by Rysa Walker
How much time have I lost in the past four months? How much of what I remember is even real? The swarm of panic butterflies fluttering inside my stomach morphs into a frenzied wave of bats. I clench my fists tight and draw in a long, steadying breath through my nose, telling myself it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I’m in control now. I know what’s going on. I can block him out.
Only . . . how many times have I had this same exact thought? How many times has it been overwritten?
“The medication is kind of a moot point now,” Aaron says. “Kelsey actually gave you an injection about three weeks ago. Rispera . . . something. I’m pretty sure Cregg was at the surface then, because it took me and Deo both to hold you down long enough for her to give you the shot. But it takes a few weeks to kick in, and you need another injection for full effect. You were supposed to be taking the oral form in the interim as well, but then Kelsey yanked the medication option off the table entirely. She seemed so enthusiastic about the possibilities at first, even discussed the pros and cons of different drugs, but then suddenly she tells us it won’t help. That this is just you working through an old trauma. And Kelsey was so stubborn about it. Wouldn’t listen to anything we said.”
“Kelsey’s not—” I break off, confused. “Kelsey didn’t use to be like that. You’d have a hard time finding anyone more open-minded. Maybe it’s just the stress of the past few months.”
“Deo said that too, so maybe.”
“Or . . .” I stop, feeling like I’m on the edge of making a mental connection, but it slips away.
“Or . . . what?”
“I don’t know. Lost what I was going to say. I’m having a tough time keeping my walls up, and . . . conversation makes it even harder. I know we have a lot of things we need to work on . . . to fix . . . between us, but right now maybe we should just focus on what we need to do in DC. Once my father is safe, you can take me back to Kelsey so I can work on getting this monster out of my head.”
“Sure,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Sounds like a plan.”
I give Aaron the same bare-bones account of the vision I gave Deo. And again, even though it twists my gut to do it, I leave out most of the important details. What good did it do for me to push Cregg back, to fight that impulse to hurl us off the overpass, if I’m going to put everyone in jeopardy anyway?
“That’s probably the Hart Building,” Aaron says. “The Senate website shows closed hearings scheduled today and tomorrow for that subcommittee. There have been rumors Pfeifer was testifying this afternoon.”
“I thought they’d decided to interview him from the psychiatric hospital?”
Aaron’s eyes narrow slightly, and I realize this is another one of the things I should know but don’t, thanks to the memory gaps. No, not gaps. Memory craters.
“You’ve told me all of this before, haven’t you?”
“Not . . . exactly. But you were there—physically there, at any rate—when Taylor told us about the article in the Post. They’re reassessing the whole issue of Pfeifer’s sanity. Most of the things that made the doctors question his competence at the time of your mom’s murder have turned out to be true. So . . . they want to find out what he knows. And there’s a good chance he’ll be ordered to stand trial now. I guess the real question is who wants him dead. Just . . . um . . . as a heads-up, I should probably let you know Taylor thinks it’s Cregg.”
“I guess. Although, he’s the one who started parading the Delphi adepts around like prize pigs. He’s the one who’s pushing for the hearings, too. So—”
“No. Not Senator Cregg.”
“Oh.” I wait, expecting a reaction from my hitcher, but he remains still. Too still. He’s listening. Lurking. Waiting for a split second when my guard is down.
Aaron pulls a folded bit of paper from his pocket. I don’t recognize it at first, but then I see the phone number. It’s the card he picked up on the beach this morning. “I had Sam try to track down the number, but he didn’t get anything. Probably a burner phone.”
“Did he try calling it?”
“Well, we thought about that but decided maybe it should come from you.” The panic I’m feeling must register in my eyes, because he quickly adds, “Not tonight. When you’re ready.”
It takes a moment for the full implication of what he’s said to seep in. “Wait . . . Taylor thinks that’s why I was on the beach this morning? That I was . . . arranging for someone to kill my father?”
“Yeah. Stan thinks so, too. That’s when this new cluster of paths . . . spun off, I guess? Not sure what you’d call it, but he says something happened this morning that made the whole future he was seeing really blurry. Ambiguous.”
“But . . . that’s good, though. Right? He was predicting this huge confrontation with the Senator and Dacia before, and—”
Aaron shakes his head. “Before, Stan thought we had a reasonable chance against them. Now his Magic 8-Ball has flipped to Outlook Not So Good.”
Some part of me—and I’m reasonably sure that part is actually me, and not Cregg—wants to argue against Stan’s entire premise. Wants to tell Aaron I would never give away the location of Sandalford. Would never put all of them at risk. Would never hire an assassin to kill my father, no matter what he may have done.
But I don’t. Taylor’s right, as usual. It’s the most logical explanation.
“You look beat,” Aaron says. “Maybe you should rest.”
“No. I mean, yes, I’m tired. I was up at dawn, and I haven’t been sleeping well anyway. But Aaron . . . sleep isn’t an option until we get back to Sandalford. If I fall asleep, my walls will come down, and that would be a very bad thing.”
The realization hits him, and he pulls me into his arms. “You can’t stay awake forever, babe. And you fought him off. You’re getting stronger—”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just caught him off guard. And that was before . . . before I knew it was him. If he gets out again, he’ll fight harder to keep control. I can feel it.”
“So . . . no sleep. Coffee, Red Bull, and 5-hour ENERGY.”
“Maybe not all at once, but yeah.”
I hear the front door open, followed by Taylor’s voice.
“Can you get Tay to ride up front with you? I’m not ready for the Inquisition yet.”
“Sure. We’ve only got about another hour until we reach the campground. I’ll put on a pot of coffee first, and we’ll take shifts to make sure someone’s with you to help keep you alert.”
“Yeah, coffee’s a good idea.”
“You need me to send Deo in while I make it, or are you okay?”
“I’m okay.”
It’s a lie, and not even a good one, since it’s followed by a very shaky exhale. I’m not even close to okay. Every muscle feels like it’s paper-thin porcelain that will shatter if I move. I want to curl up, pull the covers over my head, have a good cathartic cry, and sleep for a week.
But I can’t do that. I can’t risk losing control in any way.
“Hey.” He lifts my chin to meet my eyes. “We’re not going to let him win, Anna. You are not alone in this.”
I nod and give him the best smile I can muster. He’s right. I’m not alone. There’s a mass murderer disguised as a rat-spider in my head, and three other people in this RV.
Which means no tears, no anger, no sleep. I may not be able to put the last one off forever, but I can definitely delay it until I’m far, far away from anyone I can hurt.
College Park, Maryland
April 24, 2020, 1:22 a.m.
Aaron took the first shift in the Babysitting Anna Marathon. A little after one, he went to bed, tagging Deo and Taylor to take over. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, their legs intertwined in the middle as they read. They make a cute picture, something I’m sure would have both of them rolling their eyes if they could read my mind.
Cuteness aside, their relationship still makes me uneasy. It’s not really the sex
part. I’m sure they’re being cautious. I’ve talked to Deo on that front, as has Kelsey. And Aaron says Taylor is on the pill, too. So while I’m pretty confident they’re physically safe, there is unfortunately nothing to prevent emotional damage if this ends badly.
At first, I was most worried about Deo—and well, to be honest, I’m still most worried about Deo, because he’s my brother and I can’t stand the idea of him being hurt. But I’m starting to worry about Taylor, too. Several times in the past few hours, I’ve seen her glance up from her reading and watch Deo’s face, like he’s a puzzle she can’t quite figure out. Her eyes are so vulnerable when she looks at him—which again makes me glad she can’t read my mind, because Taylor wouldn’t want anyone thinking of her as vulnerable.
Taylor has been unusually solicitous, even making me an energy smoothie to help keep me awake. But she also seems on edge, maybe even more than I am. We pass the time by watching some Pixar movie and munching on microwave popcorn. It would be fun if not for the occasional movement I keep sensing behind my walls. Experimental taps at the bricks to see if they’re at full strength. And when my mind isn’t distracted by my unwanted lodger, it keeps straying to the question of how the hell I’m going to get out of here on my own.
Deo’s head begins to droop in the middle of the second movie. I’m surprised but also very, very relieved that he conked out so easily. Now I just have to find a way to distract Taylor.
An hour later, I’m at the point where I can’t help glancing over at the clock every minute or so. And then at my backpack, leaning against the kitchen bar. Then back at the clock. Luckily, she’s doing something on her phone, so she’s barely noticed. I’m half tempted to just snag my backpack and make a run for it. How the hell am I supposed to slip out when I’m under constant surveillance? And yes, I know I obviously do manage it, since I saw it in the vision, but thinking about causality loops in the wee hours of the morning is only going to worsen my current meta fog.
“You want another soda?” I ask.
Given that she’s already had two, I’m not entirely surprised when she shakes her head. So much for my strategy of plying her with enough liquid that she’ll be forced to take a bathroom break.
“I’ve had plenty,” she says. “But you should probably chug that cup of coffee and get going.”
My jaw drops and she waves her phone.
“Stan’s been keeping me updated on the paths since we left Sandalford. He’s annoyingly vague, as usual. There was some divergence earlier, but by the time Aaron went to bed, everything had gathered into two neat clusters. The largest one has me pretending to fall asleep on the sofa and you sneaking out the door. The rest of us catch up with you later.”
“What happens if I don’t go now?”
Her face grows grim. “According to Stan, two guys with guns show up and take you through that door. Aaron doesn’t fare too well on that path. I’m not willing to risk it for that reason alone.”
“Aaron is going to be really pissed at you. At Deo, too. I’m not sure he’ll believe you both fell asleep.”
“Pffft,” she says. “I can handle Aaron. And the melatonin I dissolved in Deo’s Dr Pepper gives him an excuse, so Aaron won’t have any reason to be mad at him. Just grab your backpack and go, okay? Let me worry about the fallout.”
SHARED JOURNAL
3/18/20
Deo: We were walking out by the pool with Ein this morning, and Anna gets that look. You all know the expression. Her face goes blank like she’s talking to one of her hitchers, but then it gets . . . calculating, I guess. Not like Anna at all. Then she asks me if I want to cut out, just the two of us. Head back to the city. I mention that we have zero money, no place to live, and there are still people out there who think she was involved with killing those kids back at Overhills. Plus the Senator’s people. Dacia and her damned Bear Army. We’re safer here.
Next she says she doesn’t trust Magda. Which I get. But here’s the bit where she lost me. She says Kelsey’s more on Magda’s side than ours. That Aaron and Taylor belong here, but we don’t. Says she can get her hands on a couple thousand bucks—a bank account left by one of her former hitchers. That’s bullshit or she’d have mentioned it back at Bartholomew House. For that matter, she’d have mentioned it when we were talking about replacing the power cord on our laptop last month, instead of wishing she had a way to contact Joe, her old boss, to get her paycheck for the final week she worked. And it’s not cash this Myron guy had and that’s why she’s just remembered it. He was homeless, right? I mean, he was also crazy, so I guess he could have been on the streets and still have some cash stashed away, but . . . no, not buying it.
So, anyway, I tell her I’ll think about it, and she gives me this weird sneer. Again, doesn’t look anything like Anna. A few minutes later, it’s Anna back, clearly confused as to why we’re suddenly on the other side of the deck. I wait a beat, then I mention us leaving. She looks at me like I’m out of my mind. Says it’s too risky right now. And anyway, we don’t have any money or anywhere to go.
I was on the fence about the whole Cregg vs Myron thing before. Now I agree with Taylor. I think Anna picked up Cregg after Jasper shot him. I’m not sure why you couldn’t get him to surface when Anna was under hypnosis, but today didn’t feel like Anna working through memories from a hitcher. It felt like someone else wearing Anna’s skin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
College Park, Maryland
April 24, 2020, 4:27 a.m.
My foot slips on the broken pavement, and I slow my pace to a light jog. The sidewalk ended a quarter mile back, and the city of College Park seems to have skimped on streetlights along this section of road. The lack of sleep is hitting me already. Every few minutes, I get spells where I’m woozy, off-balance. It doesn’t last long, but it keeps me from really getting into a good running rhythm.
A sliver of moon hangs in the sky, but the clouds have dimmed it to an insipid haze that never reaches the ground. The flashlight on my phone would be useful, but I handed it over to Aaron without argument last night. If Cregg is finding a way to break through my walls, there’s no reason to make it easy for him to communicate with his allies or flunkies or whatever these people are.
Aside from the piss-poor lighting, I don’t need the phone. I’m on home turf now. I spent four months in a foster home over in Eleven Cedars, not too far from here. The school bus drove down this road every day. I have thirteen dollars inside my backpack, and a Metro SmarTrip card with five or ten bucks’ credit in my pocket. I know how to get to the Greenbelt Metro station, which is about two miles from here. My pepper spray is in my hand, and my hair is tucked inside the hood of my jacket, because I also know this isn’t exactly the best place for an eighteen-year-old girl to take a predawn jog.
Before I left, I scribbled out a note to Aaron and one to Deo. Mostly to apologize for what I was about to do, but also because I felt bad about leaving Taylor to face the wrath of the guys when they discover I’m gone. Hopefully that won’t be for at least another hour, because I’m not the only one who is now on home turf. Aaron has connections in the DC area. Half his family are former cops. They have friends who are still on the force, including at least one who knows the claims of me being involved in killing the kids at Overhills and the attack on Daniel at the hospital are both false. I need to get some distance between me and the RV, because it wouldn’t be hard for him to set up a dragnet and pull me in.
The road widens up ahead, and I jog past a small apartment complex, a Home Depot, and a smattering of other suburban stores. Just after I cross Baltimore Avenue, I spot a gray sedan that seems to be following me. I pick up the pace, aiming for a twenty-four-hour BP station just ahead. Keeping one eye on the car, I slip into the store and grab a bottle of water from the cooler. As I’m paying for the water, the car pulls up outside the door.
I get a brief flash of yellow from the license plate. Pennsylvania, I think, but my view of the rear bumper isn’t clear enough to confirm. The
guy on the passenger side is easily visible, short and tubby, with a doughy face. That weird feedback loop kicks in because I’m thinking he looks like Lou Costello, the old-time comedian that Abner, one of my former hitchers, used to watch when he was a kid. At the same time, I’m remembering the vision last night where I was already thinking of these two as Abbott and Costello.
My resident rat-spider kicks into motion as soon as I see Costello. He scurries back and forth along the wall, tapping each brick. There are no holes big enough for him to reach through with his spindly legs—or maybe he’s simply not willing to risk losing another one. But there must be some sort of chink in the armor, because a clear thought reaches me. The voice sounds like Cregg’s . . . but higher. Fainter.
Let me handle this. We’re more alike than you know. Your father killed your mother. My father killed mine. And if your father lives, we have no hope of defeating mine. You don’t want that. Neither do—
“Shut up,” I say aloud as I shove the door open.
The clerk, who is pushing a broom down one of the aisles, gives me a dirty look. “Shut up your own damn self.”
Walking directly toward the car, I open the rear passenger-side door, as though this is the Uber I’ve been waiting for. Costello gets out before I can even slide into the back seat and holds out his hands. “Finally,” he says. “Give me the backpack.”
“What?”
“You said it might have a tracker? Here, I got it.” He snatches the pack off my shoulder. My first instinct is to knock his hands away, and I fight to keep my face neutral as Costello shoves it into the trash container between the gas pumps. I’ve had that pack for years. It’s been with me almost as long as Deo. My ID is in there. My freakin’ pepper spray is in there. Even the damned bottle of water I just bought was in that bag. But all I can do is watch. Otherwise, I’ll tip them off to the fact that it’s me, and not Cregg, in control.
