Hold Me Like a Breath

by Tiffany Schmidt

  I hoped it was Al who came to rescue me. I could get consoling words from my parents later. Garrett could almost touch me and reassure me I was okay after that, but first I wanted Al, with all his intimidation and not an ounce of humanity. His ruthlessness would get me home, wouldn’t pause or hesitate just because my betrayer was Family … had been practically family.

  I managed to close my hand around the square shape of my phone through the fabric of my jeans. Clumsy fingers grasped for the round button on the lower right side. I needed to hold it in for five seconds. Five seconds and alarms would ring back at the estate.

  Dr. Castillo put his hand on mine. “Don’t worry, I turned it off. If we’d had time to stop, or could’ve done so inconspicuously, I’d have thrown it away. Do so tonight, please.”

  “Don’t. Worry?”

  He was still trying to press the cup in my other hand. I took it, then threw it weakly back at him.

  He flinched as the cup landed harmlessly on my leg. The plastic lid popped off and water and ice chips sprayed across my jeans; some bounced into the stranger’s lap.

  “Take me home.” I wanted to add a “please.” Mother’s etiquette training practically commanded it. But Father would never request something of a kidnapper, he’d demand it.

  “Penelope, I can’t. I know you’re confused and scared, but I need you to trust me. I’m keeping you safe. I did this to save you. I promise.”

  “Save me?”

  “I’m so sorry, Penelope, about everything that has happened. That I have to be the one to tell you. That I couldn’t save you all.”

  The stranger shifted uncomfortably. Looked away from me and out the window.

  Save us?

  “Carter?”

  Dr. Castillo opened and closed his mouth a few times. Finally he shook his head in resignation. Reached over and turned on a radio. Thumbed it to a satellite news station and turned it up.

  “Maybe I should wait outside for this.” The man opened the back door of the ambulance and climbed out. I devoured every inch of the landscape. It was an anywhere road. An anywhere field. An endless line of phone poles pointed each direction without revealing which way led home.

  Where and why? I should’ve been asking that. I should’ve been asking a million questions and distracting him while I maneuvered the panic button into my grip, turned my phone back on, and called in a rescue party.

  But I was too busy holding my breath. Listening.

  —receiving reports of bodies found on the Landlow estate. You may remember that their eldest child, Carter, was murdered just two weeks ago. His death remains unsolved. His body was found outside the gates of the family’s estate with two bullets in his head and Chinese characters carved into his chest.

  The reports we’re getting off the police scanners suggest there were three new bodies found today. Malcolm and Abigail Landlow—

  It no longer mattered that my mouth was glued shut, because I could no longer breathe. I’d gone to pieces. I’d dissolved and couldn’t be whole again. I couldn’t possibly be whole, not when the radio was telling me my world was irreparably broken and gone.

  The third body was found in an upstairs bedroom and is believed to be their only remaining child, seventeen-year-old Penelope.

  “I’m not dead?”

  These were important words. Maybe they shouldn’t be a question, but they were.

  “No,” Dr. Castillo agreed. “No, you’re not. That was why I drugged you: you were fighting me and I didn’t have time to argue; I needed to get you off the property as fast as possible and undetected.”

  Malcolm Landlow was heir to the Landlow spa fortune, though he and his father before him were rumored to be involved in the illegal and controversial process of trafficking in and transplanting human organs and tissue—a topic that is becoming increasingly heated with Vice President Forman championing a bill that would legalize the buying and selling of organs for transplant—

  “They’re not—they can’t be. Father, Mother … they’re fine.”

  He used the sleeve of his white jacket to wipe the ice and pooled water off my jeans. Then pulled a blanket from some compartment and tucked it up around me. I realized I was shaking.

  “I’m so sorry, Penelope, but they’re not.”

  “No. You’re wrong. The report is wrong. I’m not dead. They’re fine.”

  He shook his head.

  “But—” I managed to move, enough to slap blindly at the radio, succeeding only in turning the volume to blasting levels.

  —bring you further details about the gruesome—

  Dr. Castillo turned it off. “Penny, they’re not okay. I wish I could say differently, but I heard the gunshots. I saw part of it on the clinic’s security monitors. The warning light went on—your father must have triggered it—and I had to get you out.”

  “You called me Penny.” It was a stupid thing to say. An idiotic, nonsensical thing. There was so much my brain should be processing right now, how could this be what I fixated on?

  He put a hand on my wrist, checking my pulse. “We can’t keep the ambulance parked here any longer without drawing notice. It’s not safe. Can you sleep any more? Would you like another shot?”

  “No.”

  I was fighting so hard to stay awake. Stay in this moment and make it make sense. I could feel the pain. Practically even see it. It was just away from me. Just shy of settling in my mind and on my skin and making me realize what this all meant—

  I started to scream.

  Chapter 18

  I screamed until my voice gave out and Dr. Castillo flashed another needle like a threat. The stranger climbed into the passenger seat and the doctor drove. Alone in the back of the ambulance, alone in the world.

  I was still screaming; it just wasn’t audible. Inside my head was a chaotic orchestra of wails and whimpers and sobs.

  Words like “orphan,” “forsaken,” “defenseless,” “murdered” drifted across the front of my mind. They were nonsensical, detached from all meaning. The world itself had lost its meaning. This was not the way my story went: Once upon a time Penelope lived and they did not.

  The invalid did not outlive her vivacious brother. The powerful father and gracious mother did not get gunned down in their own home. The gregarious nurse—because it must’ve been Caroline—did not get killed because she wanted to borrow a dress to impress a date.

  Home. The place we’d celebrated seventeen Easters and Thanksgivings, Christmases and New Year’s Eves. The place where I’d left my first tooth under my pillow and later found it in Mother’s jewelry box nestled beside diamonds and pearls like it was equally precious. Where my and Carter’s heights were marked on the inside of his bathroom closet door. Where Garrett and I had spent the afternoons after rainstorms rescuing worms from drying up on the patio. Where the three of us had played epic games of hide-and-seek. I’d been so good at hiding that sometimes I fell asleep before they found me curled up beneath Father’s desk, or behind the racks of evening gowns in Mother’s closet.

  I wanted to hide there now. Behind that row of silks and satins and sequins, my cheek brushed by the slippery fabric and my nose tickled by the ghostly traces of her perfume.

  The home I was fleeing.

  The home where I left Garrett waiting behind the pool shed. He had to be okay—he had to be. But did he know I was?

  Because home was also where Caroline was being zipped into a body bag with my name on it.

  The ambulance stopped in a parking lot in an industrial area. It was too similar to my last outing with Carter, when the air had also been full of secrets and gunshots.

  I looked out the window with wild eyes. The only other vehicle was an idling town car. I flinched when the ambulance doors opened and Dr. Castillo and the stranger stepped back in.

  “This is Tom Tanaka, I should have introduced him earlier. He’s one of your father’s—” He paused to swallow and seemed to lose his train of thought.

  “I was at the
estate for an incision check,” the man said gently. “We met briefly a few months ago, before I had my transplant.”

  “Of course. You’re looking very well, Mr. Tanaka.” The words were automatic. A script. A very inappropriate script.

  But as a VIP client he had the breeding or money to recognize and ignore it, nodding briefly before saying, “I’d like to help you if you’ll let me.”

  He and Dr. Castillo began to outline a plan: car/driver, a hotel room they’d reserved under a fake name, cash—they pulled this from their wallets. My credit cards and cell must not be used—get rid of them. Get rid of all forms of ID. I must be—for all intents and purposes—dead.

  But sedative drugs and grief don’t lend themselves to comprehension. I blinked against the mental fog. “But what do I do?”

  They didn’t have an answer. Their plans and aid would end once I stepped out of this ambulance and into the other car.

  I stared at Dr. Castillo. “Alone?” This was as taboo as bungee jumping or hang gliding. I was never alone. Alone was forbidden. Father would have a fit—

  I doubled over, wrapped both hands around my stomach so the sob threatening to tear me in half couldn’t escape.

  “Penelope, you have to understand. I love you like you were my own daughter—but what about my children? My wife? If they realize I smuggled you out in the ambulance with Mr. Tanaka … No one can know I helped you escape. And they can’t know you’re alive.”

  “Who are they? Who did this?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew. And until we do, you have to hide. Stay in the hotel, order room service, and be safe. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  His answer turned my whole world into a boogeyman. Anyone could be the bad guy. Anyone could be coming for me with a gun. And if they knew I was alive—then I wouldn’t be for much longer. Goose bumps surfaced all over my body, and I wished I could scoot into the corner. Keep your back to the wall. Face the entrances. See everyone before they see you. Father’s advice. I’d never get to hear him say it again.

  With autopilot acceptance, I thanked the men for their rolls of cash. I smoothed them and added them to the inside pocket of my purse where they nestled next to the fat stack of bills I’d plundered from my unicorn bank this morning.

  I let Dr. Castillo help me down from the ambulance and hand me my purse. I nodded at Mr. Tanaka’s good luck wishes and when Dr. Castillo opened the town car’s door for me, saying, “Be brave. I’ll come for you as soon as I can.”

  “Wait!” I said. “My counts? Before Carter, I thought I might be heading into a remission—” I saw his face and didn’t bother to continue.

  “You don’t need to worry about your counts right now. They’re … okay. It’s been less than two days since your last infusion. I’m sure this will be …” He couldn’t finish that sentence. It wouldn’t ever be “better” or “resolved” or “over.” And the driver was watching us, listening. “I’ll see you before you need more.”

  He kissed the cheek I tilted toward him, accepted my flat-voiced “Thank you,” and was gone.

  It was only after the door shut behind me—after the engine started and the tires began to put distance between me and everything I’d ever known—that my veneer of mannerly obedience cracked and reality started to filter in.

  I was shivering, shaking, and they were gone. All gone. I couldn’t think about it. Not with a hawk-eyed driver who kept offering to turn down the A/C and asking me what type of music would cheer me up. His words were probably friendly, but all I felt was the edge of danger, the unknown threat that hung like a mystery over my whole life.

  What would Father do in this situation? What would he tell me to do? This was the stupidest of questions, and it tore at my throat, trying to unlock the sobs trapped there. If Father were here, I never would be. I’d be home protected, coddled—or would I be running away with Garrett? His plan now seemed idiotic edging toward reckless—my parents would have worried so much and all it would have proved was our immaturity, our lack of leadership ability.

  Garrett …

  He’d been waiting behind the pool house. He wasn’t near the fighting. He couldn’t be hurt. The radio said three bodies. And if he’d heard—but no, Caroline’s identity would be cleared up soon and then he’d come for me. He’d come and he’d get me and he’d tell me he could keep me safe and he would.

  He would.

  But Father … he’d never approve of this. An overly concerned stranger bringing me to a hotel—knowing where I was. When I was most vulnerable.

  “You okay, miss?” The driver turned around at a red light to ask. “You sick? That guy was talking about infusions. My cousin had to get something like that. He had the big C, ya know?”

  Outside my window twilight was descending, suburbia was bleeding into the urban. We were heading toward the city. I wanted to open a map app, trace our route, predict our destination, orient myself with all the landmarks that were familiar from computer screens and daydreams. But I couldn’t use my phone.

  “How long until we reach the hotel?”

  “At least twenty minutes. Maybe more if there’s traffic on the bridge. I’m doing my best.”

  “Thank you.” I broke his gaze in the rearview mirror by turning to stare out the window, willing the skyline to appear sooner and the wheels to turn faster.

  But nothing was easier when the skyscrapers loomed closer. When my windows lit up with lights from buildings and billboards, and the air was filled with horns, conversations on the sidewalks, music.

  The car pulled over in front of a hotel. It was all gleaming windows, crisp black awnings, and immaculate facade. Clean, expensive, safe. Except I didn’t feel safe.

  It was simpler to allow the driver to open my door, carry my purse, follow me into the overly air-conditioned lobby, and hand me his business card than it was to resist—and I needed to save my energy, stockpile it for the sobs and grief that threatened to break through my survival numbness at any moment.

  “I’d be happy to be your driver again. Anytime. I wrote my personal number on the back of the card in case you need anything.” His eyes were too interested. He moved to touch me, clasp my hand, invade my personal space.

  I slipped around the other side of the marble table that stood in the lobby—its shiny black circle looking like the center of a bull’s-eye topped with a vase of blood-red flowers.

  The color made my throat clench.

  “Thank you for your assistance,” I said in a thin echo of Mother’s voice, the one she used for dismissing event staff or gossipy wives of other Family members.

  The one I’d never hear again.

  But it was Father’s voice bellowing in my head right now—demanding I attend to my safety first, foremost, manners be damned. Safety, then tears. I wasn’t safe in a hotel where this creepy stranger of a driver could locate me. Had eavesdropped on a conversation that included the words “Carter” and “infusion,” and might be able to piece together the rest as soon as he watched the news. And what did I know about Mr. Tanaka other than that he happened to be the VIP who was on the estate the day my life detonated?

  I couldn’t stay here. I had to get out. Get off-grid. Out of sight. Until Garrett came.

  I exited the lobby, ducking behind a couple pushing a stroller and wrangling way too many kids. I had a good mental picture of the apartment on a map, but where was I? I’d kept track as best I could during the drive and thought there was water to my left and a park to my right. Which meant I was probably on the Upper West Side facing north. But I could also be on the Upper East Side facing south. I walked to the closest corner and exhaled a shaky breath when I read the street signs—Upper West Side, good. I did the mental math of blocks-to-miles; the apartment was walkable, about two miles. And all I’d need to focus on was watching the street numbers increase, watching traffic and walk signals.

  I took one last look over my shoulder at the hotel’s friendly brightness.

  And then I wal
ked. Putting each foot down with a mental chastisement—Not yet. A little longer. You can fall apart soon. But you’re not quite there yet.

  A few more minutes of focusing on the directions and cross-streets Garrett and Carter had mentioned on our last night together. A few more blocks of real estate prices falling and crime rates rising. A few more shadows that made me jump as people detached themselves from walls or alleys, melted in and out of the night—ignoring me like I ignored them: a see-no-evil agreement that clung to these streets.

  The building was both a relief and more run-down than I remembered. And I couldn’t go teary-eyed because it made it so much harder to locate the key attached to the top of the mailbox and let myself through the door. The stairwell’s floor was cold against my skin and tacky with grime, but I could focus on that. I should focus on that, on the size of the dust balls and the sticky green spill that glued them to the tile. Those were good things to think about while I fished around for the second key below the steps. Not the fact that this apartment—Carter’s “clubhouse”—would save my life but not his—not my parents’.

  And the stairs, I thought about each one, about the strength it cost to lift my feet and find the next riser.

  Finally I was standing in front of the apartment door, the last barrier between me and everything I promised myself I could feel when I arrived.

  Chapter 19

  I opened the door to a hushed place. A place that felt hollow in the absence of Carter and Garrett: the space they occupied, the air they breathed, the noise they made as they banged and stomped and claimed this world as their own.

  Now it seemed near sacred. This was Carter’s. He’d shared it with me the night he died. It felt wrong to touch anything, to move anything. I locked the door and leaned against the back of it, trying to picture him here. Bring to mind a ghost or shade of a memory.

  I wanted it to feel like a shrine, a place where his presence and memories were stronger—strong enough to protect me from the truth.

  But it’s hard to make relics of a coffee table and a couch, a takeout menu from a Chinese restaurant. A cardboard coaster from a bar. And in the end, I was as sturdy as a house of cards. I put my purse on the counter and glimpsed the Carter doll inside. I’d been so wrong not to bring Mother’s and Father’s too. And Rumpel—I craved the familiar security of his fur and smell. I folded in on myself, curled up on the floor like that could protect the parts of me that were broken and would never heal.