Stained

by Cheryl Rainfield

  I can’t believe it was Brian who did this to her. Brian, who kept coming around, pretending to be so concerned. The smarmy bastard. I want to kill him. But most of all, I want to protect Sarah. To make things better for her.

  Sarah stiffens, and for a moment I think she’s going to jump back out of the car, but then she does up her seat belt and clasps her hands.

  I get in beside her and cram my backpack at my feet. Mr. Meadows starts the car, but the engine won’t turn over. He curses and tries again, Sarah sitting stiffly beside me, her eyes wide as she watches her dad. The engine purrs.

  “We’re heading home, Sarah girl!” Mr. Meadows says, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway, our escort squad car following. Mrs. Meadows turns around every few seconds to look at us. At Sarah.

  Sarah’s face is tight and still, her hands clenched in her lap. She looks like she’s hardly breathing.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” I say quietly, trying not to startle her.

  Sarah licks her lips, looking nervous. “I am, too.”

  “You’re my hero, you know.” I probably shouldn’t be saying this. It’s not a guy thing to do, but it’s how I feel. “You’ve always been strong, but this—you amaze me.”

  “He’s still out there,” Sarah says jerkily.

  “I know.” I rub my hands on my jeans. “I’m not going anywhere, not if you don’t want me to. We’ll face this together.”

  “Promise?” Sarah asks, her eyes burning into mine.

  “Promise.” And I mean it. God, do I mean it.

  SARAH

  10:10 P.M.

  THE CAR SMELLS LIKE pine. When I first got in I thought Brian had been in here, that he was waiting for me. Then I saw the pine air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror and forced myself to relax.

  I take a shuddering breath. I have to keep reminding myself that Brian’s not here.

  It feels surreal, driving home with my parents and Nick, the squad car keeping pace on our left. Our car is full of silence. We’re like strangers in a small space, shifting in our seats, glances bouncing off one another, pretending to be absorbed in our own thoughts. Without my parents’ constant touch, I feel disconnected, almost adrift. I’m glad Nick’s beside me, reminding me this is real. That I’m finally going home.

  I stare out the window into the inky darkness punctuated by glowing streetlights. The lights reveal crushed soda cans, fast-food packaging, and scraps of tires littered along the side of the highway like discarded bones. The hiss of our wheels on asphalt is the only sound. Lighted billboards mark our progress—beautiful women selling their bodies as much as they’re selling the products, but I don’t feel that twisted mixture of envy and hopelessness anymore. The ads are so far away from anything that matters.

  I twist around in my seat to look out the back window. There’s a car behind us; it’s been following us since we got on the highway. I can’t see the driver’s face, but it could be Brian. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s waiting, biding his time until he attacks. I turn back around.

  Our car jounces hard, jarring my teeth together.

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t see the pothole,” Dad says. He clears his throat. “You warm enough, Sarah, or too hot?”

  “I’m fine.”

  A few minutes later Mom turns around. “Did you get enough to eat? We can stop if you’re hungry.”

  “No, that’s okay.” They’re as nervous as I am.

  Dad clears his throat. “I know that before all this happened, we had bad news about your treatments.” He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “But I promise we’ll find the money somehow.”

  “I don’t want treatments.” I can’t believe I said that. “I mean, I don’t think I do.”

  Dad flexes and unflexes his fingers. “Well, if you change your mind, we’ll find a way. You don’t have to decide now.”

  But I can feel his worry—about me, and about money. Something clicks in my mind. I lean forward. “Daddy—I forgot. Brian said he stole the money so you wouldn’t look for me.”

  “Of course we looked for you!” Dad says. “Nothing would stop us from doing that.”

  “But if you know who stole it, maybe that can help you get your money back?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” Dad says. “It’s worth a try. I’ll let the detective know.”

  “Wouldn’t that be incredible?” Mom says in a strained voice. “I stopped hoping they’d find out who did it.” She looks at me and smiles sadly. “I stopped hoping for a lot of things.”

  My stomach tightens. Mom losing hope. I always thought that was impossible. All those months I spent, trying to think positive like her—and she abandoned it herself. I’m glad I didn’t know. Thinking I could get out of there is what helped me escape.

  I can’t stop seeing Brian’s face, can’t stop feeling his hands on my skin, can’t stop hearing him tell me he’ll hunt my parents down.

  I twist around again. The car is still behind us. I know that’s what cars do on the highway—follow each other—but they also change lanes and take exits. This one hasn’t, except when we have. My skin ripples. “I think that car is following us.”

  Mom and Dad exchange a glance. “It’s not like there are a lot of places they can go,” Dad says. “It’s a highway.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m not stupid.”

  “We don’t think you’re stupid,” Mom says quickly. “You’ve been through a trauma. Of course you’re . . . extra vigilant.”

  Paranoid, she means.

  “It has been behind us the whole time,” Nick says.

  I look at him gratefully. “Will you change lanes for me?” I ask Dad. “Please? If the car doesn’t follow us, I’ll drop it.”

  Dad glances at me in the rearview mirror, then at the car behind us. “All right.” He signals and moves into the right lane.

  I twist around to watch out the back window. The car behind us swerves. For a second I think it is going to change lanes with us, but then it rights itself.

  “It didn’t follow us,” Dad says heartily. “Convinced now?”

  No. But I know when to drop it. I peek out the back window again. The car isn’t there anymore. It’s not to the left of us, and it’s not behind us, either. I turn back around.

  Dad rubs his neck. “The police are out looking for Brian, honey. They know where he lives and what he looks like. They’ll find him.”

  But will they find him before he kills us? I stare out my window. “He’s not going to let me go.”

  “I know he told you that,” Dad says, “but coming after you now that the police know who he is would be stupid. And I don’t think Brian’s stupid.”

  No, he’s not. But he’s crazed. Driven. And he hates to lose. I look back over my shoulder. I’ve got to know where that car is.

  It’s not behind us, not even a few cars back. I look to my right—and there it is, coming up on my side. I jerk back around. The squad car is still on our left, driving at our pace. Have they even noticed?

  The nose of the car that was behind us edges up beside me.

  My heart beats faster.

  Then the car rushes past us, so fast that I don’t get a good look. But I’m sure the driver was a man. A man with dark curly hair.

  I stare out the window again, feeling sick, but all I can see of the car are its taillights weaving in and out of traffic as it gets farther and farther away from us.

  It was Brian. I’m sure of it. But if I tell Dad and Mom, they’ll think I’m paranoid. Reacting to the trauma. And maybe I am. But Brian does want to kill me. He wants to kill all of us. I didn’t make that up.

  “You okay?” Nick asks quietly, beside me.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “You sure? You seem on edge.”

  Mom turns around to look at us. “What’s wrong?” she asks sharply.

  “I thought . . . That car that was following us. I was afraid it was Brian.”

&n
bsp; Dad slaps the steering wheel. “Brian’s not coming after you! Not with his face on the news, the cops looking for him, and your mom and me on alert. You’ve got to let it rest.”

  I shrink back in my seat. He doesn’t believe me. He didn’t even try.

  “Thomas, you’re scaring her,” Mom says softly.

  Dad grimaces. “Sorry, sweetheart. But I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I don’t think you can stop him. I don’t think anyone can.”

  Nick reaches over and squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his back. Our car speeds up, trees and buildings flicking past my window.

  “He’s not invincible,” Dad says. “And it’s different this time. We’re warned. We’ve got the police on our side. And I will do anything I have to, to protect you. Anything.”

  It’s not just me I’m worried about. Brian’s coming after us. He made that very clear.

  If I can’t stop him, if I’m going to die tonight anyway, then I’m going to die making a difference.

  I lean closer to Nick. “Will you help me fight back against Brian?” I ask in a low voice.

  “You know I will. What do you need?”

  “Access to the Net, and another mind to bounce things off of.”

  Nick pulls his laptop out of his backpack, and hands it to me. I knew he’d have it on him. “I’ve got Wi-Fi through an app on my cell. Geek power! So . . . what’re you going to do?” he whispers.

  “Tell the world what Brian did.”

  “Anything you want me to do?”

  “Research Brian.”

  Nick slides his cell out of his pocket, waggling it in front of me. “I’m on it.”

  I log on to my cloud storage, find a pic I snapped of Brian months ago at Dad’s office, then paste it into a draft on my blog. I sit there for a few moments, staring at his photo. Then I take a shuddering breath and write out what he did to me, his obsession with birthmarks, the girls he talked about killing. I write until I can’t think of anything else to add, and then I read it over. I hope what I wrote will help catch him. I can’t bear Brian doing this to another girl, another family.

  My pulse jumps in my throat. I need to find the girls he killed and let their families know they didn’t run away. Maybe it’ll help them to know that. I would have wanted someone to do that for me, if I’d never come back.

  I save my draft, then Google “Judy birthmark missing girl.”

  Something pops up right away. A Judy Evans was abducted outside her house last year, one state away. She was nine years old and had a port-wine stain on her face, neck, and left arm. I rub my cheek. She was so young! No wonder her shirt was a tight fit.

  I click on another article, nausea rushing up through my stomach. They found Judy’s body six months ago. The medical examiner said her throat had been slashed.

  It was Brian. It had to be.

  I glance at Dad, then Mom. They’re talking in low voices, probably about my sanity.

  I nudge Nick and pass him the laptop.

  “Holy shit,” Nick whispers. “You think Brian did this?”

  “I’m sure he did. Hey—will you read my post?”

  “Sure. And I think you’re right.” Nick hands me his phone. “Look what I found.”

  I scroll through the article on Nick’s phone. Brian’s sister, Samantha, had a hemangioma on her face so bad it disfigured her. She turned up dead in the park outside their apartment building, her throat slit when she was ten years old—and they never found the killer. Brian was fourteen at the time. No father, just a mother who went crazy with grief.

  My hands prickle. It wasn’t Brian who was taunted for how he looked, who came home crying every day to his mother. It was his sister. All those things he said about my parents, about how guilty they felt, how relieved they’d be once I was gone—that must’ve been what Brian thought his mother felt. Or what he felt himself.

  All that talk about my mother crying must have been what his mother did. In some twisted way, he must have been trying to save his own mother.

  “It makes even more sense now,” I say. “I can’t believe you were able to find this.”

  Nick passes me back his laptop, his face pale. “What you wrote—it’s really powerful.”

  I search Nick’s face, but I don’t see any rejection or disgust. Just worry for me . . . and warmth. A warmth that makes me feel lighter, stronger, almost happy for a moment. “Thank you.”

  I go back to my post and add in all the details about Brian’s sister, and everything I guess at. I can’t type fast enough.

  Nick leans over my shoulder, reading. “Send it to me when you’re done, and I’ll put it out on the social networks. Maybe we can get it trending.”

  We work in companionable silence, the car tires thrumming over the highway, bringing us closer to home. I feel a kind of satisfaction, almost peace. I’m not ready to die. But now I have a way to fight back. A way to be heard that I didn’t have before. And maybe, just maybe, I can stop Brian with it.

  NICK

  Day 122, 11:15 P.M.

  I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT Sarah’s been through. It blows my mind that she’s telling the world the horrible things she’s survived so she can stop this pervert. She’s got so much courage and grit. I’m amazed she can still talk, never mind go after him.

  But that’s Sarah. Strong in her heart and soul.

  I saw the fear in her eyes after I’d read her piece, though. Like she thought I’d think less of her. I want to reassure her, but words don’t seem enough. So I reach into my backpack and pull out the comic I drew for her, the very first one.

  “Here,” I say softly.

  SARAH

  11:16 P.M.

  NICK HANDS ME A COMIC. Not a comic from the store, but a hand-drawn comic.

  I look at the cover, and I recognize myself—as a superhero. It’s my face on the cover, only he’s made me look pretty and more assured. Yet my port-wine stain is still there; he didn’t erase it. I look closer and see a diamond on my chest. He’s drawn me as Diamond!

  I turn the pages as I read, smiling at the way Nick and I—the way Heavyweight and Diamond—stop the bad guys. As Diamond, I not only have impenetrable skin, am an expert at martial arts, and protect victims, but I also know when anyone’s lying and can pull the truth out of them with my gaze. I love that addition; I wish I’d thought of it myself. Nick, as Heavyweight, stops the bad guys from running away by sitting on them. It’s funny, but it’s also sweet—and by the time I finish, I am crying.

  “You doing okay back there?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I say.

  Nick sees me as beautiful, plucky, and strong. I can see it in every drawing, in every line of clumsy, tender dialogue.

  Nick hunches his eyebrows. “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it.” I don’t know how to tell him what a huge gift this is. I felt so powerless with Brian. But Nick sees something different in me. He sees Diamond. “It’s perfect. The only thing I want to change is Heavyweight. He should have superhuman strength, incredible courage and persistence, and be able to knock bad guys out with one superpowered punch.”

  Nick ducks his head, but his eyes look happy.

  I touch his arm. “Your drawings are amazing. I think you’re going to be one of the big comic-book artists someday.”

  Nick’s face loses all its awkwardness. His mouth curves into a wide smile. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You believe in me more than anyone,” Nick says. “Even more than my dad. Like you think I’ll really make it.”

  “I know you will. I’m going to buy your comics someday! And maybe we’ll even do some issues together? Me writing, you drawing . . .”

  “Of course!”

  I smooth my hand over the comic. “I love that you made me Diamond.”

  “You already were her,” Nick says with such conviction that I almost believe him.

  SARAH

  1:03 A.M.

  WE TURN THE CORNER onto o
ur street. I blink my tired eyes, trying to clear my vision. Nick yawns beside me.

  I feel a rush of emotion as we drive down our street—happy and sad, all at once. A part of me never thought I’d see my neighborhood again. It is sour-sweet in my mouth, beneath the metallic fear. Brian knows where we live. He may already be here, watching us. Waiting. But if I focus on that, I think my mind will split apart. So instead I watch the familiar houses as we go by. Nothing’s changed since Brian took me.

  No, that isn’t true. The Mercers’ front lawn is now a brick driveway, and the Zevins’ house is painted white instead of blue. They’re little changes. It’s still the street I lived on my whole life—yet somehow I feel like a stranger.

  I strain to see our house through the windshield. What I see instead are TV vans. Lots and lots of them.

  Dad curses and pulls over to the side of the road, the hazard lights blinking. The squad car pulls up beside us. “We could spend the night at a hotel until this dies down. What do you think, Sarah?”

  I chew on my lip. A hotel might be better with Brian after us. But we couldn’t stay there forever; eventually we’d have to come back—and he’d be waiting. If we stay here tonight, at least we’ll have the police watching our place. And I’ve waited so long to come home. “I’d rather be home. Anyway, the more we’re on the news, the more people will look for Brian.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah.”

  Dad pulls back onto the road, slowly passing the TV vans, and eases onto our driveway, the squad car pulling up behind us. Reporters swarm toward us even before we park.

  Dad shuts off the engine. None of us moves. The reporters are already yelling questions, cameras on shoulders, lights slicing through the night, making it almost as bright as day in front of our house. But dark shapes move around the edges.