by C. J. Lyons
“Of course you can’t. They’re your responsibility. You have to follow through with whatever you promised King. Man up, Jesse.” He’s impatient, as if we’re talking about me backing down from a scary leap off the high dive, like when I was six and he climbed up, jumped with me, holding me safe.
Maybe not so safe. After, alone in the changing room, was the first time he insisted we shower together. I was so young and dumb. I didn’t tell anyone, scared no one would ever love me or think I was special the way my uncle did.
“I-I can’t…” My voice shakes away the rest of my words.
He doesn’t hear. He’s pacing back and forth, full of energy. “I’ll help you. We’ll go over to the car show this weekend, start looking.”
“Looking?”
“Sure. For your new friend. A kid who needs a role model, someone who can show him the ropes, let him know he’s not alone.” He stops behind me. My shoulders tense, but all he does is ruffle his fingers through my hair and kiss the top of my head. “Don’t worry, Jesse. It’s still you and me. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
His phone rings and he grabs it. “Gotta take this.” He runs up the steps, leaving me alone in the basement.
The door slams shut behind him and I’m still sitting there. Frozen. Like the coward I am. The light from the naked bulb overhead burns against my eyes. I close them but they still sting. Warm, salty tears escape. All I can think is: this is my fault.
I deserve whatever happens to me—I’m weak and sick and stupid and every name King or his clients ever called me. I can handle that. Can handle anything King—or my uncle—wants to do to me.
Standing, I rub my face against my shoulder, leaving a wet, gray trail on the white cotton of my tee. What I can’t handle is something bad happening to Janey or my mom or some other poor kid because of me.
I sniff hard and move to unlock my uncle’s toolbox. Not the big one on wheels. This one is a heavy, red steel one that sits on the lowest shelf along the back wall, hidden in the shadows. He doesn’t know I know the combination, but I saw him open it last time we came home from the shooting range. He has a few guns, but the one I take is the smallest: a snub-nosed .38 revolver. So small, I can hide it in the palm of my hand or slide it into my pocket.
King and my uncle are right about one thing: It’s time for me to man up. Time for me to accept responsibility for my actions and deal with the consequences—even if it means ruining the rest of my life.
What other choice do I have?
8
Miranda’s only luxuries were her computers. One clean, protected with the highest security a civilian could create, almost never online. The other dirty—vulnerable. This was the one Miranda used to stalk her stalker. The Creep.
She’d tracked him back to the company he worked for, thought she had an idea about where he might live, but she’d never gotten close to his real name—that’s why she was reaching out to his other victims. Surely she wasn’t the only one who’d ever stood up to his cyberblackmail and bullying. But two years of hunting, and she’d never had a nibble. Two—a bad number, dangerous.
But thirteen was a good number. She’d been so very certain that thirteen would be lucky, would break the curse and lead her to her prey. She had a plan, a trap set—if she didn’t run out of time.
All she needed was a little help. Just one person willing to answer her call. She’d never be able to re-create her life—her real life, Ariel’s life, the one that was meant to be—or rebuild her parents’ lives. But if she could catch him, stop him, bring him to justice…well, that’d be something worth living for.
Except she’d failed. Thirteen wasn’t lucky at all—despite her sleeping with the envelope under her pillow for three days and nights (three was the best, the most magical number; she loved three; three was family: Mom, Dad, Daughter), despite all that, thirteen had failed her just like the twelve before.
She lay on her bed, covers over her head, and in the darkness, re-created lucky thirteen’s face. Especially the expression in his eyes, the way the skin beneath tightened and the corners creased. She’d thought it was defiance, a sign of strength, resolve—all the things she needed so desperately. Wistful thinking. Lucky thirteen had let her down.
Nothing to live for now. And only three days left until the Creep’s birthday surprise torment.
Three was magic, third time a charm, so why not end it now? Why torture herself by waiting?
She threw off the quilt and reached for her journal with her suicide note nestled inside. If she was going to end it, it would be on her terms, not the Creep’s. She’d be heard in death—even if he’d silenced her in life. Her fingers brushed the suede cover of her journal, the words inside calling to her like an aching need.
Maybe she should just do it now—foil the Creep’s plans before he ever had a chance, go quietly into the dark like the poets talked about…except that wasn’t really what they said, was it? And it wasn’t how she felt; it was just she was so exhausted. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to “rage, rage against the dying of the light” not even for three more days.
Three long, dark, dismal, hopeless days.
She opened the journal, her note falling into her hands. It was written with her favorite pen, a purple felt-tip her mom used to use when she composed her poems, back in the good old days: BC, Before Creep.
The paper was perfect as well—thick, creamy like parchment, with marbling that hid the stains left behind by her tears.
9
After dinner, I take advantage of the fact that King has given me time off—even if it is to think about something so vile that I couldn’t manage to eat any of the Salisbury steak Mom made. I can’t believe I’ll be free of him until Monday when I have to tell him my decision. Time to myself is something that almost never happens in my world where King can pretty much see and hear everything I say and do twenty-four/seven. I’m so used to being tethered by him, it’s hard to remember a time when I was free to just be a regular kid. I guess it was when I was twelve, before my uncle took that first video and gave it to King. Amazing what fallout a few minutes captured on a cell phone could have: my life, in ashes.
I grab my coat and backpack and leave the laptop and King’s phone behind as I escape to my favorite thinking spot: the abandoned single-wide in the field behind the trees at the back of my uncle’s property. No one except me has been in the trailer for years. It’s too far from the road for casual partiers, too dilapidated to attract homeless folks, especially with all sorts of nicer empty houses sitting around, waiting for foreclosure. So I have it all to myself.
This is where I come to start my fires.
Like I said, I’m no pyro. I don’t want to burn the place down. I start fires as a way of purging the pain. Fire is my only chance to be in control.
And let’s face it, my life? Definitely not in control of anything there. Not even what happens to my own body.
A large steel wok on the middle of the kitchen floor is my fire pit. I keep a coffee can filled with sand beside it since there’s no running water here in the trailer. I’ve collected a bunch of different fuels and fire starters—some burn longer, some hotter, some make tiny explosions or bright colors. Thanks to my uncle and his firefighting textbooks, I’ve learned a lot of ways to start fires using stuff from around the house and garage.
But my favorite is to simply use my lighter. I enjoy holding fire in my hand. Enjoy feeling in control, able to keep it contained like I do my fury.
Moving in the dark, not needing any light beyond my Zippo, I gather tinder, picking and choosing the perfect mix of slender pieces of dried grass and twigs, and paper shredded to just the right size.
I create the spark.
I breathe life into the glowing red embers.
To the rest of the world, I’m out of control—of my body, my time, my actions…but not this. This is mine
.
The flames grow, rejoicing in their freedom. They don’t know they’re prisoners in a cage I’ve created. They don’t know me at all.
But I know them. I am their God, their Creator, their Master.
They swirl, blue-gold-red-purple-gold-again, stretching and bobbing, begging for more, more, more. They are at my mercy.
Heat surges through me and I feel my heartbeat in my fingertips as I feed the flames dancing in the dark. I decide their fate. I control how long they live.
Although I’m always tempted to let them escape, wild and furious, devouring everything in their path, in the end, I will kill them.
I have the power here. And no one—not my uncle, not King—can ever take that from me.
I almost add the strange note and envelope to the flames. Something makes me stop.
I know the letter is King trying to screw with me. He’s always playing mind games like that, pushing to see how far I’ll go. Has to be a trick.
Except…what if it’s not? What if there really is someone out there, someone who can help?
The phone is old, just buttons to dial and a tiny screen. No keyboard, no web, no camera. Anonymous.
God, how I would love to be anonymous. Leave JohnBoy and Jesse far behind. Not to mention the choice I have until Monday to make.
Running won’t help. King would find me sooner or later. And before he did, he’d find Janey and Mom. Let that man with the knife loose on them.
He’d blast my name and face all over the Net. Make sure I’m on my own, an outcast, labeled a perv or worse. I’ve seen him do it to others—by now I can read his fingerprints all over a cybersmash. He blitzes every media outlet, social media site, until every corner of the web is plastered with his lies, twisting his victim’s most intimate secrets as he reveals them to the world.
So running isn’t an option. Going to the police is just as bad. Either one would end with Janey or Mom dead.
Could I do it? Do what King wants? Do that to a little kid? No. Never.
What’s left? I rip a page from my notebook, the one with my earlier scribblings, my daydreams on how to find King and kill him. My fingers tremble as I hold it over the hungry flames. I make them fight for it until fire surges over the paper, singeing the hair on the back of my hand before I finally release the page. The fire devours it, wants more.
I haven’t burned the mysterious letter. I reach for it but instead pick up the phone again, weigh it in my hand. The flames won’t like it, too much work for such a small fire.
I look down and realize my fingers are dialing, like the tiny part of me brave enough to try to fight back against King has to go into stealth mode while the rest of me sits there, a quivering mass of cowardice.
“Hello?” To my surprise it’s a girl’s voice. She sounds as startled by my call as I am. “Hello?”
I don’t know what to say. My finger hovers over the End button, ready to hang up. But something holds me back.
“Is this Jesse?” she asks.
Five words and I’m holding my breath, hanging on to her voice like it’s a lifeline out of the dark. She has a beautiful voice—not breathy or high-pitched or giggly like so many girls. Low, clear, warm. It’s the voice of an angel.
“Who is this?” I cover my mouth with my hand and spin around the trailer, searching for someone spying on me. What if King finds out? I’m ready to end the call before she answers, but I can’t resist learning her name.
“Miranda. I’m Miranda. I can help you.”
“Liar. No one can help me. This is a trick.” I don’t want to say any of that—especially not to her, not in this vile, hateful tone—but I can’t help myself. It’s too damn dangerous. If this is a trick, if she works for King…Fool. Idiot. He’ll kill Janey, kill Mom.
I throw the phone across the room. It slams against the wall and bounces back, skidding up against the hot wok. I snatch it away from danger. Then jerk my hand back. Can’t have it both ways. Either burn the damn thing or call her back.
Either way, at least I will have made the decision. Not King.
I hunker down and stare at the fire. The flames are hungry. They need me. Without me, they’ll die.
Janey or King? The words flicker through my mind as I shred the envelope and serve it to the fire. The flames like it, the inner lining popping and bursting into bright colors, although the plastic gives off a stink. The flames are happy again—thanks to me.
The phone rings and I jump, knocking the coffee can of sand onto the fire, killing it. The trailer goes dark except for the green glow of the phone’s keypad.
A second ring. My palms are wet with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
It rings again.
Janey or King? King or Janey?
My insides feel hollowed out. I don’t know what to do. All I know is that I can’t do this anymore, can’t handle this. Not alone.
I need to take a chance on someone.
I grab the phone and answer. “He’s going to kill my baby sister.”
10
“He’s going to kill my baby sister.”
I can’t believe I actually said the words out loud. Immediately, I pace in the darkness, searching between the bent and crooked blinds hanging from the windows as if my words could conjure King or one of his minions. All I see is black, nothing alive in the dark.
Dead silence on the phone. Maybe I imagined it—maybe I imagined her. Then a voice, so close it’s as if she’s inside me.
“We won’t let him do that.” Another moment of silence, but this one is okay. Like she’s giving me time to accept the fact that finally there’s someone on my side in all of this—someone I can trust.
Can I trust Miranda?
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Before we say anything else,” she answers, her tone all business, older than the kid she sounded like before, “I need to know. Are you anywhere near a computer or cell phone—I mean other than this phone, the one I sent? We need to be careful.”
“No. I’m alone. In a deserted trailer. There’s nothing here.” I consider her words. “I know King can spy through webcams and computers, but he can use phones as well?”
“King? That’s what you call him?”
“That’s his handle—at least his latest one.”
She makes a grunting noise as if making a note. “He uses spyware downloaded to computers and phones. Turns their microphones and cameras on remotely without you knowing. He can see or hear anything going on near them, plus use their GPS to track you.”
I stop pacing. That means King knew I was taking a test when he called today. He heard the vice principal confiscate my phone, knew everything.
Today, Janey—it was just another one of his games. Bastard! I want to lash out, hit something. I snap my lighter to life. Stare at the hungry flame. It would be so easy to set it free. Unleash its fury—my fury. But I don’t. I kill it.
I’m alone again. Except I’m not. I have this strange girl, Miranda. Or at least her voice in the dark. Curiosity tinged with uncertainty along with the tiniest breath of hope seeps past my defenses. “He set me up.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something I should have figured out a long time ago. How are we going to stop him?” Another thought occurs to me. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve been tracing his victims, reaching out.”
“Traced? How?” The thought of her—of anyone, especially a girl—seeing the things King makes me do…I almost hang up.
She seems to understand. “I know how he works. The blackmail, the threats.”
“Like sending someone to hurt my baby sister.”
“Or posting naked pictures of you all over your school’s website, sending them to your dad’s boss and your mom’s thesis committee. Yeah, like that.” She sounds bitter—in fact, her voice sounds a lo
t like my own voice inside my head when I’m pissed off and confused and want to kill King or stand up to him or run away from all this.
“He’s done it to you.” My breath rattles through the phone.
She’s silent for a long moment. “Two years ago.”
“So—how did you stop him? How did you get away?” Her breathing quickens, like she’s frightened—or trying to hold back tears. I want to be there with her, not talking in the dark like this. But most of all, I want her not to be crying and not to be scared. I want her to be brave and smart and bold enough to show me a way out of this before Janey or my mom get hurt.
“I didn’t.” Her voice is hushed. “I stood up to him. Refused to do what he asked. And he—he’s destroyed my life. Not just mine. My parents’. And he’s not done yet. I have to stop him. I have to. Will you help me?”
She wants me to help her? How can I do that? I don’t know anything.
I think about what she said about King ruining her and her parents’ lives. If I help her, he could do that to me and Janey and Mom. Hell, he might do it just for me talking with her. Maybe this is another one of his games, and as soon as I get home, there will be a message from him wanting even more from me in retaliation.
“I can’t risk it,” I answer, feeling empty inside as my last sliver of hope is doused. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
11
Miranda was almost in tears. He couldn’t say no—Jesse was her lucky thirteen. And she was out of time. When he finally called, she’d dared to hope…But maybe thirteen wasn’t lucky, not for her. After all, one plus three added up to four. A bad number.
“Please,” she said, sniffing back her tears and hoping he didn’t notice. “Please, Jesse. Don’t hang up yet. Would you just listen? Just for a few minutes? You’re the only one I can talk to, the only one who would understand.”
There was dead silence. Then the sound of a metallic snap. “What’s that?” she asked. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” His voice sounded resigned. “Just lighting a fire. It’s cold and dark where I am.”
