my heart does double Dutch when I see Cass’s name on the screen.

  Heard about Olive. So sorry, I hope you’re ok. Found something. Can we meet?

  I fumble a little typing my reply but finally get out:


  Yes of course. I want to apologize face-to-face. I’ll meet you anywhere

  Her reply comes back fast:

  Where are you? I’ll come to you. I think I have proof about Dorsey, and I want to apologize too

  I text her the address, and she says she’ll be here in a couple minutes. I close my eyes for a moment. Everything is broken right now, but the idea of fixing things with Cass makes me feel like maybe we’ll all survive this.

  I turn off the stove and put a lid on the food. In Valentine’s room, I pull my grimy jeans back on, my mind racing with what I should say to Cass. I owe her a real apology, and this time I’m not going to let myself get swept up in the case and avoid having yet another important conversation. She and I are going to talk this through until I’ve made her see how much I care about her. And then the three of us can check out whatever she found together, as a team. That’s how we’re going to bring Dorsey down.

  The water is still running in the bathroom. I scribble a quick note that I’m just heading downstairs to talk to Cass, and I’ll be back up soon.

  Outside, I stand on the curb and watch for her car. The street is dark and quiet. What could Cass have found on Dorsey? Whatever it was, it sounded big. Maybe she found a way to prove that the EVAH money came from the Basement.

  Someone grabs me from behind so fast I don’t have time to scream before the cloth is over my mouth. A sharp, dry smell fills my every sense. Clogs my nose, my eyes, my pores. It’s so powerful, I can’t help but collapse back into the arms that are wrapped around my chest.

  Darkness closes around me, and I realize belatedly that I have not passed out yet. It’s simply very dark in the car trunk I’ve been stuffed into.

  My blood is turning to mud, thick and slow in my veins. My eyes are heavy. I try to reach into my coat pocket, but it’s as though the air around me has turned to viscous, cloying sap. My fingers are stiff and clumsy. My phone flops onto the floor of the trunk with a hollow thud. It takes all of my concentration and strength to push four buttons and shove the phone back in my pocket.

  And then I lose consciousness for real.

  I wake to the sound of lapping water.

  My brain is muffled in layers of cotton batting. With Herculean effort, I crack one eye open. The world has lurched horribly to one side. Everything is at a nauseating ninety-degree angle. Three sluggish heartbeats later, the picture orients itself. I’m lying in a fetal position on rough, damp cement.

  I pry my other eye open. Try to swallow. Something pulls tight against the skin around my mouth. Duct tape.

  A pair of brown high-heeled boots walks toward me. Each footstep booms like a battering ram inside my skull.

  “She’s awake.”

  That’s up for debate.

  I try to roll onto my back, but my limbs won’t cooperate. I rock and convulse like an overturned beetle. Cold metal kisses the bare skin at my wrists, my waist, my legs. I’m chained.

  “Roll her over,” the voice attached to the boots says. A girl. A girl I know.

  Hands grab me, jerking me into a kneeling position.

  My vision shifts again, trying to right itself. Trying to find something stable to lock onto.

  The girl comes into view. She looks so much like her father.

  “Hi, Flora.” Elle Dorsey smiles at me.

  All the saliva gushes back into my mouth at once, and I retch against my duct tape gag. Elle takes a neat step back. A man in a suit stands at her side. I recognize him, too. Boyd. The manager of the Basement. In my foggy, half-drugged state, I finally realize where else I’ve seen him. That day I waited outside for Cass. Elle with the tennis ball. The fancy car, complete with driver.

  My vision clears, almost too much, everything in oversharp focus. We’re at the Whitley Reservoir. Shadowy pines surround us on all sides. The black water is still lapping away. Waiting.

  I can’t take in enough air with the duct tape over my mouth, and a panicked roar swells in my ears. Copper coats my throat. My teeth are chattering so hard I must have bitten my tongue. I don’t even feel it.

  Elle cants her head to the side and evaluates me. Gone is her usual bratty mean-girl act, replaced with something far colder and more calculating.

  She glances at Boyd. “Do it.”

  No hesitation. No buildup. This is it. I’m going to die.

  Boyd is already reaching for me. I scream and scream, but against my gag it sounds like nothing more than a muffled whimper. I thrash uselessly. My chains rattle and clank against one other, echoing through the watery quiet.

  The vibrating buzz of a phone makes everything pause.

  Boyd checks his screen. “It’s the bookie.”

  Elle sighs. “Take it. This can wait.” Boyd doesn’t move, and her tone goes icy. “I said go, and tell him one of the guys working his table has been taking side bets. I want the person found and dealt with tonight.”

  Boyd walks off into the trees to take the call. Elle turns her attention back to me.

  My heart is still pounding, smashing against the front of my chest like it’s trying to escape and save itself. Boyd will return any minute, and then they’ll kill me.

  Elle’s still watching me. She doesn’t smile, but there’s something like pleasure in her expression, like she’s enjoying seeing me on my knees.

  She takes a step closer and crouches before me in one smooth motion. She grips my chin in her hand. I try to jerk away, but her manicured nails are like the iron jaws of a fox trap. She rips the duct tape from my mouth. The cold air stings my raw skin. The second my mouth breaks free, I let out an unearthly wailing shriek of pure, unadulterated terror.

  It echoes across the water. The sound is hollow, empty. It ends. The world is silent. The woods watch and say nothing.

  “Feel free to continue”—Elle stands and smooths her dress—“but you only have a few more minutes to live, so freaking out seems like kind of a waste of time.”

  I fight to catch my breath. She’s right. The scream felt good. I needed it. But no one’s coming.

  “I’m curious,” Elle muses, like we’re having a chat over coffee, “did you consider even once that it was me?”

  “No,” I answer. “I didn’t think you were smart enough.”

  Her lips thin with irritation, but she turns it into another beauty contestant smile. “Wow, you are a really bad detective.”

  I gulp more air. “So the fight club was your idea. You ran the whole thing, and you got Ava to recruit other kids because people trusted her.”

  Behind my back, I finger the edge of the chains, testing for give.

  As a kid, I did love magic. Houdini. Miracle escapes.

  Elle purses her sweetheart pink mouth. “I know what you’re doing.”

  I try not to rattle the chains as I feel along their length. “Molly Sawyer got hurt, and Ava panicked. She wanted to put a stop to the whole thing, so you killed her to shut her up.”

  There’s one lock pressed into my lower back. Another at my wrist.

  Elle raises her eyebrows. “What a fascinating theory. Why don’t you go talk to the police? Oh, wait.” She casts a theatrical glance at the water.

  I ignore her. “Was all of this just a ploy to get back at Daddy?” I manage to dip one finger into my back pocket. There’s a bobby pin in there. There’s always a bobby pin in my back pocket.

  A muscle twitches by Elle’s eye. “No.” She brushes a stray hair out of her lip gloss.

  I see through it, though. A flash of that tender, exposed part of her.

  “Must be hard”—I can feel the metal edge of the pin—“living with a dad like that, who only sees you as a means to an end.”

  “Enough.” She rolls her eyes, but her jaw is tight.

  “I have no use for you,” I say. “I paraphrased a bit, but that’s what he meant, right? After the memorial?” I try to hook my finger around the pin, but it slips.

  Elle bends her face closer to mine. “Do you really think you’re going to trick me into a confession?
This isn’t Scooby-Doo. You are dying here tonight, Flora. You can give up on whatever scheme you’re plotting.”

  “Do it, then.” My mouth is dry around the words. “I’m totally helpless. Why wait for Boyd? Throw me in the water yourself, Elle.”

  “Well, if you want to speed things along…” Elle straightens and laughs, a tinkling dinner-party kind of sound.

  In a way, Elle and I aren’t so different. The more scared she is, the more Elle she becomes, like a character.

  I try again for the pin, my finger bent awkwardly. “It’s harder, isn’t it? The second kill. Now that you know what it’s like.”

  Elle flinches. “That’s enough.” She regains her composure quickly, but I saw it.

  “You know, it occurs to me”—my tone is casual, but my heart pounds in my throat—“you must have really trusted Ava to let her be your business partner.”

  Elle watches me with wary-animal eyes.

  “You were telling the truth, weren’t you?” I say softly. “She was your friend.”

  She inhales but doesn’t release it.

  “Do you know what Ava looked like when she died?” I struggle to keep my voice steady. Even saying those words is nearly enough to make me lose it, but if anyone needs to hear this, it’s Elle. Ava’s killer.

  She doesn’t say anything. She’s perfectly still. But I know she’s listening.

  “At first I thought she was already dead. She was so pale, and she wasn’t moving. But then I saw her eyes… she was afraid.”

  Elle shivers. Her jaw clenches.

  “I tried to call 911, but I already knew it was too late.” My breath hitches. “I held her in my arms. I tried so hard to save her, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough.”

  All of the images I’ve held at bay since that night come flooding back, and this time I don’t fight it. I let them drag me under.

  “I had my fingers inside her chest. Inside that bullet wound you put in her heart. Trying to stop the life from gushing out of her. Her blood was everywhere, all over me. I felt her pulse getting weaker.” The tears flow free down my cheeks, cold in the night air. I don’t try to stop them.