Deceived
Page 19
“Hey! Weren’t you at The Pier last night?” an unfamiliar voice spoke. I jumped. From a few feet away, Nicholas’s head snapped to look my way as well.
“Um, no. I haven’t actually been out there in weeks.” I was thankful for the lifetime of little lies like that one.
“Oh.” The girl looked confused. She’d seen me. “You’re Pixie’s roommate, right?”
“Yes.”
Several others made their way over to me. They carried copies of the school paper with them. They’d read the official report. There’d been a fire. Pixie had gone home to heal from minor injuries. I had moved in with family.
All the lie rehearsals were suddenly worth my effort. Student interest kept me recounting the story. I never knew how much they all loved Pixie. Nicholas even gave me bogus addresses for them to send e-mails and get-well letters. The student body cared about her. It was touching.
I missed Pixie, too, in a severe way. I wondered how she was doing and where she was. Her empty seat haunted me. I sat alone at lunch and during study hall. Wherever she was, she’d probably already made a dozen friends. Imagining her in the sun comforted me. Knowing she came from L.A. made a lot of sense really. She’d be great there.
Nicholas’s team had been thorough with the charade. One girl said our apartment had crime tape draped over the door, and the curtains were charred. I found relief in knowing the only fire behind the crime tape came from my culinary attempts on the crappy old stove. I could’ve gone back there to stay. No one would’ve been any wiser, but Nicholas insisted the Reaper might return. He didn’t think the fire would stop him from looking there for me.
I missed my things, but it could’ve been much worse. I pictured Pixie, bald and hungry, frightened and alone. At least she was safe and far away from the danger. Hopefully. The idea that this monster might’ve somehow followed her hollowed out my insides. She had to be okay.
Classes dragged on. Watching Nicholas pretend to be someone else annoyed me. I pictured him in his hoodie and knit cap earlier and compared the image to him near the chalkboard. He wore standard khaki pants and a white dress shirt and tie. His blazer hung over his chair and the white shirt teased beneath the lights. If he turned at the right angle, his tattoo was visible beneath the sleeves. Nicholas had said his friends had inked a barbed-wire armband when he left the service. An act of camaraderie and remembrance for one another and for those who didn’t come home. He talked about them like they were frat buddies instead of men he’d guarded with his life. I knew it wrapped his ridiculous bicep at the fullest point, and I knew he was both proud and saddened to have it. Accepting the dual roles he played gave me a headache.
Again, I heard nothing my teachers said. I spent the day wondering what it was like to be one of his witnesses under protection. They lived an entire life of pretend. It disturbed me. How confusing, changing yourself again and again. They must struggle with who they really are beneath all the lies. I would.
After English, I tarried, allowing him time to come to me, if he needed. He did.
“Heard anything?”
“No, you?”
“Nothing out of place. They’ve seen the apartment and read the paper. They’re taking it in stride. Life marches on.” He sighed and looked at me more seriously. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s fine, Elle. You don’t need to worry about Pixie. She’s setting up in a new place and she’s embraced it. She’ll handle this better than most people. She’s strong, like you.” He walked out of the room without me.
Davis knocked shoulders with him on his way around the corner. “I was worried when you didn’t show up for coffee this morning.” His face crumbled with relief.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. I had no idea … ” How to finish that sentence.
“No.” His eyes widened. “I thought you ditched me for sure. Then I noticed Pixie was missing, too. I went over to your place to see if you guys had overslept or were sick or something. When I saw the fire, I almost hurled.”
Then he hugged me like a child grabbing onto a beloved teddy. My arms mashed to my sides.
I laughed. “I’m fine.”
“I can’t believe you’re at school. How’s Pixie? I heard she was burnt pretty bad trying to put out the fire.”
I hadn’t heard that, but I liked the heroic legend she had left behind. In a couple of decades, kids might tell ghost stories about the ghost of the girl who died saving a hundred kids from the fire of the century.
“She’s going to be okay.” I knew it was true.
“Tell me everything.” He whirled me away from his grip, leaving only one arm slung over my shoulders. We headed to my locker. Then he dropped me off for study hall. “Hey, I’ll buy you lunch today.” I’d never known a happier person in my life. Maybe Pixie.
“Deal.”
Sitting alone on the carpet in study hall, I worked my way through the time since I arrived at Francine Frances. One thing grabbed me again and again.
“Why Pixie?” I scribbled. My pen doodled around the words on autopilot. When I snapped out of my confusion, I’d written “why” a dozen more times. From all I’d read about the Reaper, he chose girls in our situation, but never girls like Pixie. He picked ones like Priscilla, like every other face here. Pixie stood out. His girls didn’t. They came from money like her, and the academy met his M.O., but he never picked wild art students, not even close.
My eyes moved around the room. Any of the other girls fit the description better than Pixie. I’d watched enough crime dramas to know killers didn’t change their routines. I tried a bunch of scenarios. None fit. He might’ve followed her from her previous life, but she’d been at the academy for three years. He never took kids that young. Even as Priscilla, she wouldn’t have caught his attention because she was only fifteen when she came to Francine Frances.
The other problem I had was his long-term disappearance. Why stop for so long then begin again? Killers had triggers. That’s what they always said. This guy wasn’t much younger than my dad, so I doubted he had problems with girls anymore. I couldn’t picture him being normal for a decade and then one day thinking, “I’ll go to Ohio and find a girl to kill.” Dozens of schools like mine existed in better locations. For Pixie’s sake, I hoped this wasn’t personal.
I was no detective, but the facts didn’t add up.
Chapter Nineteen
After school, I met Nicholas in the lot. I made it to the SUV before him and waited.
When he came into view, his phone was pressed to his cheek. A scowl ruined his beautiful features. When he saw me, he smiled.
My heart jumped in my chest. The problem with our situation was I had no idea which parts were real. How much was his job? How much was his heart?
He slid the phone into his pocket and came to me, leaning a little too close as he unlocked my door. The moment stole my breath. He pulled open the door and barely moved away. I had to slide inside. As I did, he whispered, “Let’s go home.”
The seat enveloped me. Time alone with him put me at ease. I dozed all the way back to our little house on the river.
When we pulled into the drive, he just sat there. He shut down the engine but made no move to leave.
When I woke up, he was poking at his phone, Bluetooth in ear, seat rolled back, one foot on the dash. The clock read 4:45.
I sat straight up and rubbed my eyes. “What’re you doing?” His behavior was so illogical that I wondered if I might be dreaming.
“You fell asleep.” He put his phone and Bluetooth inside his bag and turned in his seat. He wedged his knee between us and managed to look comfortable.
“So?”
“So, you never sleep. You crashed sitting straight up during a ten-minute drive. I let you rest.”
“That’s nuts.” I needed the rest, but he shouldn’t have sat there working from an uncomfortable driver’s seat. Not because of me.
“I had plenty to work on from right here.” Hi
s low voice relaxed me. “This must feel safer to you than a big empty room.” He got out and walked around to my side of the car.
I climbed out awkwardly and stamped my foot that had fallen asleep. He took my bags from me and led the way inside. I flopped onto the couch. He headed to the kitchen. Pots and pans clanged. The refrigerator opened and closed.
“You don’t have to take care of me like this.” I felt like a baby again. “You’re supposed to keep me safe, not monitor my happiness, my sleep, my nutrition … ”
“I like to.” He hummed along to an old rock anthem while he worked. Then he came to sit with me and offered me a tall glass of water. “I’ve always had family doing everything for me. I like being able to do things for someone else, for you.”
With that all cleared up, he leaned in as if we were about to share a great secret. “Now, what’s been on your mind all day? Something’s rolling around in there. Every time I saw you today, you were contemplating, planning, diagnosing … I don’t know what, and it’s driving me insane. Please share.”
I turned and faced him on the couch, deciding what to say. I wanted to talk with him as a friend. I wanted to sift through the things that didn’t sit right with me, but I knew he couldn’t do that. He wasn’t my friend, not like that, and not when it came to this.
“Talk to me, Elle. I want to know what’s going on with you. You keep so much hidden.”
“Why Pixie?” I couldn’t talk about this with him the way I wanted, and it upset me. I’d heard the word classified more than I could stand. Classified meant he knew more and wasn’t telling. He had the information I wanted, but he wouldn’t give it to me. We weren’t in this together.
He slid against the back of the couch. The slouch made him look like a brooding teen. I honestly didn’t feel so protected at the moment. He rubbed his face, elbows pointed to the ceiling.
“Well?”
“I don’t know.”
“She isn’t like anyone else he ever took, and after all these years, why?”
“She isn’t like the others. You’re right. How much did you read about him?”
“I read enough to know that none of this makes any sense. Enough to know that he wouldn’t have chosen someone as outstanding as Pixie. Why would he come here, to Nowhereland, to pick up where he left off?”
His lids grew heavy, as if he carried some great burden but refused to let me help with it. “Have you talked to your father yet about Thanksgiving?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t change the subject.” I groaned. “You asked me to tell you what I’m thinking, and I did. Now help me understand.”
He paused, apparently deciding if and how to handle my eruption. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t think he was after Pixie. I’m saying I think you’re wrong.”
“Hey.” He stood and took my hand. “We have work to do. We’ll finish this later.”
Just like I expected.
He stood facing me. “I need to think.” He backed up a few steps so he didn’t tower over me.
I looked up with my best mean face. I hated being treated like an outsider when I obviously wasn’t.
“Ready?” Nicholas sounded chipper.
“Ready for what?” I had no clue what he meant. I wanted him to agree with me. It didn’t make sense for the Reaper to want Pixie. If he agreed, then I could say maybe it wasn’t the Reaper after all. Maybe Pixie wasn’t really in danger and could have her life back.
He walked toward me slowly.
I stopped breathing.
An extremely mischievous look appeared on his face. “Run.”
I ran.
He’d warned me about this. That morning he’d said we’d work on self-defense after school. Plus, when I’m told to run by someone that big, I run. He caught me before I made it past the couch. He had his arms wrapped tightly around my chest. It wasn’t as nice as I had imagined.
“Now what?” Nicholas expected me to have some kind of answer.
“Uh … ”
“Stomp on my foot.” His voice was carefree, as if he’d asked me to pass him the ketchup.
“Okay.” I stomped. “You moved!”
“I knew it was coming. Someone else wouldn’t. Now, when the assailant is yelling because you just broke his foot, hit him hard with your elbow, like this.” He moved my arm slowly, showing me how the motion would feel in progress.
“If you’re lucky, he’ll be shorter than I am. You’ll hit him in the gut. That hurts worse than the chest, normally. Now, try the combo. Go easy on my foot.”
We repeated the same combination a dozen times. I didn’t go easy on him. After dinner he added some additional steps. We worked on the “fist to the forehead” and then “my foot to his shin as I sprinted away” move. I assumed I could outrun a man with a broken foot.
We tried a few other moves before calling it a night. He called them self-defense. They weren’t. The moves he taught were more like self-preservation. Every move was swift, followed by stern instructions to run. He’d say, “Do this and then run.” “Give him one of these and then run.”
The biggest lesson I got from our practice was whatever I did, I needed to get free. Get free and run. We practiced every night, anytime I wasn’t doing homework. I hated being so close to him and knowing I couldn’t touch him, not the way I wanted. I suspected he felt the same, though he never said a word. Tension seasoned our every conversation. Enough electricity ran up my arms when we touched to light a city. I sensed the unnecessary beats before he released me during practice, but I didn’t want to make things more difficult. I kept what distance I could. The theme remained day after day. I grew comfortable with it. I even saw myself performing his moves in my dream. Under Nicholas’s tenacious supervision, I learned to crush knees and break ribs. And I wasn’t afraid to do it.
The nightmares began to pale in comparison to my real and present danger. Nicholas and his team continued to communicate in cryptic phone calls. They believed the Reaper was near. It relieved a lot of pressure knowing that meant Pixie was safe. My dream faded a bit, despite this information. The focus and direction changed, too. I dreamed of escaping an assailant, a murderer, the Reaper. I found comfort waking up and knowing what it was I feared. Giving a name to the enemy was great consolation. Sleeping better and spending next to no time alone helped, too.
At school, everyone chatted about the upcoming festival. It was the first Friday in November, and the following night was the big event. The school and all of its supporters had spent days in preparation. I was surprisingly thankful to have something to do outside of lockdown.
I grabbed my bag and a few other things on my way to the door.
“Ready?” Nicholas called from the kitchen.
“Not even remotely.” I swung myself out the door right behind him.
Since surveillance was his job, I had to stay under his thumb. He assigned me to a job that would keep me in one place and easily trackable for him. I would serve punch.
Nicholas pulled onto the grass and parked near a large stack of hay bales. I slid out and moved across the lawn with him. We walked silently, together but not, to the refreshment stand. I stopped there for instructions from an elderly lady in a “Francine Frances Academy 1951-1954” sweatshirt. Nicholas stopped several feet away and folded his hands in front of him. He looked like Secret Service.
The festival was elegant. The speakers were good, too. It came as no surprise when we ran out of cups. I’d handed out at least two hundred personally. The old lady who trained me told me where to find supplies in the cafeteria in case this happened. She’d also assured me that she’d be with me all night. She said I wouldn’t have to leave my post. I hadn’t seen her in an hour.
I turned away several people while I waited for a chance to tell Nicholas I was in need of supplies. Though he kept a close eye on me, we hadn’t been able to talk. The girls at my school, and their mothers, had held him captive, incessantly so, since we arrived.
Inside the room, emergency lighting illuminated the space. No need to look for the switches. I doubted I’d find the right one, and I was in a hurry. The lighting made it possible to see clearly through the center of the room. It was actually lighter there than outside. I moved along the countertop looking for a box of cups. The huge, unmarked boxes gave no indication, so I began opening them. One at a time, I pulled the tops up and shoved them aside. I found plates, napkins, everything but the cups.
I tossed the last box onto the counter and prepared to rip into it when my hands froze. My heart spluttered erratically. A picture of me hung on the outside of the box. The same picture I’d had taped to my mirror inside my apartment. I hadn’t seen it in over a week. Now it was stuck to the box with a large serving fork stabbed through my chest. My father’s face was rubbed out, probably with the fork that impaled me. The rough outline of a heart shape snaked around my head.
My breathing was loud against the silence. The room suddenly seemed darker. Fear gripped my feet, rooting them in place. Time slowed. An ache in my chest spread out over my skin. Pricked my eyes. Stung my nose. I visualized the hallway separating me from the outside. It looked longer in my mind than it had on the way in. I’d never make it. With my head tilted toward the box, I scanned the room. Blood rushed and pounded between my ears. Breath whooshed in and out of my lungs. Then, it appeared. In the corner of the room where I stood, in a darkened slip of space between a wall and a commercial-sized refrigerator, a tiny orange glow began to shine.
Chapter Twenty
I couldn’t swallow. My throat was thick with fear. I choked out a soft sound as my eyes tried in desperation to see the glow. To identify it as anything other than what it surely was. I thought of my dad losing me this way after he’d already lost Mom.