“I can get you back via Trudeau. Follow me.”
Autumn hesitated at the door, heart lodged in her throat. She knew her own way out – why should she follow? But staff could be on the grounds, and not even a hoodie could fully conceal her as she jaunted around Athletics and dodged the quad.
What if there is no staff member? What if HE was chasing me? And why is he here this late?
“Are you coming?” he asked, pausing inside the stairwell. “I don’t know who’s out, but it’s probably Grant again and he will have our asses!”
“Grant?” The thought chilled Autumn’s blood. He hates me so much… and he would be out snooping.
With a curse under her breath, she followed Film Guy down the stairs.
They soon met with a solid metal door reminiscent of her usual route, only this one spilled into a different tunnel, as best she could tell. Without a word, he turned right, and she followed, jogging to match his pace as they wound to the right, then a sharp left. Her scattered mind was able to determine this was roughly the right direction to Trudeau, which set her somewhat at ease. All the same, she maintained a few feet of distance, eyes scanning for alternate routes, should he… do anything.
The pursuing steps no longer echoed off the walls, and the two of them slowed, catching their breath in gasps. Hand pressed to her chest, Autumn waved him down, leaning against the grungy wall. Understanding, he paused, waiting for her.
“Should start jogging again,” she muttered.
“You did alright,” he replied casually. “What were you doing down here?”
“I could ask you the same,” she retorted.
“I wasn’t down here. I was editing in my suite and lost track of time. I was heading to the tunnels to sneak back to Trudeau when I heard steps. Freaked me out, since nobody goes down here, except the staff. Thought I was fucked.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, tousling it. “When I saw you, I figured that they were after you, so-”
“So you grabbed me?”
He rolled his eyes, angry. “I was trying to save you from stumbling into security! Plus, I remembered you from the other week, and… anyway, I’m sorry I startled you. We should move, though.”
Autumn sighed. “Okay. And thank you. Someone was following me for a while.”
They walked briskly, their sneakers slapping beneath them as they moved side by side. In the faint lighting of the service corridors, Autumn could study his features from her periphery. Bright blue eyes, stubble on his chin, pale skin, save a dash of freckles across his nose. He wasn’t bad looking at all, if she had any interest in dating. But she didn’t, and the strength of his grip had reminded her of precisely why she wasn’t interested.
“You never said why you came down here,” he suddenly mused aloud, the question hanging in the air.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she ceded.
“I usually play Plants Vs Zombies when I can’t sleep.”
Autumn sighed, shaking her head. “I heard the tunnels stretched all over the place. Figured I’d take a wander. You know how the snow is in Canada. I wanted indoor options, like the PATH system downtown.”
He chuckled softly. “You mean that underground shopping thing in Toronto? You do know there’s no Gap down here, right?”
“Well yeah, but I was hoping for Starbucks at least,” she deadpanned.
“God, I could go for a no-whip mocha Frapp,” he sighed. They cut to the right, and he continued, “It’s just a little further. The stairs lead into the Trudeau basement. From there, I can get you outside. You can get back into Ashbury, right?”
“Yeah. There’s a door and a convenient rock everyone uses,” Autumn replied lightly. “Do you do this often?”
“Maybe once a week,” he confessed. “When I get on a roll with the film, I hate stopping. Curfews are bullshit anyway.”
“And here I thought I was the only criminal slash insomniac!” Autumn mused lightly.
“Nope! A rarity, but we exist at Casteel.” He pulled open a door to their left, revealing a stairwell heading up to a door with chipped paint and possibly cola stains.
Film Guy’s escape route deposited him in the laundry room for his dorm, a nice, noisy place that easily concealed the faint squeal of door hinges as they slipped into the room. Carefully securing the door behind them, he gestured ahead, leading her into a lonely corridor with an elevator and another stairwell, indicated by a flickering Exit sign.
“The elevator is loud as fuck, so more stairs, I’m afraid.”
Autumn shrugged. “My thighs will be bad-ass after tonight.”
“They’re already bad-ass,” he blurted out, immediately flushing. “That is, not that I was looking or anything.”
Autumn, too, flushed crimson. It had been a long time since anyone had complimented her in a way that wasn’t leering or… forceful, like him. It was kind of sweet, even if it wouldn’t get him anywhere. Unsure of how to respond without hurting his feelings, she resorted to her tried and true technique: humor.
“So you’re saying I could leg model? You know, like hand models, only my thighs? Because I bet that could be profitable for university.”
He laughed, pressing his hand over his mouth to stifle the volume. “You’re funny when you’re not running from me, or, well, anyone. What’s your name?”
“Autumn Brody. I promise that’s legit and not my computer-generated porn star name. And you?”
He smiled widely, pausing at the first landing. “Andrew Daniels. Boring, I know, but the porn generator spat out Fluffy Bronte, so I’m stuck with it.”
Autumn grinned. “On the bright side, you can probably do bad shit and blame it on dozens of other Andrews. Autumn’s distinctive.”
“You can blame everything on a whole season. That’s better.” With a sigh, he gestured to the door. “Out there, second bush to the right and straight on ‘til Ashbury.”
Autumn tilted her head. “Did you seriously just twist J.M. Barrie?”
A mischievous grin crossed his lips. “Hell yeah. You got a problem with that, Wendy?”
Flushing, she shook her head. “Not at all, Peter. But if you shake a fairy’s ass over my head, we might have a problem. I have no idea where that fairy’s been.”
A creaking overhead startled them and Andrew moved quickly to open the door. “Our don never sleeps, the bastard. Better run for it.”
Darting outside, Autumn turned back, reluctant to part. Something was very…. Veronica about him. Safe. A friend. The door shut partway, then sprung back open, revealing a frantic Andrew.
“I’m in my suite every night from seven to ten!” And with this declaration – invitation? – he disappeared once more.
Drawing her hoodie tight around her hair, Autumn darted off towards the bushes to her right, just as Andrew Pan told her. Maybe I could have two friends, she mused. Slipping into Ashbury and heading up to the third floor, her mind quickly shifted. No… I already talk with too many people. Even Keenan approaches me now, with or without Veronica around. And Dora and Sarah, too… Unlocking her room, she stepped inside, locking herself in and stripping off her hoodie and t-shirt.
“It’s just not safe,” she thought sadly.
Yet even still, as she lay in bed, sleepless, his words haunted her. He’s always there too, like me. He seems nice. But he’d grabbed her, and his anger that day in the film suite… No. She was being foolish. It wasn’t even an option.
“Fear is safety,” she mused, recalling her favourite Shakespearean play.
She’d seen no one in the quad as she’d returned to her room, but someone had apparently noticed students ditching curfew. Perhaps the illustrious Headmistress Logan had heard of her late-night jaunts and sought to catch her in the act? She’d have to lay low, then, adhere to curfew for a week or so. Besides, she thought happily, I’m going home for two nights. I’m halfway through my prison sentence. Why chance extending it?
She would be a black-eyed mess in the morning if she didn’t sleep soon. Popping an At
ivan as Emma had suggested, she reached for her laptop and opened her email. Sure enough, her mother had sent a quick line about picking her up after lunch, but it was the lack of messages from Miraj and Heather that sank her heart. Miraj was more understandable, as her internet access was sporadic. But Heather had a Blackberry and her emails went wherever she went.
Autumn was being ignored.
She could picture it with crystalline clarity: Heather, surrounded by her cheerleader friends and the endless string of guys willing to kiss her ass for a date. Autumn had never fit into her world once they’d hit high school. It was an inevitability, really. But they possessed history, years of friendship and laughter and the odd fight that ended as quickly as it started. Didn’t that mean anything?
Friends were a scarce commodity, now. She wasn’t ready to give up on Heather.
Hitting compose, she furiously tapped out an email to her best friend – or former best friend; she wasn’t sure anymore.
Hi Heather,
I know you’re busy with school and cheerleading, but I thought I’d say hi, and also let you know I’m coming home tomorrow for a few days for Thanksgiving. If you get sick of your grandmother and her talk of purity balls, you can give me a call. Maybe we can even snag some cheap wine and hit the beach?
Autumn
Autumn froze, staring at the screen. Maybe there wasn’t a point. She’d ignored Heather for the better part of a year, shut her out of her life. What did she really expect Heather to do? Wait around? Willingly be treated like trash? Her stomach turned with guilt, and she closed out of the message without sending.
Heather was just giving her what she deserved.
“Stupid,” she muttered. “You stupid, worthless girl.”
Her Drafts folder bolded, drawing her eye. Two unsent messages. Wait – two? What else didn’t I send? Frowning in confusion, she clicked into the folder, concerned she’d forgotten to send something to a professor, or worse, her mother. Instead, she found two messages to Heather: tonight’s abandoned note, and another, from almost a year ago. She opened it reluctantly, almost certain of what she’d find…
Heather,
I keep trying to phone you, but I can never make myself say anything, so I’m going to write this. I really need your help in understanding… I don’t know. I don’t have the experience you do with guys and all, but something with Chris just seems off.
He’s so… I don’t know. Angry? Mistrusting? I see him all the time, but it feels like he’s expecting me to run off any minute with another guy. It’s sweet that he’s so afraid of losing me, but it’s also kind of controlling. I don’t feel like I’m my own person anymore.
Maybe this is just love, for him anyway. I really like him – you know I do – but we’ve been dating only a month, you know?
Anyway, I probably sound like a stupid juvenile girl, but it’s just… Sometimes, he gets this look when we make out or whatever and…
Heather, he scares me.
With a whimper, she deleted both drafts, slamming the computer shut and thrusting it onto the windowsill. This was a sign. She couldn’t be friends with men. They couldn’t be predicted, couldn’t be trusted.
It was decided then: Andrew Daniels was persona non grata.
Curling her trembling body around her pillow, she closed her eyes, haunted by two sets of stormy blue eyes, two sets of hands on her flesh, two smiles, insisting they could be trusted. She’d made this mistake before; she’d be damned if she would make it again.
In her medicated stupor, Autumn swore she heard Nikki whisper in agreement.
TWELVE
Toronto; December 13th, 2010
Her hand hesitated before the pristine white door of the modest bungalow, her backpack heavy upon her right shoulder. I should have called first, Autumn chastised herself. She doesn’t even know me. Shuffling side to side, she bit her lip.
She knows you. She sent that note.
Fiona Atwood was in grade eleven, from what Autumn had learned through casual inquiry. She was known to be shy and apparently great at art. Corrina’s friend Annessa knew her from Parenting class. She didn’t speak often, but teachers loved her.
She also hadn’t been in school since September.
“Screw it,” she mumbled, knocking briskly. Fiona obviously wanted to talk to her about something. Might as well find out what that something was.
A dishevelled and haggard woman answered the door, her greying hair hanging limply beside her cheeks. Her sweater and jeans looked slept in and her eyes were ringed in purple. Autumn forced herself not to stare, wondering how bad off Fiona was.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked wearily.
“Um, yeah. I’m Autumn Brody. I go to Jarvis and I was hoping that Fiona was well enough to have visitors.”
Hesitantly, the woman stood aside, silently inviting her in. Unsure of herself, Autumn stepped just inside, lingering in the foyer as the front door was shut. Without speaking, the woman headed down the hall towards the rear of the house, pausing just beyond a closed door.
“Please don’t stay too long. She still tires easily.”
Autumn nodded quickly, clutching her backpack tighter. “Of course.”
“You can go right in,” the woman added, wandering away.
Autumn’s hand reached for the knob, hesitating briefly. Was this intrusive? I really should have called first, she lamented.
But he would have noticed.
Turning the handle gingerly, she pushed the door open a crack, peering inside. This was Fiona’s bedroom: a desk with a computer came into view, followed by a bed, an antique four-poster polished to shine. Upon it lay a frail teenager, her collarbones sickeningly obvious and her face gaunt and ashen.
“Um, Fiona?”
The girl startled, her left hand fluttering upon the sheets as her head spun. With a wide-eyed stare, she nodded furiously and Autumn took this as a signal to enter. The crutches and full leg cast became apparent as the door opened wider. It was no wonder now that Fiona hadn’t returned to school: Jarvis wasn’t exactly accessible.
Autumn nervously lowered herself onto the chair by the desk, setting her bag on the ground. “I’m sorry to come over without calling, but-”
“No,” Fiona whispered. “Better you didn’t. Not that he won’t find out. He always does.”
“Who?”
Fiona rolled her eyes, sighing. “You know who.”
Chris. So this was about him, as she’d suspected. Her hand fidgeted with her hair, twirling it viciously about her fingers as she remained silent, unsure of what to do or say.
“I tried to tell you,” Fiona continued softly. “But he… He had other ideas.”
“He? I’m not sure what you mean,” Autumn replied nervously.
Fiona shook her head sadly. “Your bruises are showing,” she commented casually. “My scars don’t fit under a sweater,” she added, gesturing to her leg.
Hurriedly, Autumn dropped her hand, pulling hard on her sleeve. They were fading now, but the purple blemishes still bespoke a truth she dared not confess to anyone. He swore he didn’t mean it, she thought weakly. But he didn’t stop. Not until I begged. But Fiona… Surely, he didn’t…
“I called, but you were in the hospital.” It was so awkward, sitting here with her. Fiona’s eyes cut straight through the flimsy veneer of her feigned casualness.
Fiona huffed. “Getting run over by a car makes things difficult.” At Autumn’s frightened gasp, she added, “And yes, he did it. He and his precious truck. What colour did he paint it afterwards?”
“Black. His truck is black,” Autumn murmured. “So, he and you?”
“All summer. Then, he got a little bored with me. Too virginal, I guess. But he still felt he owned me. When I told him I was done… Well, this.” Fiona shifted herself more upright, moaning in pain. “My mother doesn’t know everything. Not yet.”
Autumn leaned closer, eyes welling up in tears. “I’m so sorry. Oh my God… He used to be nice, but lat
ely, he’s…”
“He’s a monster,” Fiona concluded. “You need to stay away from him. You need to tell someone. He won’t hesitate to hurt you, any way he can.”
Autumn shifted in her chair, her stomach turning as pieces shifted into place, Fiona’s words a twist of a kaleidoscope. He’s dangerous. He’s more than jealous. How could I be so stupid, so blind?
“My parents love him,” she murmured to herself. “Everyone loves him.”
“They love what he lets them see,” Fiona corrected her. “We know better. If we both tell, maybe the police will stop him.”
“I’m scared,” Autumn confessed, hugging herself. “And maybe I’m selfish for that, but I’m scared to… If he really… I’m sorry. I have to go.”
Fiona didn’t protest. Her auburn hair fell in tangles over her face as she turned back to her TV without another word. Grabbing her bag, Autumn hurried out into the hall and out the front door, unable to face Fiona’s broken mother and her unspoken questions. She had enough of her own.
Chris couldn’t do something like this! A truck?
You never thought he’d throw you into a wall, either.
That’s a whole other level! Guys get angry. They’re full of testosterone and stupidity and yes, he shouldn’t have done it, but that’s not attempted murder!
Yet.
Three blocks. She had three blocks to walk, to think as icy rain pelted the hood of her coat. Should she tell her parents? Or Heather? How reliable was Fiona, anyway? She didn’t even know her!
You know, her mind hissed. You know.
And she knew when her arm viciously yanked behind her, knew when her head struck the metal door of a vehicle, that it would be Chris she would see when her eyes opened. His eyes were grey – hurricane-crazy and unforgiving. The romantic boy she knew was lost in the storm again.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
“Visiting a friend from school,” she replied, eyes averting to the ground.
A fat glob of green gum lay beside her shoe, chewed up and spat out. Like Fiona.
“Get in!” he ordered, throwing open the truck door and shoving her up into the seat. Her bag fell haphazardly to the floorboards beneath her feet, her phone slamming against her textbooks.
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