Dead Girl Walking (13 page)

“The suicide attempt, the game playing, sneaking out and lying,” he said coolly. “All of it will end now, and you will behave as my daughter should. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” I said stubbornly.

“DeHaven Psychiatric Resort has an immediate opening,” he said in an ominous tone. “They have cutting-edge treatments for the mentally disturbed. They believe in controversial methods of electric shock and isolation in padded cells. All I need to do is make a phone call. Or would you rather agree to behave properly?”

I hesitated, fear tightening a noose around my soul. Slowly, I nodded.

“That’s my girl.” His satisfied smile made me want to barf. “By the way, to insure you get plenty of rest, I’ve had a few things removed from your room and the lock reinforced. You may leave now.”

I was dismissed.

As I started to go, he called after me, “Take care of yourself, Leah.”

I shuddered. Not because of his threats or inappropriate behavior—but because he’d emphasized “Leah” in a tone that echoed with ownership.

And for the first time since my death, I felt sorry for Leah.

Computer. Desk phone. Cell phone. Car keys.

All gone from Leah’s room. And the formidable deadbolt lock on the door required two keys, which Angie, a thirty-something housekeeper with an impressive double chin and long black snake-braid, withdrew from her skirt pocket. She didn’t seem friendly, and I was too emotionally numb to care. She asked if I was hungry and I nodded, although I’d lost track of time and appetite.

“I’ll be back with your lunch,” she said coolly. The lock double-clicked behind her.

Something clicked inside me, too—outrage, panic, fear—and I rushed to the door, rattling the knob and pounding on the wood.

“Let me out!” I shouted. Then I kicked the door and ranted about unfairness, threatening to report everyone in this household to child-protective services. They were all cruel and awful and hateful.

My rampage only lasted about five minutes, until my voice cracked and my throat burned. I sagged against the door in defeat. Leah’s father had completely shut me off from the outside world. I might as well be in the crazy bin wrapped in a straitjacket—I’d have more freedom than in this princess prison. I sank to the plush carpet and huddled against the door. Tears warmed some of the numbness. I hugged my knees, rocking to ease my shivers.

Everything was so wrong and all I wanted to do was go home. I had to let my family know I was alive. Aunt Suzanne said they were suffering, and knowing that made me feel worse. Why had I given up so quickly? Aunt Suzanne didn’t know me that well—she didn’t even like me. If I’d reached my parents or friends, I could have convinced at least one of them. But now I was totally cut off. Alone behind a locked door, everything seemed hopeless.

I have no idea how long it was before I heard a key in the lock and smelled delicious aromas. Wiping my face and pushing back my tangled hair, I jumped to my feet so the door wouldn’t smack me as it opened.

“Here’s your lunch.” Angie avoided looking directly at me, double-locking the door behind her as if she expected me to bolt for freedom.

She carried a covered silver dish on an oval tray. Wonderful lemon and buttery smells revived me a little. My stomach rumbled.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “It smells good.”

Angie ignored me, turning to leave.

“Wait,” I called out. “Stay a minute. I’d like to talk.”

“About what?” she asked, flipping her braid over her shoulder in a defiant gesture. With her hands on her hips, she eyed me with suspicion. She was younger than I’d originally thought, maybe in her late twenties. Yet her plodding manner and sour expression made her seem much older, as if her inner bitch had matured fast.

“I need help,” I told her sincerely. “I have to get away.”

“As if!” She snorted like I’d said something funny.

“This is life-or-death important,” I added, desperate enough to beg. It was awful being at a stranger’s mercy, especially when there was no hint of compassion in her narrowed eyes. “Please, will you help?”

“You’re saying ‘please’ to me?” She folded her arms around her curvy chest. “Hell must have frozen over.”

“So you’ll help?” I asked eagerly.

“Absolutely, positively never gonna happen.”

“I have to get out of here! If you don’t help me something terrible will happen.”

“You can’t threaten me anymore—your father already knows about Luis’ past, and he doesn’t care. You’re a real tool and I’m not dumb enough to get screwed again.”

“Huh? Whatever I did … I’m sorry.”

“Sure, sorry you can’t push me around anymore,” she said with thick sarcasm. “I work for your father. Not you.”

“He isn’t my father.” I sighed as her expression closed. “I mean, he doesn’t act normal. It’s cruel to lock me in.”

“Consider yourself lucky. He should have sent you to the loony bin. I hear you flipped out, have a dozen different personalities.”

“I’m not crazy. I’m in trouble … and running out of time. At least take a message to someone for me.”

“If you mean Chad, forget it. The way you jerk guys around like dogs on a chain makes me want to puke. I don’t know why a sweet guy like Chad puts up with you. I was out of my mind earlier, sneaking him in and risking my job.”

“You can always get another job.”

“Says who?” Her dangling braid snapped like a whip as she shook her head. “My man and I got it good here. We don’t want any problems. Jobs like this might not seem much to you, but Luis and I like it. So I’m doing exactly what Mr. Montgomery says. No more breaking the rules.”

“But I don’t belong here …” My word trailed off. Anything I said would only sound more crazy. Angie’s narrowed dark eyes confirmed that she wasn’t going to help. Leah may have popularity-plus at school, but not at home.

There had to be someone in this house who would help. What about Leah’s mother? When she’d visited the hospital, she’d seemed to genuinely love her daughter.

“Could you at least tell Mrs … my mother … that I’d like to see her?”

Angie shook her head. “She’s not here.”

I didn’t believe her. “Where is she?”

“At one of
those
meetings.”

“Meetings?” I questioned.

Angie answered by cupping her hand and bringing it to her mouth. As she turned to leave, she gave me a scathing look, like I was the most pathetic person in the world.

Before she reached the door, keys jangling in her hand, Angie touched her palm to her head and swore under her breath. “I almost forgot. Here.” She withdrew a folded paper from a pocket and thrust it at me.

My fingers closed around the paper. The door banged shut accompanied by the sound of locks clicking. I didn’t make any move to read the paper, Angie’s words sinking in. Just like that, I knew what she’d meant by “meetings” and her hand-mouth gesture.

Drinking.

Leah’s mother was an alcoholic. And the meetings were Alcoholics Anonymous. So that was the “badly kept secret” Mr. Montgomery referred to, and the reason his wife didn’t accompany him to social events. Taking his daughter instead might be normal in ultra-rich society but, combined with that butt slap, reeked of inappropriate behavior to me. Way too much dysfunction going on around here.

The paper Angie had given me rustled in my hand. I bit my lip, hoping it had nothing to do with doctors, medication, or Botox. It was worse, I realized with a groan. I found a daily exercise schedule that included swimming laps, lifting weights, and working out for an hour on gym equipment. I mentally tallied the time: two hours of exercise a day. One hour would be torture. Two hours was insane! I’d never survive.

And if I stayed here, my real body had zero chance of survival.

But there wasn’t any way for me to leave, and it was hard to ignore the appetizing smells wafting from the silver tray. I had this motto that helped me deal with life’s disappointments:
When all else fails: Eat
. So I lifted the shiny lid, my mouth watering at the sight of grilled lemon chicken, steamed carrots and broccoli, and a potato. Kind of low-cal for my taste, but I was too beyond starving to act picky.

As I chewed, I thought longingly of noisy dinners at home surrounded by triple high chairs and my sisters flinging food. Or all the times Dustin, Alyce and I pigged out on cheeseburgers at Grumpy’s Grill and I’d laugh when Dustin pretended to get mad because I’d swiped some of his French fries. Also there was that chocolicious meeting with that boy, Eli, over the dessert buffet. Food was a primal connection that linked me to life—my real life. And I’d do anything to get it all back (my life, that is, not more food … although food was always good).

Unfortunately, I was out of options. Being trapped in this room was as frustrating as being trapped in this body.

There was no way out.

Or was there?

I thought about how I’d gotten into this mess. I’d heard the screech of tires but I never felt the crash. Bright warm light had rescued me, welcomed me, and I had been somewhere else, far from anything physical, floating toward the outstretched arms of my beloved grandmother. Locks and doors didn’t matter where Grammy was. I was sure she didn’t know I was in trouble now, or she would come to help. Cola might tell her … or he might not. I’d have to do it myself.

Maybe there
was
another way out.

All I had to do was die.

Again.

There’s this quote about living being hard and dying being easy.

Ha! Not for me. Sure, living had its problems, but dying was damned hard. My princess prison lacked any obvious means of self-destruction. No knife, gun, pills or poisonous gas. Not that I’d have the nerve to stab, shoot or gas myself. Way too violent. Besides, I only wanted to die a little. Long enough for an out-of-body trip to Grandma and Cola, then back again—but into the right body.

Desperation short-circuited my thoughts, numbing my emotions and logic so that anything seemed possible. I couldn’t sit around doing nothing until it was too late to save my real body. A temporary death wouldn’t be suicide—more like a quickie visit with Grammy. I was confident she would make sure I landed in my real body this time.

So I spent the rest of the day planning my death.

Method was my first challenge.

After searching Leah’s drawers and closet, the most dangerous thing I could find was a silk belt. Death by fashion accessory … hmm, would it work? A belt could make a nifty noose—but was silk sturdy enough? I twisted it into a loop and fitted it around my neck, but I was never good with knots and it kept slipping over my head. I tried a few other belts, but gave up on this idea because I couldn’t find anything solid in the ceiling to hang a belt over, anyway.

How about asphyxiation? Mom was always bugging me to toss plastic bags away so the triplets wouldn’t suffocate. This wasn’t a bad method, because it wouldn’t scar and I’d black out before it hurt too badly. But I couldn’t find a plastic bag—only some trendy cloth bags with name-brand logos. I guess rich folks didn’t have to choose “paper” or “plastic,” just opted for designer carry bags.

Running out of ideas fast, I went into the adjoining bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The glass shelves were empty except for toothpaste and vitamins.

Then I noticed a razor.

Carefully, I plucked the silver-sharp blade from the razor, squatted on the cool tile floor, and aimed the blade over my wrist.

My fingers trembled. I hesitated … would it hurt a lot?

A lot.
And I really, really,
really
hated pain.

Besides, wrist-slashing wasn’t easy. I’d seen this news report and they said how slashing your wrists was a bad cliché and usually done wrong. It only worked if you cut horizontally … or was it vertically? Which one was right? Frankly, I just wanted to forget the whole horrible idea.

Don’t wimp out
, I told myself.
Think of family, friends, and going home.

Besides, with Grammy on my side (and the Other Side), what could go wrong?

I ran through a mental checklist of my plan:

Cut, bleed, and as I felt myself losing consciousness, I’d scream bloody murder (was that a pun?) to insure that someone found me ASAP. Okay, so this wasn’t a great plan. There was too much room for error. But I couldn’t let myself dwell on the list of
Things That Could Go Wrong
. I had to be strong for everyone I loved.

Still, it was hard to hold the razor, my hand was shaking so much. Forget horizontal or vertical—any slash I made now would veer off into a wild zigzag.

What was I doing, anyway? Taking a sharp blade and slicing myself? Maybe I really was crazy. Spurting blood was an all-around terrible idea. And way too messy. There had to be a gentler way of achieving white light.

With enormous relief, I tossed aside the razor and looked around for a better idea.

My gaze drifted across the room. How about jumping from a window? I imagined myself crashing to the ground. Extreme ouch. Not a gentle way to go, and it would be a crime to smash Leah’s body. I’d rather temporarily die in a completely painless, non-bloody way. That’s why I nixed the blow dryer in the bathtub method. (Plus, I might still end up in the wrong body, but with a serious case of bad hair.)

What about drowning?

Hmmm … now this idea had potential. I should have thought of it first. Minimal pain, and maximum opportunity for survival (as long as someone found me in time). So I had to “drown” in a public place, not alone in the bathroom. There was also the nudity factor to consider. I’d rather be rescued wearing a swimsuit, not a birthday suit.

“The swimming pool!” When I’d gone outside with Chad, I’d glimpsed turquoise blue water glittering in an oval-shaped pool. I may be locked in my room, but swimming laps was part of Leah’s ordered exercise regiment.

One problem decided.

Next problem—what swimsuit would I wear?

Leah owned fourteen bathing suits. I found them hanging in her walk-in closet, arranged by size and color. It was a new experience to model swimsuits, one that I confess I enjoyed far more than I should have given the morbid circumstances. I narrowed my choice to a black strapless bikini, a red tankini, and a neon-yellow string bikini. They all looked amazing. As Amber, I never could have fit my chubby thighs into suits this sexy. But Leah could wear a ragged towel and look like a runway model.

I finally settled on the tomato-bright tankini, because it would be an easy-to-spot target on the floor of the pool.

Walking back to the bed, I picked up the printed exercise schedule and ran my index finger down the list. I stopped at the notation, “Swim Laps: 9–10 a.m.”

I’d always groaned that exercise would kill me.

Now I was counting on it.