by S. Massery
My finger travels next to The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. “Envy is dangerous.”
“Are you envious?”
I sigh. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Probably,” she agrees. “It’s why the book is so widely regarded. But it strikes each person differently.”
“I’ve always been labeled the foster kid. And before that, the poor scholarship kid.” I pull the book out and flip through it. There’s writing on a few of the pages, tight cursive that I don’t bother trying to interpret. “Isn’t that… well, obviously it’s not racism. But being followed around shops just because I don’t really fit in, that’s not fun.”
Dr. Sayer stays silent.
“That’s not why I’m here, though,” I say. “I’m here because I was kidnapped.”
I put the book back on the shelf.
“We can discuss whatever you’d like.”
I exhale. “How many foster kids do you talk to in a week? Six? Ten? Thirty?”
She just watches me.
“I’m just the same as them.”
“I’m sure you share some qualities, but that doesn’t mean you’re the same. Isn’t that kind of like erasing your own identity?”
I finally sit. “I don’t think I really have my own identity.”
“Is that your own standpoint or one you might’ve had put on you?”
How did we get talking about this? Instead of thinking about the answer—a painful consideration—I shake my head. “You don’t want to know about me being kidnapped?”
“We can talk about it.”
I regard her. “I feel bad,” I finally say. “About it.”
“Why?”
“Lenora, my foster mom, shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” I rub my wrist. “Her daughter died in a car accident. And then I just imagine what she had to go through with her husband… Robert was in the car with me.”
“How is he doing?”
I brighten. “Good. He’s going home today, which means I get to go home, too. It’ll be nice to be back in a routine.”
“You’re staying with a family friend?” Dr. Sayer clarifies. “Your social worker mentioned they had been registered as a respite home a few years ago, so they were eligible. And your boyfriend lives there.”
I slowly nod. “Yes. Is that bad?”
“Perhaps he offered you a bit of stability that a different respite home wouldn’t have been able to.”
“Right.”
“So, you feel guilty because Lenora was going through all of that alone.”
“Right,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have gone to see my dad. That was where we were coming back from… The prison. It’s my fault we were out on that street in the first place.”
“But you were taken?”
“I was, but I don’t remember a lot of it. I was drugged with something, and… I don’t know. I think the detective has brushed my case off.”
I wait for her to say something like, And how do you feel about that? For once, I have an answer: angry. Angry that I’m forgotten about yet again, tossed to the side. We’re well on our way to figuring this out ourselves—shouldn’t a detective, with more resources, be able to do far better?
She doesn’t ask. She instead stands, crossing to her desk. “Have you talked to your foster parents about how you feel?”
I frown. “No. There’s been a lot going on.”
“Understandable.” She comes back with a composition notebook in her hand. She extends it toward me, and I reluctantly take it. “Maybe you feel like people don’t listen.”
“It isn’t that they don’t listen, it’s that they won’t.”
“Can you try something for me?”
I lean back, setting the notebook beside me and folding my arms over my chest.
“Hear me out,” she says, smiling. “I’ve found it’s easier to be heard when the words can’t be ignored. When it’s in black and white in front of them.”
“You want me to write down my feelings.” I should’ve known.
“Maybe put it in a letter,” she suggests.
“To who?”
Mom? Lenora and Robert? Dad?
“Whoever you want.”
I chew on that request for a moment. Bounce it around. Are there people who I could write a letter to, get the emotions off my chest, and move on from it? Sure.
But right now, that’s at the bottom of my list of priorities.
“It was scary,” I finally say. “Knowing someone had taken me away from Robert. The second before they knocked me out, they kept apologizing. Even when I was in the barn, and they were arguing…”
I press my lips together.
“How are you sleeping?” she asks.
“I’m… barely.” Every night is a struggle, although I haven’t told another soul that. I’ve scarcely admitted it to myself—that my sleep troubles might be a result of being taken. And the accident.
It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I feel Robert’s arm across my chest, protecting me as we careened toward the ditch.
“I told my boyfriend I love him,” I blurt out. “Because I definitely do. But he didn’t say it back. I know he does, but I was really hoping to hear him say the words.”
She takes the subject change in stride. “First love?”
“Only love,” I say firmly.
She smiles. “When you know, you know. And maybe, since he didn’t just automatically say it back to you, it means it’ll be more special when he does.”
I hum. “That… makes me feel better, actually.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Pep talks?”
Her smile turns into a grin. “Perspective.”
“Ah.”
She glances at her watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. Try writing in the journal. Bring it back with you on Friday.”
My cheeks heat up. “Am I going to be reading it out loud?”
She shrugs, and I catch a mischievous gleam in her eye.
Honestly, it’s about time she showed some personality other than serene. Still, I take that to mean, maybe.
I suppose I can work with that.
Lenora is parked at the curb, waiting for me. She looks at me expectantly when I slide in, but I just shake my head.
“Right, right, I shouldn’t ask.”
I laugh and tuck the notebook into my bag. “It is supposed to be confidential.”
“Well, fine. But did you find it helpful?”
I think back on my conversation with Dr. Sayer. The more I think about it, the more I like her definition of her job: to give perspective. She’s not out to heal or fix me—not that I can tell, anyway.
“It was,” I decide.
“Good. Robert is home, eagerly awaiting our arrival.”
I straighten. “He is? Already?”
“Yep. He got a clean bill of health from the doctors. As long as he takes it easy, he should be okay to return to work next week. And you, too.”
I touch my forehead. The stitches came out yesterday morning, before Riley and I went to the diner, but they said to keep a butterfly bandage on it for another day. That came off this morning, leaving a tiny, shiny scar.
And I’ve never been so happy to wash my hair without inhibition.
It starts snowing when we’re almost home. My muscles tense, and I grab on to the door.
“Margo, are you okay?”
It was snowing when Robert and I crashed. It was easy to push down the fear of vehicles when it was Riley driving me, or Angela. The skies have been clear, the roads dry.
I lean forward, eyeing the side streets. A car could come out of nowhere and sideswipe us.
She slows our car until we’re crawling down the street. “Honey, breathe.”
I take in a ragged breath. It’s snowing hard and fast. I close my eyes.
“Can we just get home?” I whisper.
“Absolutely.”
She reaches over and holds my
hand the whole way back, and it helps. It’s her form of a lifeline—and maybe she understands my sudden anxiety.
I wonder how long it took her to get into a car after Josie died.
“We’re here,” she announces, turning into the driveway.
I open my eyes and release her hand, embarrassment flushing my cheeks.
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyebrows crinkle together. “You don’t have to apologize.”
Nodding, I get out of the car. The embarrassment is replaced by anticipation, and I rush ahead of her to get in the house.
“Hey, kiddo,” Robert calls. He walks back toward the living room with a glass of water. “Let me just put this down…”
He sets it on a side table, then holds out his arms.
I dive into them, holding back a fraction for fear of hurting him. He wraps his arms around my back.
“There she is,” he says into my hair. “Good as new, the both of us, yeah?”
“You said that exact same thing before,” I mumble into his chest. “And then you almost died.”
“Ah, well. Old habits die hard. My father used to say that to my brother and me. We were always getting hurt.” He chuckles and pats my back.
I pull back, wiping at my cheeks. I’m ashamed of the tears there, but they’re more happy than sad. He’s home. I’m home.
It isn’t just a house anymore.
My heart swells.
“Len, we should order Chinese and watch some movies.”
She laughs behind me. “May as well. I don’t have any food in this house. Margo, want to take this up to your room?”
I turn. She holds the bag I had packed for the Blacks’.
“Oops, sorry.”
“I know you were in a rush to get in here.” She winks at me.
I loop the strap over my shoulder and hurry to the stairs. Up to the second floor, where pictures of the Jenkinses stare at me. They’ve replaced some of them with new pictures, doing their best to make me feel welcome. Pictures of me and my friends, Caleb and I from the ball, a selfie I took with Robert and Lenora on Thanksgiving.
I smile at that last one, the three of us with our faces so close together. They frame me in, their arms looped around me. It’s easy to see why they picked that one to display in high-definition color. We’re so happy.
My first stop is the bathroom, unloading my toiletries and makeup bag, then I push open the door to my room.
It meets some resistance, like it’s caught on something.
I frown, pushing harder, and manage to get it open most of the way.
But my room…
Horror radiates through me. Horror and disbelief.
I can’t help it.
I scream.
24
Unknown
The game is in play, Margo.
There’s no calling this one off.
Ready or not, here I come.
25
Margo
Lenora finds me in the hallway.
On the floor.
She falls to her knees beside me, grabbing at my shoulders. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
I point toward my room with a shaky hand. The door has swung almost all the way closed, leaving just a crack visible. It’s all I can focus on, although I’d rather close my eyes. Scrub them out and forget I ever came back here.
Home. Someone clearly disagrees.
She stands and forces my door open farther, her hand flying to her mouth.
Robert makes it to the top of the stairs then, coming toward me.
“Robert,” Lenora gasps.
He helps me to my feet, and I follow him closer.
My room is a wreck.
Destroyed.
My mattress is off the box spring, ripped to shreds. Bits of foam and feathers from the sliced pillows coat the floor. The box spring is splintered, one leg completely demolished. And my bookshelf… Every book has been thrown off the case, some pages torn out, crumpled.
But the worst part is the red paint, resembling a murder scene. It’s splashed across the walls, the floor, the books. My desk. The window.
And on the wall, a message.
Pretty bird, broken wings. Oh, what a glorious fall.
He takes my hand. “Len, call the detective. Let’s just close this off…”
He tugs me out of the room.
I gasp for air.
Pretty bird.
Where have I heard that before? Who’s called me that?
“Detective Masters, this is Lenora Jenkins…” Her voice fades as she goes down the stairs.
“Is this related to who took you?” Robert asks.
That would make sense. I struck at Matt, and I was virtually untouchable with the Blacks. Too many people always around. Here… the house was deserted for days while Lenora stayed at the hospital.
This was revenge? A warning?
Unknown calling me out for…
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s go downstairs,” he suggests, guiding me away.
I stop short at one of the framed photos. There’s a faint spot of red on the glass, like whoever painted the message in my room came out here and took their sweet time leaving.
Robert doesn’t notice my distraction.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” I quickly withdraw. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
He nods. “Take your time.”
I duck into the bathroom until I hear him talking to Lenora. Then I back into the hallway and lift the photo from the wall.
Josie hid a note behind one of these. It could be irrelevant, but…
This particular photo is one of the new ones. It’s Caleb, Eli, Riley, and me from the masquerade ball. One of the few where we weren’t wearing our masks.
The red spot—a fingerprint, I realize upon closer inspection—is right over my face.
Erasing me completely.
Pretty bird, broken wings. Oh, what a glorious fall.
I tighten my grip on it.
How dare they come in here and threaten me? After everything—
I shake my head, knowing that line of thinking is foolish. They won’t just stop. Unknown won’t stop until they get what they want.
And… what is it that they want, exactly? To run me out of town. To stay away. And more specifically, to stay away from Caleb.
Why?
Because I might ruin his focus at lacrosse or turn him on a different path for his future? Because I might capture his attention, unlike Unknown?
“Margo?” Lenora calls. “The detective is here.”
I race into the hall and rehang the picture. If he notices, he notices. If he doesn’t, well…
“Ms. Wolfe,” Detective Masters greets me.
I shake his hand. He makes me nervous, even though I’ve done nothing wrong. Maybe it’s the fact that he arrested Caleb without any real cause, then didn’t arrest Matt.
“Did you find anything from the car that hit Robert and me?” I ask.
His stare is criticizing. “No.”
“Even though the driver was the one who took me.”
“It was reported stolen, and there were no prints in the vehicle. No anything. Our forensic investigators went through it with a fine-tooth comb, and then we released it to the junkyard.”
I look away. “Stolen from whom?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” the detective answers. “Your room was vandalized? Would you mind showing me?”
I take a deep breath and point to my door. “See for yourself.”
Robert wraps his arm around me. “We’d rather not…”
“Understandable, sir,” the detective says. He puts on a pair of gloves, then gingerly opens the door. He sucks in a breath. “That sure is something.”
We wait in the hall as he takes a closer look. Lenora chews on her lower lip, more stressed out than I’ve ever seen her.
“I locked the door every time I left,” she said. “I just don’t understand it. We have
an alarm!”
The detective reappears. “What’s your alarm hooked up to?”
“The first-floor doors and windows,” she says. “We only set it when we’re gone. Maybe that’s foolish, but—”
“There’s some scuffing on the outer edge of the windowsill,” he interrupts. “The vandal probably went in and out the window. Is anything else missing?”
“I’ll check our room.” Lenora slips past us, down the hall.
I try not to panic. Caleb came in and out of there so many times… if the detective finds even his fingerprint out there, he’ll automatically assume it was him.
“Why would someone do this?” Robert asks. “Target Margo?”
Masters eyes me. “You piss anyone off?”
“Just a stalker,” I say, half-joking. And then I realize what I just admitted… I had told the detective about Unknown when I was in the hospital. But, according to him, they couldn’t do anything unless they knew who it was. The messages weren’t threatening enough to warrant the phone company to release the blocked number, either.
I never told Robert, though.
“Excuse me?”
I wince. “I’ve just been getting some… unsavory texts.” And phone calls. And I was kidnapped. And I’ve been feeling like I’m being watched all the time.
No big deal.
“What can we do about this?” Robert demands.
“Margo filed a complaint in the hospital,” Masters answers. “So it’s on record. But until something—”
“Please do not be about to say something worse,” Robert snaps. “And what does your office plan to do about this?”
“We’ll have a cruiser do some drive-bys for the next week, to make sure you all are safe.” Detective Masters glances at me. “Has anything else happened?”
I cross my arms over my chest. What would I admit to, a creepy-crawly feeling occasionally?
“No.”
He nods like he expected that answer. “I’m calling in the police. They’ll take some photos, see if they can collect some evidence, statements from you all, and then we’ll go from there. Excuse me.”
He pulls out his phone as he heads down the stairs.
Lenora reappears. “Nothing is missing. Not even a hair out of place. Where did Jim go?”
