If You Dare

by A. R. Torre

  “Your door locks from the outside?” EyelinerCop finds this very interesting. I watch the tip of her pen, the increased tremor of it as it scratches against the page of her notebook.

  “Yes.” I lift my eyes from the pen. “What evidence do you have against me?”

  Her mouth widens into a grin, a stretch of raw lips that looks painful. I don’t like that grin, that tell that I just stepped into a pile of shit. “Why, Ms. Madden, what an interesting question. An innocent person would be more interested in finding out what crime was committed.”

  “Who said I was an innocent person?”

  CHAPTER 12

  Present

  “WHO SAID I was an innocent person?”

  The response slipped out, snarky and unnecessary. I’d wanted to shut the cop up, to wipe that smug grin off her face. The question was much more passive than what I wanted to do. To spring across the table and claw at her neck, pulling and ripping the delicate cords of her throat. Yank at her belt and palm her service revolver. Celebrate the gun’s weight in my hand in the moment before I pointed the gun at her temple and pulled the trigger, her head exploding in one beautiful blood-splattering second. Take that, bulletproof vest. Compared to that scenario, my egotistic response was tame. Tame and stupid. The pair of detectives all but high-fived each other with their eye contact. I settled back in my chair and waited. Counted to ten and swore to behave.

  The woman composes herself and speaks. “What are you guilty of, Ms. Madden?”

  I wonder why she is in charge of this interaction. If it is her rank or if it is because they thought I’d associate with a woman more. Thought I would buddy up and confess away, all because a penis didn’t hang between her legs. I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair. “I’d like you both to leave now. Unless you have something to charge me with.”

  They have to have something. Surely they didn’t show up at my apartment on a whim. I must have slipped up somewhere, forgotten something in my past crimes. Left a gaping hole big enough for them to stick an arrest warrant through.

  TheOtherOne speaks. “Let’s get back to the neighbor. You said he locks you inside? Why would you let him do that?”

  This is wrong, bad. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking to them. I asked them to leave; doesn’t that mean they have to? I take a sip of my water and look away from the man, make accidental eye contact with the woman. She leans forward and points, her finger one long arrow of invasion. “What happened to your nose, Ms. Madden?”

  Oh, right. I had forgotten. “My nose?” I reach up and touch it. Feel the caked blood, the split across my bridge. I push on the joint and suddenly realize how much it throbs. The Vicodin for my headache must have taken off the sting. It’s been five or six hours. I close my eyes and try to remember how many pills I have. Calculate the time it would take for the doc to send me more.

  “It looks broken.” She looks concerned, but she’s not. Her voice sounds giddy; she’d probably reach out and grip my nose herself if she could.

  It looks broken. It feels broken. I push on the tip and get lightheaded. Pull my hand away before I faint. I stare at a strand of the woman’s hair that has escaped her ponytail. Focus on it until the spots clear from my vision.

  “Ms. Madden?” the man prods.

  “What?”

  “What happened to your nose?”

  Good question. I look away from the strand of hair and into the man’s eyes. “I’m not sure.”

  “You forgot?”

  All of the caution signs in my head are lining up for battle. Why am I talking to them? Why are they here? Why am I offering information when I’m not getting any? I stand up and watch for a reaction. A reach for a paper, for evidence to wave in my face, but they do nothing, just stay in place and watch me. “I’d like to be alone.”

  I walk to the door and wait, the pair slow as they stand, step, then pass through the open door. I am almost free, about to shut it, when the woman’s hand settles on my arm, a firm and hard grip that tightens against the sleeve of my Marilyn Monroe sweatshirt. I turn, raising my brows at her in question.

  “Why did you kill him?” the cop whispers, her eyes glued on me.

  I don’t answer her. I hold her eye contact while I reach down and pull back on her index finger until she releases my arm with a pained wince. Then I drop my hand, step back, and shut the door, the slam of the steel against the frame loud and unfamiliar.

  I didn’t not answer to be smart or mysterious. The main reason I didn’t answer was because I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wasn’t sure which death she was asking about. To be honest, I am starting to lose track.

  CHAPTER 13

  Present

  “SHE’S GUILTY.” DETECTIVE Brenda Boles speaks quietly in the close confines of the elevator, the pair of detectives watching the panel warily as it wheezes down. “No doubt. Did you see her face before she let us in? The way she stared at my gun?”

  “I saw it. But a lot of women are scared of guns. It’s got to be intimidating to let two armed strangers into your apartment.” Detective David Reuber chews his gum and leans against the side of the elevator.

  “Oh, please.” She snorts. “Intimidated? That girl wasn’t intimidated. She was cornered. And guilty. I’d bet my pension on it.”

  “We got nothing. A body who knew her. Nothing else. You know that.”

  “Yet. We’ve got nothing yet. We will. And next time we’re on this damn elevator, it’ll be to arrest her. You know she’s good for this, David.”

  “I don’t know…” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t fit any profile.”

  “Skinny white chicks can’t be killers? You already forgotten Jodi Arias?”

  He shrugs, gesturing her forward when the elevator doors open. “Maybe. I’m just saying. Don’t close the suspect list yet.”

  “I’m not closing anything yet. But she’s topping it.”

  “It’s your case. You bark, I follow.”

  She laughs, and they exit the building, stepping into the afternoon sun, her question held until they are both settled into the squad car. “You find anything in the bathroom?”

  “Oh, right.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his phone. Flips through to the camera roll and holds it out.

  She snatches the phone, zooming in. “Meds?”

  “They’re in her name. But the bottle’s three years old and full. A Dr. Derek Vanderbilt in Dallas prescribed them to her.”

  Clozapine. She looks up at David. “Isn’t clozapine an antipsychotic?”

  “If you want to tell the judge that, then yes. But between me and you, my sister takes it for anxiety. I think they use it for all sorts of things. One pill will mellow my sister out. Two will put her on her ass.”

  “And the bottle was full?”

  “Yep.” He buckles his belt. “You gonna call the doctor?”

  She passes the phone back to him. “You better believe it. Let’s head in and do it now.” In the moment before pulling off, she glances up, to the sixth floor. There, in the dark window, Deanna Madden stares down at her.

  CHAPTER 14

  Present

  WHEN I SHUT the door behind the cops, I walk to the center of my apartment. Look right, then left. Close my eyes and try to put my finger on the nagging thread that has bothered me since I woke. Something is off. Something more than cops showing up at my door and random broken noses appearing from nowhere. I walk to the bathroom and take a second look at my reflection. On this round, I notice the dark lines under my eyes. They’ll be black soon. My barely functional makeup skills won’t be able to cover up two black eyes and a broken nose. So I won’t, for the next few days, be able to cam. Damn.

  I run a soft finger over the break in my nose. When I told them I didn’t know what happened to my nose, it wasn’t the entire truth. I don’t know exactly what happened, the events from last night a blur. But my weak, pathetic memory does have one clear picture, one of Jeremy, his face pinched. Worried. Scared.


  It doesn’t make any sense, but I think he broke my nose. Why? I don’t know. I called him earlier this morning and he didn’t answer. I pull out my cell and call him again. Listen to the dull tones of unanswered rings, each one feeling like a step downward into hell. Then, the unfamiliar words of his voice mail. Hmmm. One unanswered call is nothing, two—a problem. His not answering my calls says something. I feel a flicker of fear, pulling from a spot of insecurity. I did something and he’s mad. I glance at the mirror. I did something and he broke my nose. I must have lost control. Maybe over that stupid family dinner.

  I step out of the bathroom and to the window, the afternoon light flooding in. Oh, right. The window. That’s what it is, the other nagging thread that is off on the equation of my apartment’s normality. The window that, for four years, has tormented me and tested my level of control. The window, my one peek into the world that exists outside 6E. I have painted it shut five or six times, scraped it open a similar number of times. Six months ago, I got bold. Started running around town like I had options. Started opening the window and sitting on its sill, listening to the city and smelling its air. The window had been the crack in my world that had condemned it to hell, and after I had single-handedly endangered everyone I cared about, I closed it a final time. Stopped going outside, resumed my life of reclusedom, and covered the window with cardboard. Eliminated its pull the best way I knew. Now, I run my toe along the floor below the sill and remember the pile of cardboard pieces I discovered this morning, during the microwave of my tasteless oatmeal. I look at my fingers and am surprised I didn’t break a nail last night. I must have lost control and torn it all off in my maddening desire to be free. The hundred bits of ripped cardboard evidence had been there, under the sill, pieces I had swept up and put in the trash after I’d eaten. Now, I pop open the trash can’s lid and look down at them. Wonder, as I did while cleaning up the mess earlier, why I can’t remember tearing them. Wonder why half of yesterday is a fog, the latter half is gone completely. Maybe it was the knock on my head. Dr. Pat said it could have unpredictable consequences.

  “Where were you last night, Ms. Madden?”

  I was locked in. I couldn’t have done anything, and there are no bodies sharing this space with me.

  Of all times for me to lose my mind, this is a really bad one. The flicker of fear grows into something more.

  CHAPTER 15

  Past

  “I HAD A break.” I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, the fan’s slow spin breaking up my peripheral view. My fan blades were filthy, a black carpet of dust along their edges. I should have Jeremy clean those. Bring a ladder over. Pull off his shirt to improve the view. All it would take is to run a wet paper towel over the top of each blade. It wouldn’t take long. Fifteen minutes, tops.

  Dr. Derek didn’t respond. He rarely does, the habit enhancing the moments when he does speak. I hate the habit, but love the result, each word a coveted gift, though I typically hate what each says.

  “Jeremy wanted me to meet his family. His family. Then he complained about us not being normal. It was too much.”

  “Which part was the hardest? His mention of his family or normality?”

  I swallowed. Considered. “I don’t know. It was like an avalanche, having all of it at once. I was jealous… of him having a family. And of him being normal. But I also felt inadequate. And… God… I don’t know. Frustrated.”

  “I’m sure he is frustrated too.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.” It actually made me feel worse. One of the best things about my relationship with Jeremy was that he made me feel like I, like we, were great—just as we were. He didn’t make me feel like a circus freak. Until that conversation. Until those three sentences that stabbed a knife into our relationship and ripped out its heart.

  “It’d be nice for you to meet my family.”

  “For us to be normal.”

  “Is that too much to ask?”

  “What would you do, Deanna, if he broke up with you?”

  “What?” I hadn’t even considered the possibility.

  “How would you handle it if Jeremy broke up with you? Ended your relationship?”

  “I’m familiar with the concept,” I said tartly.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “And what would you do?”

  “It’s a stupid question. Jeremy isn’t going to break up with me.” He won’t. He loves me. He tells me that all of the time so it must be true.

  “But you’d be fine if he did,” Derek said gently. “I need you to mentally come to terms with that.”

  “That’s like asking a child to mentally prepare for her mother’s death. It’s a stupid exercise.”

  “Most relationships end, Deanna. It’s a fact of life, especially at your age.”

  “Not this relationship.” I am the stronger party, I am the unfeeling one. He is the one who is in love, the one who pursued, the one who has stayed. He will never leave me. He can’t. Literally, he is unable to. I know it. Imagining anything else is a stupid, stupid exercise, especially right now, when I should be focused on other things. Like considering whether or not to break up with him. That’s what we should be talking about.

  “We can talk about it at a later time. Tell me what happened.”

  “He’s not breaking up with me.” Dr. Derek needed to understand. This conversation didn’t need to continue “at a later time.”

  “Okay, Deanna.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!” I snarled, propping myself up on the bed. “I’m not a child. I’m perfectly capable of reading people, including your condescending tone.”

  He sighed. There are times when I love his sigh. Love the caress of humanity it gives him. He is not perfect, he gets frustrated, he cares enough to sigh; I affect him enough to make him take a moment and breathe. Once, I stopped his breath. I described a sexual act and he stopped breathing, the line going so quiet I thought he’d broken the connection. He followed that with a sigh that was almost a groan, a painful release of breath that brushed lips down my neck and unzipped my dress. In that one sound, my fantasies around this man multiplied tenfold. That night, with every client, I fucked Derek. I imagined him on the other end, arched my back under his gaze, whispered his name through my moans. I came for him twenty different ways that night. Never again has he sighed that way. Never again has he asked about what I physically do with Jeremy, hasn’t opened that door for another moment. Never again has he given me that peek. Now, I only have the occasional sigh. I fall back on the bed and savor, for one long moment, the sigh.

  “Please tell me what happened.”

  “The white room didn’t work. And I needed… I mean, when he said all that, I got angry. Angry and I started to lose control.”

  “Did you curl?”

  “No. I—” I didn’t know what to say. I’d practiced it ten times in the shower since the moment, tried to figure out how to present it in the manner that was the least psychotic.

  He waited. Of course he did.

  “I fell off the chair onto the floor. The tile. It knocked me out. Very briefly.” There. Words spoken. Concept communicated.

  “You knocked yourself out.” He spoke slowly.

  “Yes. Briefly. I was only out for a couple of seconds.” Thirty or sixty, tops. Maybe a few minutes. I’d come to with Jeremy above me, his face tight and worried. There hadn’t been any discussion of family or dinners or being normal after that.

  “And you were fine after that?”

  “Yes. It kind of reset me.”

  “You can’t go around knocking yourself out whenever you lose control, Deanna.”

  I didn’t say anything. Instead, I ran my hand over the top of my head. Lifted slightly off the mattress and felt at the tender spot at the back of my head.

  “Have you been to a doctor? Head injuries can have a number of complications.”

  I snorted. “Says the man who doesn’t want me to leave the apartment.
”

  “I thought you had a doctor on call. Something of that sort.”

  “I do.” I dropped my hand and rolled over slightly. Pulled a blanket over me to fight off a chill. “I guess I can call him.”

  “You should. And don’t do that again, Deanna.”

  “It’s better than me hurting him.”

  “Hurting yourself is a path you don’t need to go down. Can you hold off on seeing him for a little while? Have some extra sessions with me?”

  Hold off on seeing Jeremy? I bit my bottom lip and considered the possibility. A horrible prescription for him to give me. “I don’t know.”

  “One day at least. Let’s talk tomorrow at three.”

  “Short this month?” I joked. “Trying to increase your hours?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Fine,” I finally said. “Three.”

  “Talk to you then.”

  He hung up first. After a long while, I locked my phone and tossed it aside.

  Then I looked up Dr. Pat.

  CHAPTER 16

  Past

  SUCCESS, IN MY life, has been a balancing act. If one end of the seesaw got too heavy, I hit the ground. Game over. Or, as has happened in the past, I killed someone. My balancing act used to solely exist within the walls of 6E. I spent three solid years in these walls, not leaving once. Then, a year ago, I left the apartment. I told myself it was a one-time thing and believed the lie. But that step, that experience? It was a drug, one that itched through my veins and stretched my blood vessels, my body hungry for another fix as soon as I locked myself back up. So I took more hits in the form of evening jaunts to the convenience store across the street. Inhaled deep, bought a car, and put a few hundred miles on her. Visited a few stores. Killed someone else. After that death, I withdrew completely. I shut the door and vowed to not step back out. In the last nine months, I’ve occasionally cheated. Twice I went for a drive in FtypeBaby. I got wild and visited a dentist three months ago. Caught up with a few years of dental neglect and four cavities. Took the gas the doctor offered and managed to not hurt anyone. Other than that, I have behaved. Haven’t hurt anyone, though I’ve fantasized a thousand scenarios of screams.