Tucker may have captured me, may have scared me, but he was desperate, acting out of fear. Drew and Shayna acted out of privilege. Neither of them thought of anyone other than themselves. The blow they delivered was meant to be lethal, but I survived it. I survived it because of Tucker. Without him, without the nights we spent in the cabin, I would’ve come home straight from the 7-Eleven, drank my bottle of terrible wine, and passed out on my bed.
I would’ve spent the entire next day texting or calling my and Shayna’s mutual friends trying to see who would side with me.
I chuckle as I remember that I can’t text anyone. Tucker smashed my phone. I’m kind of glad I don’t have to deal. Life is so much bigger than text battles and a boyfriend who replaces his girl over blow jobs, or lack thereof.
Life is so much crueler, so much darker, and so much more harrowing than Drew can even imagine. Drew, in his self-centered, measly existence. Shayna can have him.
At my bedroom window, I study the dark neighborhood, not sure what I’m looking for. Everything seems different after being away. Or maybe I’m the one who’s different, and because of that everything else appears changed as well.
There is a soft knock on my door. Julia. She’s always been great about respecting my privacy. “Come in.”
She’s carrying a plate filled with scrambled eggs, a slice of American cheese melting on top, and white toast with the crusts cut off, no butter. Just the way I like it.
“Here you go.” She sets the plate on top of my neatly made bed. “I can stay until you fall asleep if you need me to,” she offers. “I can’t imagine how terrified you must have been. How trapped you must have felt.”
“Thanks…” I start to tell her that it would be nice to have her here, at least while I eat, but out of the corner of my eye, I see a cruiser drive down our street.
The police chief’s cruiser.
Tucker’s father.
I know the car, and before today I never felt alarmed. He drives by on his way to work each and every day, and now it makes sense to me why. Our street intersects with Mulberry and it’s the most direct route to the police station.
Now’s your chance.
He’s not home and won’t be for some time. If ever there was a chance to grab the tape, it’s now.
“I’ll bring in extra pillows and we can build a fort like you used to when you were small,” Julia calls from the bathroom. She shuts off the water and then she’s back in my bedroom, clasping her hands and looking worried all over again. “I just want you to feel safe, Morgan. I don’t want you to be alone.”
Seriously. How great is she?
“I appreciate it, but being alone would be best.” I school my expression, trying to look sleepy, which isn’t easy with adrenaline racing through my veins. “Is that okay?”
It will have to be okay. Now that the idea of going to Victor Noscalo’s house, finding the tape, and getting the proof that Tucker was telling the truth has introduced itself, it’s the only thing that matters.
“Of course it’s okay, hon. You can have all the time you need.” She opens her arms and I go to her. Her embrace is warm and natural. She rubs my back with one hand. “Please promise to come and get me if you get scared.”
“Promise,” I say, meaning it. The moment the tape is in my hand, I’ll knock on her door and we’ll have family movie night. One hell of a fucked-up movie night, but I need them to see, to understand. “Thank you, Julia.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.” She gives me a smile and shuts the door behind her. The moment she’s gone, I tiptoe to my door and quietly snick the lock. She won’t bother me. Julia isn’t one to hover, which means I have a window of opportunity I intend to take ample advantage of.
—
Mulberry Street is longer than I remember, or maybe it feels that way because I’m walking down it in the dark, inspecting every house carefully.
I’m hoping I’ll get lucky, and then I do. There is a wooden sign with the name NOSCALO on it hanging by the front door of the second to the last house of the dead-end street. It’s faded by age, and I can only assume it was purchased by Tucker’s mom. I can’t imagine Victor Noscalo hanging anything so homey, and it’s sort of alarming he still has it.
Then again, before I met Tucker, I never would have imagined Victor capable of any of the things Tucker told me about.
But I believe Tucker. I believe everything he says.
The house is dark and a safety light is on. I bite my lip and consider that my plan is shortsighted. What am I going to do? Break into a police officer’s house? I creep around to the back door, then realize I’m creeping and walk upright. The last thing I need is for a nosy neighbor to call the police on me. I have an hour or so, I figure, until people start getting up for work. I’ll have to be fast.
At the back door, I look for a fake rock hiding a key. I don’t find anything but real rocks. I check under a mat, then on top of the doorframe. After a short and futile search, I put my hands on my hips and look at the back door in front of me. What are the odds…? I turn the knob and nearly fall into the house when it opens. Victor leaves his house unlocked?
Unbelievable.
In the dark kitchen, I blink to get accustomed to the grainy darkness and begin my search. I did have the foresight to bring a flashlight. I’ve kept one in the top of my closet since I was little—I like to read at night. I sweep the floor with the beam, listening just in case Victor has a guest I didn’t count on.
The house is eerily silent. Unnaturally empty. Even houses with no people in them usually feel like something. And houses with this traumatic of a past should be haunted by something or someone. Although, if I were Jeremy Noscalo, the very last place in the world I’d choose to haunt would be the house where I suffered.
A full-body shiver chases goosebumps to the surface of my skin.
I walk through the living room and make my way to the back bedroom. One glance in there tells me this is where Victor lays his head, and my stomach turns as I glance around his lair. It’s an unassuming room. A police uniform is tossed over his bed, shoes kicked off in one corner. In the dull light from the street, I make out a cluttered dresser with miscellaneous items on top: a wooden box, a watch, a cup full of pens.
It may appear unassuming, but I know what secret he hides. He’s a pedophile. The thought makes me sick and yet propels me forward. This is why I’m here: to help right a wrong. Jeremy and Tucker were tortured by this man.
I turn for the stairs. Tucker mentioned a videotape and I assume he hid it in his bedroom. That’s where I’d hide the evidence that my father was a raving pervert who deserved to rot in hell.
The stairs creak underfoot and I try not to let the bleak atmosphere of the house further frighten me. Flashlight clutched tightly in hand, I keep my ears and eyes open in case Victor has decided to come home early. If I’m lucky, he’s on his way to a crime scene and will be gone for hours.
Still, I vow to hurry. He may not catch me, but I don’t want to linger here. Upstairs, I come across several closed doors. The first is a bathroom. The second, a closet. The third is a bedroom, and it doesn’t take long to determine whose room I’m standing in.
Jeremy’s.
A ball bat and mitt stand neglected in a corner, a sad reminder of what I hope were lighter days in his dark past. The bed features a bright red and black bedspread with a St. Louis Cardinals logo on it.
Sadness clings to this room. Jeremy may not be here, but there is a spirit of desolation attached to the very walls. As I move to shut the door, the mirrored closet door catches my eye, and in it I see the reflection a man.
I shriek, slapping my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound. My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest. I whip my flashlight around and encounter a full-size cardboard cutout of one of the players for the Cards. I don’t know who he is, but after almost suffering a heart attack in his wake, I don’t care who he is. He’s not real and that’s what matters.
I take
a few deep breaths and turn for the final room at the end of the hall. My hand is clammy on the doorknob, so I swipe my palm down my shorts, crack the door, and peek in.
Tucker’s bedroom.
The room reminds me of him. The dark bedding is unmade and dust glitters on its surface in the beam from the flashlight as if it hasn’t been disturbed in years. A black dresser covered in bumper stickers stands next to a poster of a thrash metal band I’ve never heard of.
This room has a spirit as well. Anger instead of desolation. Loss. The feeling of being trapped, like I felt the day I had a borderline nervous breakdown. It’s oppressive and sad in this room. Even sadder now that I know what Tucker Noscalo is like now. He’s still sad. Still angry. Unless he’s with me, then…he’s neither of those things. The thought renews my courage and refreshes my purpose.
I have to find that tape.
I beeline for the closet and ram my toe against something solid, making me drop the flashlight and swear under my breath. I grab the light and see I’ve stumbled into a short TV stand on wheels. A television attached to an ancient VCR sits on it, buried in dust.
Holding my breath, I kneel in front of the VCR and pray for luck. I power on the TV and the box erupts with static. I punch the volume button aggressively until I find mute. Then I rest my palm on my chest. My heart is racing again, and I wonder if I’ll die in this house, not because of Victor catching me but because I’m going to have a heart attack.
Shaking off my nerves, I focus on my task. I turn on the VCR, press the EJECT button, and find a copy of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. Odd choice for a boy’s bedroom. Especially if that boy is Tucker. I stare at the tape for a long while before I notice a piece of Scotch tape covering a hole in the plastic.
Whatever was on here has been recorded over. And it’s not hard to guess what that might be. Licking dry lips, I push the tape back in and, with a shaking hand, press PLAY.
The FBI warning sits ominously on the screen for a few seconds before the image wiggles and turns into what looks like a basement. There is a bed and a table. Victor Noscalo stands, his profile to the camera, belly protruding. He’s wearing a white wifebeater and is stripping his belt from the loops. And that’s when my attention goes to the hunched figure in front of him. Jeremy, I assume. Chin down, fists curled at his sides.
Belt shed, Victor goes for his pants next and I can see the boy’s shoulders shudder visibly. “Turn around,” Victor instructs.
Bile rises in my throat at the very second the boy lifts his face and meets the camera’s lens. I gasp, my eyes clashing with the boy about to be raped by the chief of police. I’m not looking at Jeremy, but at a face all too familiar to me. A face I lovingly kissed hours ago. A face I held in both hands. The figure on the screen blurs as heated tears fill my eyes. I scramble to stop the tape, hating what I’ve seen so far and desperate to avoid seeing more of it.
Centimeters before my finger reaches the EJECT button on the VCR, the television winks off. I fall back on my butt and crab-walk across the carpeted floor, when I see a shadow darkening the doorway. On the way, I kicked the flashlight to the corner of the room, and it takes me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust in the dark. I blink away tears, my mind racing for a way to get out of this situation alive. If Victor Noscalo has just caught me, he’ll kill me for sure.
But the figure looming above me is familiar. From his tall, broad-shouldered build to the shadow of his shaggy hair. Tucker. Thank God. He enters the room warily.
Before I can exhale in a breath of relief, his voice, cold and hard, reaches out to me in the darkness. “What the hell are you doing?”
Tucker
A mask of red fills my field of vision as I glare down at Morgan. She’s sprawled on my filthy bedroom carpet, having just narrowly avoided seeing the sickest home movie ever filmed. My past is ugly and dark and everything about her being here and being witness to it is wrong.
There are so many emotions roiling through me, I can’t focus on any single one. Rage, for sure. Shame—another big one. Hate, fatigue, desperation. Sadness, regret. Remorse, guilt…
I could go on. And on and on and fucking on.
“Get up.” My voice is ice, and there is no warmth to infuse it. Not here.
She obeys, pushing shakily to her feet and retrieving the flashlight. She fumbles with it until the bulb goes out, and then we are alone in the dark of my bedroom. I turn to the VCR, press STOP, and carefully extract the tape.
“You didn’t believe me when I told you I’d get it myself,” I mumble, and realize that above everything else I’m feeling, I’m mostly hurt that Morgan didn’t trust me. I trusted her. I gave her my love. The only thing left I had to give to anyone.
“Of course I did.” She sounds shocked, and I can’t tell if she’s lying to me or not. “My father is the one who doesn’t believe you. I didn’t want you to talk to him until he saw for himself.”
I’m trying to believe her. I’m not sure if I can. Trust is a wily beast in my life.
My hand tightens around the plastic cassette. “I’ll give it to him.”
“Let me. Please. Then when he sees you, he’ll know the truth. You’ll be safe. If you go over there now…knowing what he knows…”
What he knows. “You told him we…we…”
“What? No!” She’s adamant and again, I long to believe her. “He doesn’t know we did anything together.”
But I’m nauseous at the thought. Not because her father might know, but because it’s a fact. The same me that’s on this tape is the same me who violated Morgan Young. This is my truth, but now it’s hers, too. I’m not worthy of her, and now she saw with her own eyes exactly why.
I hold my arm out, offering the videotape. “Take it.”
My father needs to be stopped. Morgan and Aaron Young can stop him without me. As long as he’s not harming the kids at that camp—and maybe he will even lose his job as a bonus—that’s all that matters now.
Tentatively, Morgan takes the evidence, and for a second, I regret having to turn it over to her. It’s like it holds a deadly virus, and the last thing I want to do is infect her with it.
“We’ll get through this,” she says as she steps toward me.
No, “we” won’t. I take a wide step away from her. We do this dance a few more times—her step forward to my retreat—until she gives up and holds out her arms in question. It’s a question I don’t answer.
“Get out.” My voice is no longer ice. It’s flat. Monotone.
“Tucker, please.” Her voice touches a part of me that has softened toward her, but I harden up, stuffing my heart behind a huge, thick concrete barrier and bricking in any emotion that might weaken me.
Here, in this house, in the wake of the nightmare I have physical proof of, is an undeniable truth. It wasn’t only Jeremy who suffered the sexual abuse. It was me. My lies have been revealed, and in a way, I’m not surprised. Morgan shines light on everything.
I’m not sure what she’s feeling now that she knows the truth: I’m twisted, fucked-up. I am the man she thought I was when I tossed her into the trunk. When I gagged and bound her.
I am a monster. A beast, I think as I eye the videotape in her hands. And she is the beauty. Unfit for someone like me. Ironic it would come down to this standoff. In this place. With that tape.
“Tucker.”
“Take it and get out, Morgan. I mean it.”
“I want you to meet with my dad. Everything will be fine once he sees it.”
Fine. I could laugh. Nothing about this is “fine.” I step forward and wrap a hand around her upper arm. I’m not gentle about it.
“What are you doing?” she asks, and she sounds confused and afraid.
Rather than explain, I tug her with me; down the steps, through the living room, and to the back door. The Dodge is still parked near the end of her street where I sat and watched my father go to work. Grabbing what might be the only opportunity to get the tape, I came here. I never dreamed Morgan w
ould be here, but I knew someone was. She left the back door open a crack.
There now, I lead her outside and around the house before letting go of her at the edge of the sidewalk. “Go.”
“But I—”
“My father is on his way home and I suggest you not be here when he returns.” It’s a lie, but who cares what I lie about at this point? What could matter more than the person I love learning the revolting truth about me. I am broken. Ruined. Beyond repair. In the light of that truth, only one thing matters.
“I want you safe,” I tell her.
“But you’ll meet with my dad…”
Not a chance in hell.
“At eight,” I say. Another lie. “Go home. My father will be here any minute.”
She starts to leave, then turns and stands on tiptoe to press a kiss to the side of my lips. Her hands are on my shoulders and her lips are on mine and my heart bangs on that wall I hid it behind. Morgan is the only one who can chip through it.
Then she’s gone. Running through the darkness, her golden hair swishing behind her, hands holding tight to the proof I need to send my father away.
And me? I’m not going to make the appointment in a few hours.
Morgan won’t see me at eight o’clock. She won’t see me ever again.
Chapter 17
Set Free
Morgan
I never really thought of my dad as a badass. I mean, I know he’s a lawyer who fights in court to help people. I know he loves me. But I never expected him to stand in front of a cop car driving down our street, hands out like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Victor Noscalo climbs out of his car, and I peer out the living room window, my heart in my throat and my stomach twisting. His nose has a large cut on it, and there is a bandage over his eyebrow. A few mottled bruises decorate his jaw. Tucker did a number on him, and I feel a surge of satisfaction that Victor still bears those marks.
Forgotten Promises (Lost Boys #1) Page 16
