You Can Run: A heart gripping, fast paced thriller (7th Street Crew Book 2)

by Willow Rose

  She hands him the card and their eyes lock for a few seconds before someone from the university pulls her away from him and she is engaged in a new conversation. Daniel stares at the card in his hand and can’t seem to hold it still.

  As he leaves the university, he is filled with a hope and belief in the future for his brother, unlike anything he has ever had before.

  I’m gonna hear what you have to say, baby brother. Don’t you worry. You’ll finally get your voice.

  Chapter Nine

  January 2016

  My things are in boxes everywhere in Joey’s house and it is all a mess. I can’t find anything. I don’t want to unpack either. We haven’t really talked about our situation and if we are ready to move back in together or not. And, to be frank, I am not that thrilled about living here in this small townhouse that he has rented. There isn’t enough room for all of us. I don’t really know what he wants yet, and so far I am planning on moving back in with my dad once the house is done. He needs my help. I don’t know how much my stepmom Laura is going to be there for him. So far, she is still staying at the Hilton using my dad’s money and only stops by a few times a week to visit him. My dad keeps making excuses for her and tells me she has to get over the shock first, that she’ll come around soon, just wait and see.

  It’s been three months.

  Joey has given me a corner of the living room where I have put up my desk and I call it my office. I have started writing the blog and Chloe is doing the design and all the practical stuff that I know nothing about.

  I started out three months ago writing the story about how I was fired from the New York Times because I wrote the wrong story, and to my huge surprise, the thing went viral. The next day, I had twenty thousand followers on the blog and even more on Twitter and Facebook. A few weeks later, I had a million. Now I am closer to four million. It has grown faster than I could have ever imagined, and I have to admit, I feel a little intimidated. My next story about the serial killer roaming the streets of Cocoa Beach killing off old high school friends after they mutilated her went crazy viral. Newspapers and magazines all over the world picked it up, and I was quoted everywhere. Later, I wrote about how a general from the air force base had taken in a fugitive, wanted for murder, and changed her name, her identity, and hidden her when she was supposed to face justice for killing a woman, my mother. That was an article people liked. I wrote it with a personal touch and it received more comments and shares that any of the others. Next thing, Chloe tells me some companies want to sponsor my site, and it is suddenly crawling with ads, and I am making money. I can hardly believe it myself, but that’s what happened. Now, Chloe wants me to start making video clips with interviews or me trying to get a comment from some of the bad guys I write about, and small video blogs for my fans where I tell them what I am working on. It’s kind of taking over my life, and I’m trying hard to keep it down. Chloe, on the other hand, is all over it. I am so lucky to have her helping me. She has given me a few stories about online child porn-sites and how bigger companies fund them, especially the gun-industry, that I have published as well, causing the companies to pull back their funding in fear of bad publicity. In that sense, we try to help out each other, trying to make the world a better place, one story at a time. That’s actually our motto.

  Today, I start working on the story of my brother and how he fooled all of us and is still on the run, wanted for murder. I have wanted to write the story from a personal perspective for a long time, but every time I sit down to write it, I just can’t get the words onto the paper. It hurts so badly. I can’t stand the thought that it was my fault. That I was so naïve, that I believed him. I was the one who got him out of jail, and then when I realized what I had done and tried to stop him, he poured acid over my best friend and mutilated her for life.

  Just thinking about it again makes me want to throw up. I stare at the blank page in front of me and suddenly get the urge for chocolate. I find a Snickers in my drawer and pull off the wrapping. Eating it makes me calmer, but I still feel awful. I keep seeing Sandra’s face when I dropped her off at her house after our breakfast, and I feel terrible. I open the drawer and look for more chocolate. The dogs and the pig are being noisy, running around the house again. I go through the drawer, but find nothing more. I get up and walk to Joey’s kitchen and start to open all the cabinets. I feel like a drug addict looking for her next fix. Finally, I find some of Salter’s Oreos and start to gulp them down one after another, while the dogs bark at Bonnie, who once again has outsmarted them, and runs into the yard with the ball in her mouth. I look at myself in the mirror while eating another cookie.

  How am I supposed to write this story without gaining fifty pounds?

  Chapter Ten

  January 2016

  After finishing the pack of Oreos, I turn on the TV, while the white computer screen with the blank page is staring at me, almost mocking me. I try to ignore it, thinking a little distraction might help my inspiration. I fall into an old episode of Friends and watch that till it ends. I am in the mood for popcorn all of a sudden, so I walk back to the kitchen and microwave a bag while a new show rolls over the screen. It’s one of those crime shows with unsolved crimes from real life.

  I love those, so I hurry back to the couch as soon as the popcorn is done. My dad is sleeping, but he is usually a heavy sleeper, so I turn up the volume to better indulge in the story they’re unfolding. I tell myself it’s okay to take a little break. After a few minutes, I realize I know the story. I watched the video clip they’re showing a thousand times, over and over again, several years ago when it was all over the news back in 2010.

  It’s the story of the Elingston family. The footage taken by a neighbor’s surveillance camera outside their mansion on South Merritt Island shows a person in a dark hooded sweatshirt leaving the house seconds before it bursts into flames. The last part always makes me jump. Knowing the family, and especially the children, are still in there, bound together, after what the police believe to be almost twenty-four hours of being held captive by the suspect, maybe by several of them. They still don’t know much about the circumstances, the reporter says. All they have is the footage of the person in the hoodie and a missing Porsche owned by the family. It is believed the intruder escaped in that car, which was later found in the Indian River.

  An old picture of the couple at a banquet comes up on the screen, while the reporter tells of the couple in their mid-fifties and their two children that were found dead in their two-million-dollar home. It is believed that gasoline was poured over their bodies before the fire was set. All four were found in the remains of the living room, all close together. Investigators found no signs of forced entry and believe the suspect or suspects were able to gain access to the Elingston home and stayed overnight. It is believed that they must have known the family, as they seemed to know how they lived their day-to-day-lives.

  The next pictures are of the children. I forget all about the popcorn as I watch the old photos and listen to the reporter talk about how young Jack Jr. Elingston loved to play baseball and had a game on the Saturday they were held captive that he never showed up to and that had the teammates and the trainer concerned. A small clip follows from one of his Little League games, then a quote from the trainer, stating it was odd that he didn’t come, since Jack Jr. was always there at the games.

  Next, we see a school photo of Kimmie Elingston, the oldest child. We hear about her success on the school’s debate team, how she was a straight A-student and wanted to be a vet. Police records show that friends and relatives tried to reach the family on the Sunday morning when they didn’t show up at church, just hours before the house was set on fire and the bodies were discovered. It also shows that Mr. Elingston called their housekeeper around noon on Saturday and left a voicemail where he told her not to come in today, since they were all sick and didn’t want to infect her.

  “He sounded tense and very strange,” the housekeeper says in a small stateme
nt. She also says she tried to call back to confirm, but no one answered.

  The police believe the intruder entered the house on Saturday morning. By late afternoon, Mr. Elingston called the local Papa Johns and ordered two large pizzas first with pepperoni, then changed the order to ham. The pizzas were delivered to the property forty-five minutes later. The delivery boy spoke shortly to Mr. Elingston as he paid him in cash, but didn’t noticed anything strange going on at the house.

  On the same afternoon, Mr. Elingston also called his accountant and friend of many years and had him withdraw fifty-thousand dollars in cash. The money was later delivered to the house, where Mr. Elingston greeted the accountant at the door and took the money.

  “It wasn’t unusual,” the accountant now says in a new interview. The first one he ever agreed to give. “I worked for the man and knew to do as I was told and never ask questions.”

  “So, what do you believe he needed fifty-thousand dollars for on a Saturday afternoon?” the reporter asks.

  “I…I don’t know. As I said. I never asked questions.”

  “So, you didn’t think that something could be wrong?”

  The accountant sighs and shakes his head. “I know I should have. But how was I supposed to know? Jack sounded completely normal on the phone.”

  “So, you didn’t think he looked or sounded tense?”

  “Jack was always tense. If you ask me if he was more tense than usual, then no. I don’t believe he was.”

  Chapter Eleven

  January 2016

  “Surf’s building. Do you want to go?”

  Joey rushes into the house and I turn off the TV in the middle of the accountant’s sentence.

  “I’ve watched it over the last hour from your dad’s lot while working and I can’t stay out anymore. It’s getting better by the minute.”

  I jump up from the couch. “Let me get suited up.”

  “I’ll wax our boards.”

  I walk to the bedroom and look at all my boxes that are stacked in there with a deep sigh. I know my wetsuit is in there somewhere, but how do I find it? It hasn’t been cold enough yet this winter to need it, but today the temperature has dropped below seventy, and that is my limit.

  I open a box and start looking, then another, and go through that as well. I look at the clock. I still have two hours before Salter comes home by bus, just enough for a good surf session. If only I could find…

  “Found it!” Joey yells from the garage. “It was in one of the boxes out here.”

  He walks into the house and throws it at me.

  “Hurry up. The others are already down there.”

  We meet them at the crossover at 7th Street. Alex and Danny have both left work early, using some dumb excuse that their bosses know perfectly well is not true. That’s how it works in Cocoa Beach. When swell is good, people call in sick or leave early. Everyone does it and it is accepted in most workplaces. That’s just the way it is in a community where everyone surfs.

  “How’s the article coming?” Chloe asks me, as we put on our leashes. In front of us, the waves are crashing in two feet overhead high sets. I close my eyes and enjoy the sound.

  “It’s alright,” I say.

  “Mary,” she says, and grabs my arm.

  “What?”

  “If it’s too hard for you, then let me write it for you. It’s an important story. Who knows? Maybe someone will read it and help find them.”

  “Their pictures have been all over the news,” I say and look at her.

  “The way the world works today, you’re more likely to have them listen to you than what is shown in the news. You have a big voice and it’s not just in this area. It’s all over the country. For all we know, they could be hiding in a different state where they will never see their pictures on the news.”

  I hadn’t thought about it that way. That my article could actually make a difference in finding them, but Chloe is right. It fills me with motivation.

  “I’ll get at it,” I say, and look back out at the waves. A gorgeous one rolls towards us. A surfer catches it. “Later.”

  Chloe laughs. Danny grabs his board under his arm. “Shall we?”

  Joey, Chloe, and Danny run towards the ocean, while Alex and I walk. Alex turns to look at me before we hit the water.

  “Where is Marcia?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Joey tried, but couldn’t get ahold of her.”

  Our eyes meet. We don’t have to say anything. We both know it. Marcia isn’t doing well.

  “Has anyone seen her this week?” I ask, concerned.

  He shakes his head. “I met her last week in Publix.”

  “Was she…?”

  “Wasted? Oh, yeah. I don’t think I’ve seen her not wasted in the past three or four months.”

  “It’s that bad, huh?”

  “I think it’s getting worse. She’s hanging out with all the homeless people down by Coconuts or at the Sportsbar.”

  “I thought she was in AA?” I ask.

  “She was. She had to. It was court-ordered after her DUI, but I don’t think she’s actually following the program. Well, I know she isn’t because every time I see her she’s drunk.”

  We walk in silence and our feet hit the water.

  “Have you heard from Sandra today?” Alex asks.

  “I took her to breakfast.”

  “Wow. You actually got her to go outside? That’s great. I’ve tried for days to just get her to take a walk on the beach with me.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “How was she?”

  “So-so.”

  “I went to see her yesterday,” Alex says. “I feel bad that she can’t surf. Missing out on this swell must be killing her. They’re just her type of waves; look at them.”

  “I know. It must be killing her. But she’ll be able to surf once the doctor says it’s okay.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop by after we’ve surfed, and ask her again if she’ll walk with me on the beach,” he says, jumps up on his board, and starts paddling.

  I follow in his tail. The others are already out in the back. I regret having eaten so much today. It makes me feel heavy. I promise myself to cut back.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  January 2016

  Marcia wakes up with a gasp. She looks around. Where is she? She is outside somewhere. She sits up and realizes she’s on a bench at the bus stop outside of Publix. How did she get here? She never takes the bus.

  Where is my bike?

  Marcia has a bad headache and she is shaking all over. Is it because of the alcohol or maybe because she is sobering up? Or is it the dream that is still lingering with her? She can still hear the screams as she sits up on the bench. Those screams that she keeps hearing again and again. It doesn’t matter if she is awake or asleep anymore. She doesn’t know if she is losing it or what is going on, but she is afraid she might be.

  Those images. Those awful images of screaming faces, people in pain. They haunt her still as she gets up and starts walking in the hope she might find her bike somewhere.

  But you know they’re real, don’t you? You know they are.

  “No!” she says out loud, to silence that annoying voice in her mind always nagging at her, lying to her. “You’re not real.”

  Marcia starts walking faster when she realizes it is late in the afternoon. The kids have to be home by now. She’ll have to look for her bike later. Marcia starts running down A1A. Soon, she is wheezing to catch her breath and has to stop. She really should stop smoking. And drinking. But how can she? It’s all she has. It’s all that keeps those awful images and voices away.

  She can’t run anymore and has to walk the rest of the way. She sticks her hand out and tries to catch a ride, but no one stops. They never do anymore. They used to. In Cocoa Beach everyone used to hitchhike. But now people don’t dare to pick up anyone anymore.

  Fear has destroyed everything. Even our little paradise.

  Marcia’s
head is aching badly now. And so is her arm. She pulls up her sleeve and realizes she is hurt. Badly. A long wound stretches from her shoulder to her elbow. Like she has been cut with a knife. It’s not deep, though.

  It’s probably nothing. You probably just fell while drunk like usual. Ripped your arm.

  Marcia is used to waking up with strange bruises on her body and not knowing how they happened. The blackouts are getting more and more frequent, though, and it concerns her. It’s not a comfortable feeling to not know where you’ve been or what you’ve done.

  She reaches the townhouse just before sunset and enters the front door.

  “Mom!” one of the kids exclaims. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Where have you been?” another one asks.

  Too many questions, Marcia thinks and avoids looking at them.

  She storms past them into the bedroom, where she takes off her bloody shirt. The wound is still bleeding and she tries to wipe it off. She doesn’t care if it leaves a scar. As long as she doesn’t have to go to a clinic and have to pay for that. Not now that she is finally on top.

  What have you done? You don’t even know, do you? You have no idea where you’ve been. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You should be.

  Marcia throws a glance at herself in the mirror. It’s been a long time since she recognized her own reflection. She gave up on herself a long time ago. Now all she can think of is when and how to get drunk again so she won’t feel the pain or hear the screams.

  There’s a knock on the door and her daughter Rose sticks her head in. Her beautiful, strong daughter. Is she really twelve already?

  “Mom?” she asks carefully.

  Embarrassed that she should see her like this, Marcia growls at her, “Give me some privacy!”

  The girl’s eyes water. “But…but I just…”