Damage Done (12 page)

A little girl had wronged me, once. Her name was Gabriella, and her mother had a French accent, which made her mother the coolest person in the world. Most of us would get embarrassed and shuffle away whenever our parents came near, but all Gabriella’s mother had to do was smile down at us and say
“Bonjour,”
and somehow Gabriella became even cooler. She compounded her coolness with a cool tree house, which became the cool hangout spot for all the neighborhood cool kids.

Naturally, we all wanted to be her friend. Even me and Liv. We’d follow her around at recess and crowd beneath her when she took her spot (the throne, we called it) atop one of the slides and tell her how beautiful she was, even though in truth she kind of looked like a rat.

One day Gabriella smiled down at me and told me to get lost. I blinked at her. She elaborated: “You and your brother are weird. I don’t want you here.” I had no choice but to go. Liv waved at me as I went, then turned away guiltily. She didn’t want to sentence herself to isolation by my side.

I didn’t want to tell my brother. I really didn’t. This was after Fluffy had met her untimely end, and so I knew exactly what he was capable of. But he caught me crying by the side of the playground. His brows knit together and his breath came in short, sharp blasts, and I thought that if I didn’t tell him quickly he might hit the wall and hurt his hand, so I told.

He just listened silently, then sat down beside me and let me put my head on his shoulder. I thought I was safe. I thought Gabriella was safe.

Later that night, I heard the sirens.

Gabriella’s father, who was almost as cool as her mother, had built Gabriella a tree house fit for a princess. From what I understand, Ryan had snuck over to her house, waited for Gabriella to climb the tree, and then set fire to it. She had to jump to escape, and she broke her arm. Her hysterical mother saw Ryan watching from the woods; he couldn’t resist admiring his handiwork. My father, the lawyer, persuaded her to not call the police, told her that a court case and all the questioning would only traumatize their little girl more.

I couldn’t let Michael become a Gabriella. I had to end this once and for all, and for that I had to find Spence. I shook my head firmly. “You have to go, right now.”

He crouched beside me. From where I lay, sideways, his concerned smile looked more like a grimace. “I can’t leave you here like this.”

I sat up so fast I nearly crushed his jaw with my skull. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not staying here,” I said. “As soon as you leave, I’m calling a cab. I need to go to a house on the border between Sunny Vale and Madison.”

He rubbed his chin, and I wondered if it was finally starting to sink in, all he’d mired himself in when he smiled at me that first time. “Why?” he asked.

“I need answers,” I said. And Spence was the one who had those answers. Most likely he knew where my brother was and what happened to him. I had to find out what he wanted from me, once and for all. He’d clearly only tell me if I was alone. “It will be dangerous. I can’t let you get hurt.”

I was already thinking of everything I had stashed in my closet, deciding what I did and didn’t need to bring. “My brother either escaped or was kidnapped from the hospital, and a man who knows the truth lives in that house.”

He blinked at me once, twice, three times. “Those were police officers who were just here.”

“Yes.”

“Then shouldn’t you let them handle it?”

“No,” I said. It would take too long to explain why. “Please leave.”

“Wait,” he said. I could practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other, turning everything he thought he knew about me into dust. “Your crazy ex-boyfriend.”

“Doesn’t exist,” I said dully. “The man you saw, the man who was following me, was my brother’s psychologist. The man I need to find now.” I watched the gears turn. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

“You don’t have to apologize. I get it. I get why you wouldn’t want me to know who he was, who you really were. Given everything that’s happened to you.” He was silent for a moment. When his mouth opened again, I knew immediately what he was going to say. “Don’t take a cab. I’ll drive you.”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t have time to stand here and argue with him. I could bash him over the head with the vase on the table in the hall, quickly, before my parents heard him scream, and tie him up with the television cable. By the time he worked his way free, I’d be long gone.

And yet, I didn’t move. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I like you and I want to help you,” he said. My heart broke a little at his naïveté. Now I wanted to curl him up in sheets of Bubble Wrap and tuck him safely into a chest in the attic, where he’d never get dinged or scratched.

“You don’t like me,” I said. “I know your type. You think very highly of yourself. You think you can fix everything. So when you see someone who’s broken, it’s like a moth to the flame.” He looked confused, so I added, “You’re the moth. I’m the flame.”

“That’s not even true,” Michael said.

“Because you can’t fix me. I’m too far gone. Trust me on that,” I said, and immediately knew I should have kept my mouth shut. I’d just stoked the flame, called the moth, and now I’d never lose him.

“No one’s ever too far gone,” he said sincerely.

I let out a dark laugh. I hadn’t realized I had so many laughs in me before today. “Fine, then. I could use an extra pair of hands. Wait here for a second. There’s some stuff I need to bring.”

I’d enjoy watching him try to make me whole. It wouldn’t work—I was a jigsaw puzzle with a piece long lost under the couch. There’d forever be that empty space in the stretch of blue that might have been a bird or a plane or a bomb.

He nodded, and my heart broke a little bit more. He was basically a golden retriever in human form: big, sweet, earnest, and a little bit dumb.

Upstairs, I scribbled a quick note for my parents in case they came looking for me:
Went for a ride with a friend. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back soon. Love, Julia.
I paused and stuck the end of the pen in my mouth, considering whether I should scratch out Julia and write Lucy, who was, after all, who I’d been for over a year.

I left it as it was. Lucy had never really existed, and she certainly didn’t exist anymore.

I grabbed a tote bag—not a backpack, never a backpack—and threw a bunch of stuff in there, turning each item over and over in my hands before stuffing it in with the rest. I left enough room for a few pairs of underwear in case things went wrong and I had to run. As I was in my drawer, scuffling around back for the laciest pair (Michael might be a golden retriever, but he had the legs of a Greek god, after all), my fingers brushed the edge of that one last picture. It sliced me right across a pad, bringing forth a thin line of red and a burst of a swear. Instinctively, I shoved the photo away, but once I’d sucked on my finger for a minute, I pulled it back out and considered.

This was my brother’s cheek pressed against mine. This was my brother’s hair in my eyes. This was my brother’s slightly crooked front tooth, exposed in a beaming smile. This was my brother, before.

I tucked the photo into the pocket of my bag and slung it over my shoulder. “Michael,” I called down the stairs, determination burning in my stomach, “I’m ready to go.”

After Evan, Liv, and Eddie, five kids died in quick succession. I didn’t know them well then, but their names had since engraved themselves on my cerebral cortex. Elisabeth Wood. Irene Papadakis. Nina Smith. Danny Steinberg. Erick Thorson.

According to reports, those five had scattered toward the doors of the band room. There were three exits: one led outside to the athletic fields behind the school, another to the hallway that contained the instrument closets and the chorus room, and the last to the main school building. Ryan stood in front of the third, brandishing his gun. Elisabeth Wood, Nina Smith, and Erick Thorson had stampeded to the first. Irene Papadakis and Danny Steinberg—a couple, apparently—had raced hand in hand for the second. All five found their respective doors stuck. Superglue in the locks, the police later discovered.

My brother shot them all in the back. Elisabeth Wood, Irene Papadakis, Nina Smith, Danny Steinberg, and Erick Thorson bled out slowly. Nina Smith had been the last to die; she’d still been breathing, however shallowly, when the paramedics got to her. She died on the ride to the hospital, leaving any final words—or testimony—unsaid.

Our car ride was largely silent, a stark contrast to my memories of the screaming in the band room. I hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, but when I thought back over this endless day, I couldn’t believe how slowly it had gone. It was almost midnight. I hoped Goodman worked the night shift—it seemed he might, if he’d just left my house. I had to hope. I wished on stars shining white against the bruise-colored sky.

When we turned onto Spence’s street, I took a deep breath. “Park down that way.” I directed him past the house. He parked along the curb, and I hopped out, hoisting my bag over my shoulder, before he pulled to a stop. “We’re going to go in through the back,” I said. I squinted at the driveway. The black car wasn’t there. Good.

“Won’t it be locked?” Michael asked. We crept through someone’s backyard, then slowed as we approached Spence’s. Or Goodman’s. I didn’t care whose house it was, as long as Spence was in there. “Do you have a key?”

“No. I have something better.” I pulled a lock pick from the front pocket of my bag and brandished it like a sword. As it was only the size of a bobby pin, it wasn’t very effective in inspiring anything but a roll of his eyes.

“A bobby pin?” It was sharp, though. It could totally poke out one of those eyes, if that was what I wanted to do.

“It’s a lock pick. I’m going to pick the lock.”

Lock picking isn’t one of those skills they teach you in school. I’d had to teach myself. I wish I had a good reason for learning, something exciting and daring and romantic, like that my parents would lock me in a dark, dank basement cell and make me work my way out, or that I was the apprentice to a famous magician who trained me to undo locks with my teeth and my toes while under six feet of water. But really it had always been something that had fascinated me; I liked the thought that I could access anything anyone tried to hide from me.

And I’d always worried one day my brother would try to hide me.

It was too dark to see much, but I imagined Michael’s face blanching. “That’s illegal.”

“You’re not going to be taking part,” I said. “You’re going to stand guard while I’m inside.”

“No way! What if he goes after you?”

“I can handle it,” I said. “I really need you out here. You have to tell me if someone else comes home. Whistle.”

“No,” he said. “You can’t go in there by yourself.”

“Trust me,” I said. “I can handle it. It’s not like he’s going to hurt me. I just need to talk to him, and I know if I knock on the door he won’t answer.” He probably would answer, but that would involve giving up the element of surprise. I never liked to give up the element of surprise, not if I could help it.

“I don’t like it.”

“But you have to do it if you want to help me,” I said impatiently. “Whistle if you see someone coming. Don’t come inside no matter what. Promise.”

“I can’t promise that,” he said. “If I hear you yell or anything, I’m running in there after you.”

“Fine,” I said. I wouldn’t be the one yelling.

With that decided, Michael loped around the side of the house, his hands in his pockets. I quickly picked the lock on the back door—it wasn’t even a dead bolt—and slipped inside.

The inside was just as shabby as the outside, with furniture probably bought off Craigslist scattered throughout: a couch with decorative blotches of something brown surrounding a rip in the cushion; a coffee table that leaned heavily to one side. The snores made it immediately apparent where Spence was, but I took the long way around just in case Goodman had parked his car in the garage or he had a lady friend over. The whole place smelled like old beer and dirty socks, and the kitchen was cluttered with dishes and pizza boxes. Gross.

But Spence was right where I wanted him. Alone. And I was ready.

I stopped to dig through my bag. As soon as I found what I needed, I placed the bag quietly behind an armchair. I might need to move quickly, and I couldn’t afford to have it slowing me down.

I tiptoed out of the living room and through the hallway. Just a few seconds later, I was blinking down at Spence’s sleeping form. He was sprawled diagonally across the bed, sheets and blankets half covering him, his pillow hanging off the side. Everything smelled like BO. I wrinkled my nose, but I didn’t have a hand free to hold it. I leaned over and pressed what I held in one hand against the side of his head.

His eyes popped open.

“Morning, sunshine,” I said. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’ve got a gun to your head. You can feel it, right?”

“You wouldn’t dare shoot me,” he said, but without much conviction.

I let out a cold, dry laugh. “Try me.” Sure enough, he stayed frozen aside from his throat, which bobbed and worked as if he were trying to vomit a cue ball. “I’ve got these zip ties.” I dangled them over him with my other hand. “You’re going to take them, fasten your ankles together, and then fasten your arm to the bedpost. No sudden movements, now.” I took a step toward the headboard, holding my hand firm, and let him grab the zip ties. I tensed, ready to fly into motion should he try to move, but he did exactly as I’d asked.

I took a big step back, out of range of his arms, and tossed aside what I’d been holding: a soda bottle I’d modified by weighing it down and bending metal around the lip. When held to the head, it felt exactly like a gun. At least, it felt exactly like a gun to people who had never had an actual gun held to their head. Those lucky people.

“Now, let’s get comfortable,” I said. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms. Without his glasses, he was squinting at me, bunching his face up into an ugly expression. He was wearing an old white T-shirt and what looked like plaid boxers. “Interesting. I thought you might sleep in those suits of yours. That would explain why they’re always so wrinkled.”

“I’m not telling you where Ryan is,” he said immediately.

“I didn’t ask you where Ryan was,” I said. “It’s interesting that you would jump to such a conclusion, though, isn’t it?”

He only stared at me, his eyes lasers of fury.

I sighed. “Your friend Joseph Goodman paid a visit to my parents today. Or at least I’m assuming he’s your friend, considering you were driving his car and are sleeping in his house. He’s a cop, so I’m guessing you used him to help you break my brother out of the state facility. How’d you do it? Are you paying him?”

Spence’s silence might have meant yes, might have meant no. To be honest, I didn’t care either way. I just wanted to rattle him enough to make him crack. “You’re
so
paying him,” I decided. “You don’t have the social skills to persuade him otherwise.”

He just continued to glare. This wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I changed tactics. “So your buddy—employee—said my brother was missing. Apparently he woke up from his coma a long time ago. Apparently he’s been talking. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I was your brother’s psychologist. I was helping him.”

“Ah. I see. Did they bring you in to talk to him after he woke up? Did you kidnap him? What did he say to you? Did he convince you he didn’t do it or that he was out of his mind at the time? He’s charming, my brother. Sociopaths usually are.”

The muscle ticked harder, like it might spring free from his face and run away.

“You’ve been following me for several days,” I said. “You’ve been trying to get me alone. To talk to me. Well, now you have me alone. Go ahead.
Talk to me.
”

He was silent. He’d been trying to obtain the element of surprise, following me everywhere. Maybe now that I had the advantage, he wasn’t sure what he should say.

“Do you know where my brother is?” I asked. “Did you help him escape? Did you and your buddy kidnap him? Are you holding him somewhere?”

Still nothing. If anything, his eyes narrowed, burning more intensely into my skin.

“I don’t have time for this. You’re just trying to stall until your buddy gets home. Sorry, Doc.” I bounced myself upright, took a scan of him to make sure he was tightly secured, and strolled out of the room. I could hear him spring into action as soon as I left, but any struggling would only tighten the ties, and unless he had a knife lying around in his bed—I was pretty sure he didn’t or he would have pulled it on me already—the ties would hold fast.

As I’d expected, someone who couldn’t be bothered to wash his dishes or pick up his clothes also couldn’t be bothered to properly secure his guns. There was Goodman’s stash, two guns lying right there on the table. I was almost disappointed. I’d practiced so much on picking safes and locks, and I wouldn’t even get the chance to put my skills to use. I was even more disappointed by the feel of the gun I lifted from the table. I’d never held one before, and it didn’t make me feel as powerful as I thought it would. It was just cold. And heavy.

I wondered if my brother had felt the same way.

Sure enough, Spence was still properly secured when I made my return, his eyes slits of molten lava. “Untie me right now,” he said. “We’re doing this for his own good.”

“Then why is everything so secret? What did he tell you? What did he say?” I paused. “What did you do with him?”

Spence licked his lips. They were dry and flaky, like a shedding snake. “He’s safe,” he croaked. “He’s safe now. Just let it be.”

“If he’s so safe, why were you out here following me around?” I clenched all my muscles. “Tell me where he is. Tell me what you want from me.”

He said something under his breath. I leaned in. “I didn’t hear you.”

He spoke up. “Your brother talked to me,” he said, his voice curiously flat. “He told me to find you. I’m here because of him.”

I stiffened. “You’re lying. Ryan would never talk to you.”

“But he did.” Now his voice was calm, curiously calm for someone tied to a bed. You’d think he was telling me there was too much mayo on his sandwich, or that it was supposed to rain later this week. “So you know why I’ve been so eager to get you alone. Talk to me, Julia. I can help.”

He was lying. He had to be lying, or he’d be more specific.

But I’d thought he was lying last time, too.

I had to talk to my brother. “Tell me what you did with him.”

“All you need to know right now is that he’s safe. And you can be safe, too. Talk to me, Julia.”

I ignored him and leaned in closer, so close he could smell my breath. I hoped it smelled like anger. “You have one more chance,” I hissed. “Tell me what you did with him.”

He said nothing. My fingers tightened around the gun. He was doing this on purpose. He was trying to
hurt
me on purpose. He deserved to be scared. He deserved to wonder whether he was going to die, the way I’d wondered whether I was going to die behind that music stand, because Spence hadn’t fixed my brother the way he’d said he would.

I had to threaten Spence with the gun. It made me feel like I had a belly full of grave dirt, worms squirming and all, but I had no choice. I couldn’t walk meekly back into the night and let him keep coming after me. If anything, his reticence made him more menacing. He only wanted to talk to me when he had the upper hand.