by Sarah Harian
Why hadn’t they died before the others?
5
Compass Room memories are slipping from me. Every day, another hour or so has evaporated. I should consider this a blessing, but people are locked away in those memories. They’ll never get the chance to breathe again. I’m most afraid of losing Jace.
I begin by washing the background of a canvas with deep blue. No, turquoise. Wouldn’t turquoise be more Compass Room appropriate? The color starts to dry as I fill up a drink. I down it.
I take a hair dryer to the paint because I can’t wait any longer. I start sketching out Jace’s body. She’s going to be staring up at the sky in awe. The turquoise color is her last glimmer of hope, after all.
The hope for extraction. The hope to make it out alive.
Mom texts me. Miss you. So does Todd. He’s working on his trees. They’re getting really good!
My nose stings as I text her back. I’d rather not think of Mom and my little brother. I feel like I’ve abandoned Todd and given up my only chance of healing my relationship with Mom. Life’s a bitch like that. Life makes me want to drink.
Drinks are becoming necessary for my survival. Three screwdrivers in the morning just means a crash in the afternoon. But at least it’s passing the time.
I drift off the moment I shut my eyes.
In the Compass Room clearing, glittery sunlight winks between the leaves. We’re seated at a long table—all ten of us. Gordon sits at the end. He wears a crown on his head.
In front of everyone is a cheerfully colored teacup filled to the brim with blood. I dip my finger into the cup in front of me. It’s warm like bathwater.
Stella sits across from me, slurping loudly. Pulling her cup away from her lips, she grimaces and says, “I asked for black currant with just a hint of honey. They always get it wrong.” Her teeth are stained red.
The blood thickens inside my cup and begins to bubble. “Do I have to?”
“It’s an elixir.” Jace picks up her teacup, lifting it high above her. She tilts it until the blood trickles onto her head and streams down her face. “You take the elixir and they let you out of here.”
“Whose blood?” I ask.
“That one man.” She waves her hand in the air indifferently. Her fingers catch on the rivulet of red running from her chin, spraying droplets across Valerie’s face. Val licks her lips and Jace clarifies, “The one whose head you shot off.”
I swallow the thick spit in my throat and watch as the blood in front of me froths and bubbles over the lip of the cup.
A loud crash sounds at the end of the table, and I look up to see a smashed teapot in front of Casey. He lifts his crimson covered hands, gaping in horror at the ceramic shards sticking out of his flesh.
Tanner sighs. “How many times did I tell you to control your temper?” He pushes his glasses up, leaving a red thumbprint right on his lens. “You can’t let their blood mix with your blood. Now you’ll never get out.”
Tanner starts to cry, followed by Casey. Soon everyone at the table is sobbing into their own teacups, except for Gordon, who sits tall and adjusts the crown on his head. And me, who watches the thick river of crimson roll across the tabletop, sweeping up cups as it goes . . .
. . . ping . . .
. . . ping . . .
. . . ping . . .
My eyes flutter open to the chime of my tablet, my stomach rolling. When I swallow, I taste iron.
. . . ping . . .
. . . ping . . .
“Jenna,” I slur. “What’s the notification?” Rubbing my pounding head, I think of all the drinks I could make and the one that sounds best. Something with tonic . . . gin, vodka . . .
“One message from The CR Collective. Shall I read?”
I roll over and sit up so quickly that I almost fall off the bed. “What message?”
“I know who you are.”
With images of blood and teacups and a banquet table of criminals still lingering in my head, my first reaction is that I’m still dreaming. I have to be. But when the realization finally kicks in that I’m lucid, I swipe my tablet from the covers, my eyes focusing on the one-sentence message from a user named Rebel_W.
I know who you are.
I panic—so much, so quickly that the first thing I think to do is shut off the screen of my tablet. I take a deep breath, my shaking hands gripping the device.
Maybe I imagined it.
I tap the sleep button and the screen illuminates. I have a new message.
There isn’t much time, Evalyn. I have information pertaining to your case . . . information that will get you off the hook. Meet me in New York in an hour and a half at a bar in Midtown called Cherry’s and I’ll let you in on the truth.
The truth. The truth? How does this stranger know it’s me? I think of technology and how little I know. If this person knows who I am, does that mean that they can track down my location in Pennsylvania? It’s clear that they already know how close I am to New York City. A thirty-minute car drive will get me to the station, and a train will zip me right to the neighborhood of the bar. His estimation is almost precise.
There’s nothing I can do about it now. I’m already dead in the water.
How can I trust you? I type back.
I send, and then I wait for a response.
I know where you are, the stranger says. If you don’t come to me, then I’ll have to come to you.
Panic unfurls in my stomach. Rebel_W is full of shit.
“You’re full of shit,” I whisper.
And, as if Rebel_W heard me:
Or I could just tell the media where you are. I’m sure the news stations in Philadelphia can get to your place before dinner. You wouldn’t want an unannounced Q&A, would you?
***
The only person who knows the truth is Liz, and she wouldn’t toy with me like this. There is no way this isn’t a trap.
Remembering the last time I was in the outside world alone, I realize there’s a possibility that at some point during this escapade, I’ll be followed. But when I reach the train station, no one seems to recognize me or pay me any attention, even at this slow hour. Most look like weary long-distance travelers or exhausted business men and women. I pay for my ticket in cash and make for the string of silver cars, finding a seat in one of the empty ones. Luckily for me, my pulled-up hood isn’t suspicious. It’s freezing, even in the train.
I busy myself with the screen of my tablet, like a normal girl in her twenties would do. I venture onto CR Collective and read some of the fan-fiction to distract myself. I find it more hilarious than insulting. Most fics involve me, Casey, and Valerie for our CR. Some writers are invested with the stories of the dead criminals. As far as shipping and romance go, writers like to pair me with Gordon.
God, people are dark.
Even after Casey and I were caught at the Missouri motel together, more members ship Valerie and me over me and Casey. I’ve come to discover by reading the threads in other parts of the forum that Casey has a pretty large underground fan club. People like to make him out to be a saint—the abused child only trying to save his mother from the grip of his alcoholic father (there are thousands of fics reimagining this story). Of course, this makes him far too innocent to ever be marred by a cretin like me.
There is one new piece of Evalyn/Casey fan-fiction that I haven’t read yet. This one plays off our secret meeting in Missouri. In this universe, I lured Casey to the hotel, had dark, kinky, poorly written sex with him, and then used it as blackmail to force him to say certain things when he took the stand during the trial.
Evalyn Ibarra, the manipulative bitch.
***
After twenty minutes, the train deposits me close to the bar where I’m supposed to meet the stranger. I don’t know what kind of bar I was expecting, but what I stumble upon doesn’t do anything to ease my clenching insides.
I stall in the street. A bunch of burly guys stand outside the front door in the old gray snow smoking cigar
ettes. Above them the neon pink sign illuminated by buzzing florescent lights reads Cherry’s in cursive script. One of the R’s has gone dark.
Even with my hood up and wearing considerably less makeup than I was in the courtroom, I’ll still be recognizable. My face is still plastered all over the news. There’s got to be at least one shady dick in here who’ll be more than willing to give me a rough time, and that’s not even considering the person who threatened me in the first place.
I don’t even know who I’m looking for.
I get into the bar fairly easy, flashing my ID with a fake name to the bouncer. He looks at the card and says absolutely nothing, waving me along.
Maybe I am blowing this way out of proportion and no one here will acknowledge my existence.
The dark bar reeks of cigarettes, booze, and sweat. My eyes flit to the vacant stripper poles on top of tables scattered about the place. The cheap, florescent mood lighting is about as classy in here as it is on the sign. It’s relatively dead for a Friday night, and I don’t immediately spot any women. My gaze rests on the only soft light in the room, the light behind the bar. I laugh beneath my breath.
Valerie sits on her stool, hunched over a glass of amber liquid. She stares vacantly at the game playing on the television above the top shelf.
I slide next to her and tell the bartender, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Valerie does a double take when she glances at me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The bartender slides me the drink, and I sniff it. Whiskey. Never had a liking for the stuff, but a drink’s a drink. I down it in one gulp and slam the glass on the counter.
“Two more, please.” I slide cash across the table.
The bartender studies my face, and then he turns to Valerie. “The whole gang getting together, or what?”
“I don’t know why she’s here,” Valerie says. “I’m not looking to cause trouble.”
“Relax, sweetcheeks.”
Valerie grimaces at the horrid nickname.
“I’m not gonna kick you or your friend here out. I’m sure you already have enough shit to deal with. Just keep to yourself and most of these folks will probably ignore you. This crowd isn’t big on national events. They stick to their own lives.”
“Thank you,” I mumble when he slides me the next drink. I turn back to Valerie. “What are you doing here?”
“Asked you first.” Her sunken eyes stay glued to the television screen. She brings her glass up to her mouth and slowly tips it, sipping slowly. “Gotta savor. Can’t afford shit when the government wants to up and destroy my life.”
“We should take up that book deal we were offered.”
“Yeah-fucking-right.”
“Is that why you’re not eating? Because of money? I thought your dad was loaded. Didn’t he buy you a Porsche?”
She blinks and turns her head toward me. “Hey, fuck you. What is this, an intervention?”
“Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Well guess what . . . I’m here. Been here for the past week every damn night.”
“It’s true,” says the bartender.
“Why?” I ask.
“You know. Don’t have much else to do while waiting to be arrested and retried.”
“That might not happen for months.”
She shrugs and glances back up at the television. It gives me an opportunity to study her while she isn’t staring at me. God, she’s so skinny. The coal liner beneath her eyes is smudged. Her hair has grown out so her natural color shows in dark bursts near her scalp. I don’t even remember her letting her hair grow out when she was in prison.
Something isn’t right.
“Where is your dad? Your sister?”
Her shoulders sag, and she frowns. “Why are you here, Evalyn?”
“Where is your family?”
Holding her drink up to her mouth, she says, “Come on.” She knocks the rest of it back. “You know as well as I do that as much as they say they love you, they don’t get it. They don’t get why you’re not filled with fucking joy every second for making it out of the Compass Room in one piece. For getting to live longer.” She stares down at her clouded, empty glass and I motion for the bartender to refill it. “I’m trapped at home. I tried school for a couple of weeks and couldn’t do it. I thought it would be better if I leave, but I’m stuck here too.” She extends her arms on the grimy countertop and clenches her hands into fists. The sleeves of her thermal are rolled up, revealing her silver monitor, and something that she didn’t have when I saw her last. A new tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
As I reach out and touch it, she doesn’t flinch away, but watches my fingers trace the outside of the key ring. Jace’s trigger object.
Valerie lost the one person who loved her unconditionally, and it only happened months ago. The grief must still be so raw for her.
She’s trapped. She’s grieving. “You can’t be alone right now.”
She rolls her eyes and pulls her wrist away from me. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if you think you’re fine.” And then I remember why I’m here. This can’t be a coincidence. “There’s someone else who feels the same way.”
She furrows her eyebrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I tell her about the forum and the strange message. “It wasn’t you, was it?”
“Please. I don’t have the energy to pull off a stunt like that.” She looks around. “And I don’t think any of these bastards are your mystery man. I recognize all of them. They’re regulars.”
“I think they wanted me to meet you here.”
Valerie sips her drink and makes a face. “Why’d they want that?”
“Where are you staying?”
“A shit hotel. What’s it to you?”
I can’t believe that I’m about to suggest this. After everything I did to get Casey away from me. But I can’t leave her, not in this bar, in this part of town.
“Stay with me.”
Her eyes darken.
“Just for a week or so, until you get on your feet. I have a place in the middle of nowhere.”
She takes another sip from the drink I bought her. “No thanks. We’re not supposed to be near each other, remember?”
“This is more important than court.” I needed to get away from Casey to save his chances, but I think I need to be close to Valerie to save her life. It’s worth the risk.
She cocks her head in a mocking manner. “Does that mean you miss me? Or are you just playing into what a stranger on the Internet wants you to do?”
“A little of both.” I finish off the rest of my drink and wince as I swallow. The stranger on the Internet . . . I can’t think of anyone on the planet who’d lead me to Valerie. Maybe Rebel_W is an angel.
She thinks for a moment. “I’ll make you a deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“You get a tattoo with me in the next few days, and I’ll stay with you.”
“That’s your deal?” I cry, pushing a five across the counter for the tip.
She grins smugly and extends her arms. “Take it or leave it.”
Posted by DoubleJay: Holy shit¸ you guys see this? I’m posting the article.
From RNC NEWS BLOG:
Neal and Kayla Glaser, the parents of Jacinda Glaser, a deceased candidate of Compass Room C, have come forward to state that they believe that Evalyn Ibarra, Casey Hargrove, and Valerie Crane told the truth during their trial against the Division of Judicial Technology.
Neal Glaser announced to the press Friday afternoon: “I believe there’s a reason as to why an anonymous source leaked to the press that my daughter died due to a Compass Room malfunction and the surviving candidates also argue this theory. My wife and I will support them, regardless of the outcome of their trial with the Division of Judicial Technology.”
Gemma Branam, creator and overseer of Room C, has yet to address Mr. Glaser’s statement.
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br /> 6
It’s the middle of the night by the time we arrive back home. The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull up to my sad shack in the woods.
Valerie shudders. “Really? Some rundown creep-o house? Are you that immune to what happened to us in July?”
I think about waking up from the dream-Compass Room to the dark trees swaying back and forth. “It’s better than being followed by reporters everywhere I go.”
“You ever leave?”
I furrow my eyebrows and shut off the engine. Come to think of it, I haven’t left since I’ve moved in. Picking up Valerie was the first time. I half-avoid the question by saying. “My food’s delivered.”
“Christ, Ev.”
“Don’t Christ me.” I pull my coat tightly around my shoulders and step out of the car. Our doors slam at the same time. “You’re the one who lives in a shit part of the city and goes to a strip club every night to get drunk.”
“Refurbished strip club. It’s only a bar now.”
“My ass. They keep the poles up for nostalgia purposes?” I shove my key into the lock and open the door.
“It was the closest place to the hotel. I could stumble home drunk.” Valerie steps into my shack of a house and drops her bag on top of a red stain on the carpet (wine—got too carried away with painting and drinking at once). She turns around slowly, her eyes resting on the unmade bed, the liquor bottles lining the counter, and then finally the painting of Jace propped up on my easel. She shrugs out of her coat and lets it fall to the floor, kneeling in front of the painting, her face inches away from the canvas.
I bite my lip and turn to the kitchen when watching her becomes too awkward, like I’m somehow barging in on this intimate moment with Valerie and the real Jace—a reunion. Selecting a bottle of booze, I unscrew the cap and find a clean glass.
“Her eyes are too far apart, but you obviously have talent. You paint this from memory?” She looks over at me in the kitchen, catching me pouring too much liquid in too big a glass. Her eyes soften. “Ev . . .”
