by Abigail Boyd
I pushed my sopping wet hair back, glaring at her. Every time I talked to her now I had to repeat myself. She never caught anything the first time around.
I opened my mouth, ready to explain again.
"Holy crap. Why was Wick in jail?" Jenna exclaimed beside me.
Craning my head at the TV, I took a sharp intake of breath. Warwick's face filled the screen, sneering with huge, haunted eyes. The unexpected image caused me to swallow the wrong way, coughing and sputtering.
"Oh my god," Claire whispered. The dish in her hands fell to the carpet, and broke neatly in half.
I sat on the hard bench at the police station, watching Hugh and Claire argue with the desk clerk. Claire had insisted we run up to the station as soon as he got home, basically rushing him out of the house before she could explain. It was the first time I'd seen her in public without full makeup in years.
They had flanked the desk clerk, and were firing questions faster than she could answer them. Not that she seemed to have any answers. That didn't stop my parents from talking in circles, until they were red in the face.
Pen doodles covered the wooden bench in different colors. It reminded me of the cubbies at school. Years worth of scribbling, from bored, anxious people, biding their time just like I was now. There were others waiting in the police station, and all of them were taking great interest in the entertainment of my parents.
"Why weren't we notified?" Hugh asked, banging his fist on the front counter so hard that a cup of pencils rattled beside it. Two policemen, hands on their hips above their gun hostlers, had strolled over and were now listening Hugh. "Our daughter was almost shot last year. A courtesy phone call is the least you could've given us."
"If you'd like to file a complaint, I have some forms I'll need you to fill out," the desk clerk said. She pushed herself away, wheeled over to a cubbyhole full of papers, and returned with a handful of forms.
Hugh snatched the papers and slapped them down on the counter. "You bet I've got a complaint. Robert Warwick, who is currently on trial for murder, just broke out of prison, and no one bothered to warn us."
Hugh's way of saying Warwick's name contained no casual hint, no sign that he had been close friends with the man for over a decade.
"Are you talking about the Warwick case?" Another man, in a double-breasted suit, asked the question as he strolled over.
"Yes!" Hugh said exasperatedly. He'd had to repeat his whole story to every person he encountered in the station.
The newest man had the air of someone who dealt with upset people all day long, a kind of bedside manner. "Can I help you? I'm Michael Stauner, the detective in that case."
I felt so disconnected from the scene, it was as though I was watching it on TV. None of their words stirred any emotions within me. I leaned forward on the bench, elbows on my knees.
"When did Warwick get out of jail?" Claire asked.
"At least 48 hours ago," the detective told her calmly.
"Forty-eight?" Claire repeated, her eyes bugging out.
"Yes, ma'am. But it could have been longer than that. There was apparently a mix up in the inmate tracking, and they're not exactly sure when he got out. It could have been up to a week ago. He apparently slipped his identification bracelet off, switched it with another inmate. He's lost quite a bit of weight —"
My parents were watching the detective, aghast.
"Are you kidding me?" Hugh spat. His face was as red as a ripe tomato. "All this because of a freaking bracelet?" (Only he used a more colorful word for "freaking".)
"Hey, buddy, just calm down," one of the cops said, holding his hand out like a stop sign. I envisioned him reaching for the gun in his holster and winced.
"I'm as calm as I'm going to get," Hugh shot back. The police, at least, did seem sympathetic, although I had the nagging fear that they would handcuff him. He turned back to the detective. "Why weren't we notified? My daughter was one of his victims. She's supposed to speak as a witness at his trial."
To my knowledge, Warwick had been charged with not only the murders of all three girls, but also with the attempted murder of me. The very fact that anyone had actually attempted to murder me was mind-blowing.
The bench underneath me was killing my tailbone. I put my hands under my butt to lift myself up. An American flag drooped from a shiny silver stand in the corner. I kept counting the stars but it seemed to be missing some. 45, 49, 40.
"I understand that, sir," the detective said. Still, the cop took another step forward. I shifted on the uncomfortable bench, just wanting to be home so I could barricade myself in my room. "Like I said, there was a mix up, but it was on the prison's end. Our precinct only just found this all out today. We couldn't stop the news from breaking the story."
"Well, thank goodness they did, or we would have never known that Ariel's in danger," Claire said.
"Ma'am, we don't know for sure that Warwick would come back," the detective said. "There's a good chance he's past the border into Canada by now."
"And there's a good chance he's already here," Hugh said angrily. "My daughter said someone chased her home."
All of them turned their heads towards me. I wanted to melt into a puddle and disappear.
CHAPTER 23
I ESCAPED THE police station an hour later, well after nightfall. I felt tired beyond measure, my shoulders aching, my voice croaky from speaking so much. They had asked me a million questions, taking my statement over and over. Where did the alleged chase occur, where was I going and where was I coming from, who else was around?
When I told them I had no details of who my pursuer was, just that they were of average size and were wearing a heavy coat, they didn't seem to believe me. They thought I was holding details back, even when I explained about the hood/ski mask combo. Like that would help anything; I couldn't exactly help in a police lineup or with a sketch artist.
The 10 o'clock news brought more insight. The local press was having a field day with such a scandal involving a small local town. Like people slowing down to gawk at accidents on the highway, both hoping against and secretly wishing to see some severed body parts.
Claire was stationed in the kitchen, rapidly returning phone calls. After she'd hang up on one, someone else would call. It reminded me eerily of the weeks after Warwick was arrested, when every friend and neighbor suddenly decided we were important to them and used our phone lines as their tap to juicy gossip.
She kept sneaking outside to the porch to smoke, something she hadn't done, to my knowledge, since I was a kid. Back then, she'd made a big ordeal about itchy nicotine patches and foul tasting gum. I could tell she thought that I didn't know she was smoking, because she kept making excuses to skip outside.
"I think I left my umbrella in the car trunk," she said randomly, when she'd run out of other, more plausible coverups. She returned several minutes later, umbrella-less.
Theo and I were sitting on the couch. I couldn't remember when she'd gotten there, just that I thought she'd been there since I came home. She was holding my hand, painting my fingernails. I also hadn't realized that.
"Ariel is doing just fine. Just fine. We'll keep her safe," I heard Claire's voice float in like a phantom from the other room. "They just kept making excuses. You know how unreliable law enforcement can be, Molly."
I had only a vague recollection that Molly was one of Claire's coworkers. I turned my attention back to the TV. It hadn't stopped running since we caught the first news report. I tried to take in what they were saying, as Warwick's pictured again appeared in a box on the screen.
They used the same two photos of Warwick every time: his school yearbook staff photo and his mugshot. He had a similar smile in both pictures, but his eyes were crazed on the mugshot, too wide, the sclera red. This report used the yearbook photo.
"Our sources tell us that Warwick, forty-three, apparently planned his escape for quite some time. He was awaiting trial for homicide and attempted homicide at Jackson State Pris
on," a female reporter said, standing in front of the prison facade.
She looked like a flamingo in her garish pink suit, with a long neck and a beaky, downward curved nose. Now a picture of all three of Warwick's victims — Jenna, Alyssa Chapman, and Susan Wright — appeared on the screen, in a row. They were all grinning at the cameras, unaware of the suffering they would later endure.
The show cut to a press conference, one I'd seen snippets of already, from earlier in the evening. The prison spokesman, a portly man who looked like a walrus with an unflattering, comical mustache, was speaking to a bouquet of microphones.
His speech was punctuated by lots of pauses. "Uh...to our knowledge, uh...the prisoner, uh...who allegedly, um, committed these crimes, slipped under our radar. Uh, it shows the um, flaws in our tracking systems. Uh, due to uh, budget cuts from the state, we haven't, uh, been able to update our monitoring the way we, uh, we would like. All prisoners have micro-chipped, uh, identification tag bracelets, but he apparently, uh, switched his with another prisoner..."
I tuned out, watching as the walrus was replaced by the flamingo again, and then a fish-lipped man sitting at an anchor desk, nodding somberly, earning his paycheck with his concern.
Below my neck, my body had fallen asleep, my head drifting somewhere far above like a child's lost balloon. The harder I tried to listen, the less I heard.
"They'll catch him. It'll be okay," Theo said soothingly. She put the cap on her nail polish and shook it. "It'll all be okay."
I wanted to say something back, about how I knew in my gut that it wouldn't be. But I just nodded, and stared at the zoo on the screen.
Sunday passed by in a blur. All day, the members of our household walked around in a daze. I'd looked for Other Worlds online, but I couldn't find a mention of it anywhere. Even on auction sites. It truly was like the only copy had gone up in smoke.
Worse, Jenna had all but completely disappeared since I was chased home. She'd say that she was tired and blink out after five minutes of being around me. I wondered if her exhaustion was because Warwick had escaped, if she had any fear or sense that he was coming back.
"Do you remember seeing him at the gas station?" I quizzed her in one of the few moments she was around.
"I don't remember who it was, Ariel," she said, sighing like she was tired again. "I just remember that I was meeting up with two guys, to go to a party. And then I must have had too many wine coolers or something."
Thinking he was lurking around every corner made me jump. It was one of the many times an overactive imagination didn't help me. Each sound could have been him, sliding up a creaking window, shuffling across the floor.
I hadn't slept at all, and even though Theo said she'd stay over, I sent her home. Keeping both my overhead light and my lamp on, I stared at the ceiling all night, at the plastic stars.
Several times, I got up and opened the door, but then I thought that someone could barge in. I kept thinking I saw the shadow of a figure creeping down the hall, hearing their muffled footsteps. Then I'd have to get up and shut the door, and the whole process began anew.
Hugh and Claire kept talking in hushed tones around me, which made me very suspicious. I didn't trust it when they had private conversations, because I knew that meant they were talking about me. And in light of the current situation, it couldn't be good.
When I came upstairs from attempting and failing to take a nap again, they were standing in the kitchen. They looked at me guiltily as I stepped in to get a drink.
"Ariel, please sit down," Claire said gravely.
I pulled out a chair from the table and did as she said. "What's going on?"
Claire took a deep breath. "Hugh and I have talked about what the best course of action is in this situation. And we've decided that the safest route is to send you somewhere where Robert won't find you, until we're sure that he's been caught and is behind bars."
I looked back and forth between them. They were serious. I jumped up, knocking the chair backwards. "Why did no one ask me about this?" I asked, feeling betrayed and like I'd been hit upside the head at the same time.
"Because we knew you'd hate it," Hugh said sympathetically. "But it really is for the best. Robert doesn't know where Corinne lives."
"We don't even know he's looking for me," I protested. "I mean, I'm scared too, but that doesn't mean I should sacrifice my normal life!"
Claire already had her phone out. She put in Corinne's number, holding it up to her ear. I practically expected them to pat my head and give me a lollypop. It was patronizing and offensive, they way they just thought they could decide things for me without my input.
"Pack a bag, Ariel," Hugh said, looking into my eyes. "Put all your every day clothes, pajamas, bathroom stuff in there. Anything you think you'll need for a while. And I'm going to drive you over to her apartment."
"Tonight?" I sputtered.
"Yes. It's best to get you out of here as soon as possible."
"Dad!" I was ready to pull my hair out. "This isn't fair! Why are you punishing me?"
"It's not punishment, honey. We're worried about your safety. About your life."
Claire was talking rapidly to Corinne in the other room. She'd slipped out past me while Hugh and I were talking. She was pacing back and forth, cradling her ribcage with her free arm.
This was all happening far too fast for me to comprehend. I knew there was nothing I could say or do. I almost wanted to just bolt out the back door, but part of me was truly frightened that the boogeymen were finally showing themselves.
Rushing downstairs to my room, I ripped my heavy suitcase out from the bottom of the closet and slung it on the bed. Tears threatened behind my eyes, but I pushed them away. I just tried to keep moving so that I wouldn't break down into a sobbing heap.
I tossed in handfuls of clothes and toiletries, messily jamming them inside the suitcase. Later, I'd realize that none of my socks matched and I'd only packed two shirts and five pairs of pants. But at the time, I was just trying to get it over and done with.
Upon thinking about it, I went over to the closet and pulled aside the pile of sweaters on the top shelf. Beneath it was Eleanor's medical file, and the Assassin's Apprentice book. I threw both in the suitcase and shut the lid, clicking both locks into place.
My phone was on the desk. I picked it up, unplugging the charger and stuffing it into my pocket. Fumbling with the keypad, I sent Theo a text.
My parents are sending me to my aunt's. I don't wanna go but I'm scared to stay. They're not giving me a choice.
I hoped she would read it before I was gone.
Jenna was off on one of her naps. Worry consumed me when I thought about the last time I'd left town. If the fog was getting to her when she was spending time with me, how bad would it get when I was gone?
I looked all over the basement, calling her name gently, but she wouldn't come out. I wondered if she knew I was leaving, if she was mad at me. I'd expected things to be like a never-ending happy reunion if I ever saw her again, and it made me a little sick to my stomach to think that we'd fought and argued, even with her being dead.
"Ariel! Are you ready?" Claire called from the top of the stairs. "Aunt Corinne's waiting for you! I told her you were already on your way."
I let out a growl of frustration, kicking a round hole in one of Claire's ceramic potters. Clutching my suitcase handle, I stomped up the stairs.
When I reached the top, someone was banging on the new glass of the sliding door. I looked towards it with scared eyes, for a moment thinking it could be Warwick, coming to finish the job.
Hugh opened the door, and Theo stumbled in, her red hair in loose pigtails tied with craft ribbon.
"What's going on?" she asked, looking from each of my parents to me.
"We figured it would be a good idea to have Ariel stay at her aunt's for a while," Claire said impatiently. I felt a stab of hatred for the way she sounded, like Theo should just butt out and mind her own business. I was her bu
siness.
Hugh already had his coat on, and was jiggling his keys in his pocket the way that he did now when he was anxious. The same way he had on Hell Day. He had sunglasses tucked in the front of his shirt.
"It's only going to be for a little while, Theo," he said gently. "I promise you can text each other whenever you want, and I'll keep you up to date. I won't let her miss anything important."
Theo looked at me helplessly, still standing in the open doorway as the last of the daylight died behind her. The birds let off their mournsome caw, a few taking off in flight from the ground, wings flapping loudly.
"I'm sorry," I said, even though I didn't know why I felt such remorse. Somehow I felt like the world was crashing down because of me. I was the one who caught him, after all. I ran to Theo and she hugged me tightly.
"I'll get all your work for school together," Theo said, sniffling and wiping her nose as she pulled back from me. "And I'll keep you posted on all the gossip." I'd told her about the Henry situation, and she'd agreed with me that it was important to keep some distance. Well, I'd have all the distance I needed, now.
I tried to smile, but it only made me start crying in earnest. She hugged me again.
"Ariel, you should get going," Claire said behind me.
I gritted my teeth, wanting in the moment to whirl around and slap her. Never before had I been so two-minded: on one hand, I was scared for my safety and that of my family. But it didn't feel right to have to flee town.
Theo and I said goodbye, and she rushed back over to her house, hopping the fence. The next events were a blur: my father and I rushed out to the car, Hugh slinging my suitcase in the trunk. I buckled myself in the front seat, still crying. Staring at the siding on my house, the slanted roof and flowers in pots on the porch, I committed it to memory.
As we pulled out of the driveway, I slumped back into the seat, feeling defeated. I glared at my mother, standing outside the open front door, with her arms crossed as she watched us leave. Of course she wouldn't do the dirty work of taking me to Corinne's herself; she left that up to Hugh.
