If You Dare

by Alessandra Torre

  Unfortunately, their secure post on their knees puts my fantasy securely in that realm: a fantasy. I let out a long sigh and lament my limited hearing.

  Did they think I snuck out? Simon locked me in, so I took the window as an escape? This isn’t a fire-escape-stairwell-type building. This is a you-step-out-that-window-you-die-type building. I’m not scaling the side of that thing with a catsuit on. The woman glances back at me a second time and I shoot her my best “you’re a dumbass” look. She doesn’t look affected. I’ll give you this, the woman has balls. May be stupid when it comes to window escapades, but she has balls. She breaks eye contact, dials a number on her phone, and lifts it to her ear, her stare returning to me. I break eye contact and attempt to read her lips. Fail horribly.

  She hangs up the phone and they heft to their feet. “Mark’s gonna dust the window,” the woman says, reaching for my keys, Chelsea following closely, like she plans on coming along. “We’re going to head downstairs, knock out the search of your car.”

  My car. I dig my nails into the top of my thigh. Try to smile and nod, like the thought of their paws on my baby doesn’t make me want to rip out their throats. They step closer and I push to standing, unwilling to let them dominate the space. They open the door and he steps through, holding the door open. “You coming?”

  I hesitate, torn between protecting my space from Marky-Mark or defending FtypeBaby’s honor. It’s a long thought process, one that, around the forty-five-second mark, elicits an irritated huff from the woman. Finally, I reach for my shoes. “I’m coming.”

  Stepping outside. For them, it’s nothing. For me, like always, it is a test.

  CHAPTER 51

  Present

  MIKE SITS IN the living room and stares at the box. His house is silent, Jamie sent home, a goodbye laced with tension and irritation. They’d had plans. A new Family Guy episode to watch, lasagna to eat, weed to smoke. All gone the moment he opened that box.

  Cops visiting Deanna. And now, a box of liability delivered to his house. What if cops show up here next? Ask questions, produce a warrant? How many years of jail time sit in this box? How many deaths crow at him from those blades?

  He sits, adjusting his hips out of habit when he gets sore, and stares at the box. Stares at it as night falls outside and the room darkens. Finally, he leans forward, pulling the box into his lap, and moves to the dining room. Hefts it onto the table and wheels around, raising his chair until he has a better view into it. Pulls back the flaps and reaches his hand inside.

  She had smiled into the camera, her eyes focused on the lens, giving her full attention. That, in itself, was rare. Most of the girls had their phones out, music on, hands flicking through their hair as they stared at their image on-screen. But she had just smiled, then blushed, pulling down on the front of her shirt. JessRiley19, her screen name said. “Hours Cammed” was sitting at the ridiculously low number of three. Her first day, and he had been there to witness it. To click on her name and take her private. She’d been so nervous. Her hands shook when she’d pulled on the straps of her shirt. He’d told her to keep it on and she blushed. He’d told her to never do anything she didn’t feel comfortable doing and she smiled. He’d felt like her guardian angel and had vowed to himself that no one would ever hurt her, would never take advantage of her, would never make her cry. He’d had no idea, his fingers quick on his keyboard that day, what she was capable of.

  She’d taken his advice to heart. Back then, her first few weeks online, she had been a prude, in the sense of camgirl standards. Had mostly flirted, done soft play, lots of tease work. But she’d grown sexually, had found her confidence, her footing. Found out what she liked and didn’t. Got a voice and used it. And there, from his seat, he’d watched it all, saw her blossom into the Internet superstar that she is today.

  Their relationship had taken a business turn three months in, when he could no longer sit quietly by and see her personal information so easily accessible. He reached out, set her up a website and secured her domain. Moved her hosting into a private server. Set up mail forwarding and ghost cell phones. Buried Deanna Madden so deep behind the JessReilly19 alias that no one would ever connect the two names. Sat back, patted himself on the back, and slept well at night, knowing that his sweet little cam princess was protected.

  Then, Statesboro happened. Annie happened. And he saw a different side of his vixen. He’d protected her, hidden her, covered for her, dug, researched, and enabled her. Broke a hundred laws and endangered himself. And he’d thought it was over; then it began again. Worse this time. Much, much worse. They’d barely made it through together. And he’d learned exactly how dark her pink persona really was. How much she was capable of. And God, if he didn’t love her. For the dark, for the light. For the innocence that still existed behind her insanity. For her fight, through it all, to be good.

  He pulls out the large wooden box, setting it on the table before him and reaching for the note. Opens it up and runs his fingers over the paper, her handwriting. The first time he’s seen her handwriting. It is messy and awkward, as if she is out of practice in writing it. Beautiful in its imperfection, as all of her is. He closes the note and lines the card up with the box. Cracks open the box and folds back the lid. Sits back and stares at the lineup. Counts the knives, considers the guns, and rereads the note from Deanna. Closes his eyes and wonders if, one last time, he’ll protect her.

  A stupid question. He’ll protect her to his death. He’s failed once. He never will again.

  CHAPTER 52

  Present

  THERE IS SOMETHING creepy about having this girl behind you. And that is the thing that was pushing this whole movement. The crawl across her skin when she was with this girl. Detective Brenda Boles knew killers. And now, walking down the hall, with the soft squish of the girl behind her, she knew.

  They get on the elevator, a group of four, the girl moving to the far side of the car and pushing herself against the wall, as if they are toxic and she needs space. She had wondered if the girl would come outside, could see the mental ping-pong game that had gone on behind those intelligent eyes when she’d posed the question. Simon and Chelsea Evans had both stated that the girl didn’t like to leave the apartment. The girl herself had said she “didn’t get out much.” And no one in Jeremy’s world has ever met her. Yet… she has a car. And, from the DMV records, not just any one, but one worth being driven. The elevator stops, on the bottom floor, and she steps back. Gestures for Deanna Madden to go ahead, which the girl reluctantly does. Brenda smiles to herself and steps off behind her, David rounding the corner in the lead and pushing on the exit door. It’ll be interesting to see David’s reaction to the car. She hasn’t shared what she found on the DMV, saved up this tidbit just to spice up the warrant search, should it get boring.

  “Which one’s yours?” David stops outside the building, a chain-link fence to their right, enclosing, in halfhearted fashion, the square piece of concrete that is the parking lot. Before them, a menagerie of cars, from rusted Toyotas to tricked-out Caddies, to… through the sea of crap, a midnight-blue Jaguar F-Type convertible. Deanna raises her arm slowly, pointing, the look on her face that of a five-year-old who is forced to share her toy. “The blue one,” she mumbles.

  David looks. Pauses. His head whips to Brenda, and his eyebrows raise, Chelsea shifting behind her on the concrete. She’s done the math. Three years of his salary sits before them, two cars over, a fat cat in the middle of starvation. How, in the seven months since her purchase, this car hadn’t gotten jacked was beyond her. Hell, her Galant had been robbed twice. Maybe that was the issue. This thing was too hot for the boys to touch and her Galant… well… wasn’t. Or maybe the little girl with the big eyes had earned her spot in this neighborhood.

  David and Chelsea walk forward; she stays in place. Cars aren’t really her thing. The girl beside her, that is.

  “Is he going to find anything in there?”

  The girl turns her head and con
siders her. Then shrugs, smiles. “Depends on what he’s looking for.”

  Brenda looks forward, the trunk quietly opening, David moving around its back. Well. That was a new response.

  “You know he’ll die.” The words are a test, a pull at one of her seams to see the reaction. David will kill her, doing this out of the station, without Miranda rights read.

  The girl turns her head and meets Brenda’s eyes. Looks, for the second time in the last fifteen minutes, off. Confused. And… for the second time, Brenda herself feels off-kilter. She watches the close of the girl’s lips, the movement of her throat when she swallows, the hesitation that is pushed through. Finally, her lips open and an unexpected word comes out.

  “Who?”

  Best I am aware, everyone I have killed is in the ground. Gone. No chance of them popping up their heads and having tea. There is no wondering if they’ll die, it’s done. I was there for the final wheeze of their lungs, for the falter of life in their eyes. I stand in the parking lot of the Mulholland Oaks complex and, for the first time, wonder if this is all a mistake. Could it be that this isn’t about me? Isn’t about my victims?

  When Brenda responds, the name floating through the air like a bad scent, I inhale it. Cough on its poison. Reach out and grab for solidity, something to hold me up. Her arm comes out, I ignore it. Reach, stumble, reach, stand. I am standing, I can do this. I look over at her face and smile. I don’t know why I’m smiling, but I’m smiling as widely as I can and the smile is keeping me sane, keeping the scream in my stomach where it belongs, and I don’t know what to do because the name she just spoke isn’t right, can’t be right, it’s not Marcus or Ralph or Momma, it is pure and beautiful and will live to be a thousand. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die and I will cut out your vocal cords and wear them as a necklace so you never ever have to worry about misspeaking and saying those words again. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because he is far away and someplace safe and I know this because he is mad at me because of something I did and mad people don’t die, they get drunk with their friends and bitch about their girlfriends and kiss strangers like Chelsea. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because I love him and I’ve never loved anyone except for Momma and Daddy and Trent and Summer and they are all dead and life is not that cruel. No, Jeremy Pacer will not die, because he broke my nose a few nights ago and I don’t know why and I ripped the cardboard off the window and woke up on the floor and have been haunted by police and ohmygodwhathaveIdone.

  CHAPTER 53

  Present

  I DIDN’T KNOW about the other officer, a cop outside the complex. I didn’t know but through my stumbles, and silence, and moment of hell, I hear his shout. I hear the shout and turn my head and see the black uniform on the black cop standing on the black pavement. He shouts Brenda’s name and cups his hand to his mouth and I strain in my shoes for his words because they will be different and a distraction and I need a distraction right now. And my sneakers bite into the pavement and my knees bend when he speaks.

  We’ve

  The word leaves his mouth in slow motion and I can hear it clearly, my legs pushing off.

  got

  I need to be there, he has found something, I can see it in his stance, in the cry of his mouth. I will rip the item from his hand and prove EyelinerLiar wrong and everything will be okay.

  blood

  The wrong word, a bad word, a word my madness loves but I hate, especially right now, especially with Brenda’s Jeremy Pacer lie so fresh off her stupid lips. My right foot leaves the ground and I will sprint toward him and he will be wrong and maybe I’ll never stop running until the entire world is on fire and everyone but him and I are dead.

  When Brenda’s arm closes around mine, it is hard and strong and cruel. I am jerked back and the man comes from nowhere and no one is watching FtypeBaby and where are her keys and then my hands are behind my back and I feel cold metal and everything stops when the man wastes his time and opens his mouth.

  “Deanna Madden, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of Jeremy Pacer. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can or will be used against you in a court of law…”

  I find my sight and it collides with Brenda. She stares at me and I see confusion and am, for a moment, comforted. Then, I lose control and scream.

  I can only keep crazy confined for so long.

  PART 2

  They say that if you love something, you should let it go. I should have let Jeremy go. Let his life slip from my fingers and onto its own path. I should have opened my mouth and spoken the truth, bared my soul, confessed my sins. Watched his eyes widen and his feet step back. He would have left; he would have let go. Despite the words of love that fall so often from his mouth, he would have run. Any smart man would have. But I didn’t. He was the one clean thing in my life, so I held him close. Seduced him further, let him love. I was too selfish not to. It’s my fault, in a hundred different ways, what happened to him.

  CHAPTER 54

  Past

  I BOUGHT JEREMY’S house and closed on it without ever setting foot on the property. Strange to be here now, past midnight, the lights inside all off. The front porch is dark, unable to show off the polished wood floors, the decorative fans that the MLS listing had bragged over. I reached forward and rang the bell.

  I waited, curling my toes against the plastic foam of my flip-flops, hearing the chime ring and fade, ring and fade. Saw the light when it went on in a back room, most likely the master, saw the dark outline as it walked down the hall, the shoulders wide and strong, the waist corded and tight, pajama pants low on hips that have pumped against me. I crossed my arms against the night’s chill and waved a hand at him through the front door’s glass. Wished I could see his face, see whether it broke into a smile or scowled. I expected him to reach for the switch, to flood the front porch with light, but he did neither, just unlocked the front door and swung it open. Stepped out and wrapped a hand around my waist. Dragged me inside and into his chest. Wrapped his arms around me and inhaled a deep breath into my hair. Lifted me up against his chest and carried me four steps back. Set me down long enough to move his hands to my waist and lift, boosting me up into the air and then down onto the island, his hands settling down on the granite on either side of my legs, his mouth coming down on my mouth and kissing me hard and greedy, long deep pulls, the room silent, the only sounds in the space ours. He leaned forward, my knees parting, legs wrapping around his waist, my flip-flops hitting the floor, the left and then the right. I felt the trail of his hands, first at my ass, sliding up and under my T-shirt, skimming off the fabric, our kiss breaking as my shirt was pulled off, his big hands balling up the cotton and tossing it to the side. He leaned forward, his hands brushing at items behind me, and I flinched at the crack of glass as something hit the floor. “Shh…” he said, though I hadn’t said anything. Then he leaned me back, his hands guiding me onto the hard island counter, his lips soft as they trailed down my neck, and my breasts, sucking one through the cotton of my bra, then down the centerline of my stomach.

  I closed my eyes and dug my fingers in his hair. Lifted my butt when he looped fingers underneath my shorts and pulled them and my panties off. Gasped when he lowered his mouth to my skin, his hot breath fanning the area first, his mouth so warm and wet and gentle when it settled, right in between my open legs. His hands slid up my stomach, each finger a pleasure center, the trail and tease and bite holding me in place and controlling my arousal, the squeeze of my breasts in tune with the chorus of his mouth. I arched my back against his touch, pushed on his head with my hands, and whimpered his name as he moved lower, taking a deeper taste of me before returning to my clit. “Please,” I whispered, holding his head in place, my legs shuddering as my body seized and my orgasm took flight.

  He growled when I screamed, and held me down when I curled up. His tongue was perfect, flicking across the bud of my pleasure, and not stopping, not when I thrashed against him, not when I cursed his perfection and
dug my nails into his scalp. He carried me to my death, then gently swept me up to heaven, stretching the experience further than I’ve ever had it, my limbs trembling underneath him by the time he slid his hands underneath me and carried my limp body to his bed.

  Jeremy was different that night. Harder. He ordered rather than asked. Took rather than pleaded. I turned my body over to him and he used it every way he wanted. I loved it, but I recognized it for what it was. Submittal. Punishment. A plea with him to keep me as I was, broken.

  I lay in between olive sheets and wondered if he picked these out. They were nice. Nicer than I would have expected. The last time I lay in a man’s bed was back in college—those nine months back in the day—my nine months of normal. Away from my grandparents’ house and the whispers of high school kids. Away from newspaper clippings, police reports, and gravestones. I had plucked a community college at random, electronically submitted a half-ass application, wrote an entrance essay about female empowerment, and gotten accepted. Worn colorful tanks and Ray-Bans and chugged beers in crowded apartments. Almost killed three different times, one near miss occurring in a bed just like this one. Only that bed had smelled like Froot Loops and beer, and Jeremy’s smells like dryer sheets and soap. That bed had cheap navy sheets that scratched my legs, versus Jeremy’s, which slid smoothly. I rolled over and nuzzled the line of his backbone. Inhaled his scent and marveled at the heat that rose off his skin, even in sleep.

  I felt disconnected in his space. Like my tethers had been cut and I was floating, pinwheeling my arms yet not moving in the right direction. There was no lock on his bedroom door. It wasn’t even shut, the thin crack outlined and capitalized in black. I could see the darkness creeping through that crack, stealing into and filling the space. How could he sleep with it open? I rolled right, away from his body, and put my bare feet on the floor. Pushed to standing and walked over to it, the floor quiet and cool. Long and thin ceramic tiles, they looked like gray driftwood. The Realtor had raved about them, promising durability and style. The grout in between their planks was black. The color scheme and tile combination would hide bloodstains well. I twisted the knob of the door and pushed it shut, the door settling quietly into place, no slam, no loud noises. Well made. Good for me, I’d purchased a well-built house. I turned to move back. We hadn’t discussed me spending the night. It had just happened. We’d practically broken the bed making up, then collapsed on it, his arm dragging me into his chest, his kiss soft against my head, his voice sleepy when he said, “Stay.”