Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 71

Past

I WAS SO drugged, at that moment, pulling Jeremy into my apartment, toward my bed, his laugh tumbling after me. Drugged with love, with lust, on a high from our date and our kiss and the moment that was about to occur. So drugged that I almost missed the box, tipped over at the foot of the bed. The kitchen drawers, two of the six open, their cheap guts exposed to the fluorescent light. The safe, which I may not have shut, its door open wide, my knives dumped unceremoniously out, like fallen chopsticks, the guns still tucked inside in neat order. But what I didn’t miss was the person, by my window, the cardboard ripped off, the open sill letting in the night breeze yet doing nothing to clear the stench of violation.

Simon was in my apartment, his head whipping to me, his hair a wild mess of spikes, his eyes widening when it made the connection with mine. I stopped, a sudden motion that had the strong chest of Jeremy colliding with my back. I didn’t have time to speak, to react, before Jeremy’s hands grabbed me and shoved, his body pushing forward and in between me and Simon, his arms spread out as if to create a wall to protect me.

That irritated me, my surprise at seeing Simon replaced with an anger at Jeremy. I don’t need protecting, especially not in my own apartment, my home. I did take advantage of the moment of protection, my eyes taking in the details I initially missed, Simon’s search not missing an inch, disarray stretching from one mildewed wall to the other. Good lord, he even dumped out my dildo drawer. I’m sure that gave him quite an eyeful. My gaze paused on the pile of knives, my yellow Spyderco knife carelessly along the top of the pile, and something inside me clicked to the “On” position. I felt it happen, felt the switch of my mind, felt the closure of my focus, the flee of my sanity, the takeover of my mind. I felt it all and ignored it, ripping my eyes from the knife and ducking under Jeremy’s arms, stepping closer to Simon.

“Explain to me, right now, why I shouldn’t kill you.” I spoke carefully, a thousand sensors in my body taking notice of my state. A thousand notices, all ripped from the walls and discarded by my current state of mind.

“I found them.” Simon’s eyes shone, a medicated shine, and when he lifted his hand, I looked, at the clear bag in his hand, duct tape still stuck to its top, the orange bottle inside. I’m surprised. Then again, it looked as if he’d taken a while with his search. My eyes flicked to the window, to the pile of cardboard shreds littered on the floor beneath it. He saw me look, and smiled. “Almost had given up. But who covers up a window, right? It drove me crazy, the longer I stayed in here. I don’t know how to you do it. The damn thing was taunting me.”

Funny, it taunts me too. Maybe the reason isn’t my insanity. Maybe it taunts any living thing. I felt Jeremy’s hand wrap around my arm and I shook it off. Held my hand out to him in a cool your shit gesture.

“So I ripped it off. Opened the damn window. Stuck my head outside. And that’s when I saw it.” He shook the bag and it began to swing, a pendulum before me. “Taped to the outside brick. You sneaky little bitch.”

It is true. I am sneaky. I had also really, really wanted an excuse to stick my head outside, and that hidden place had offered it. I said nothing and wondered how hard I’d have to shove the blade to break into his chest.

I took a deep breath and stepped back. Smiled. Raised my hands in defeat. “You got me, you found them. Now please get out, it’s almost nine.” Nine, the deadline we had rushed home to meet, our schedule carefully organized in order to fit an hour of sex in before my curfew, an hour that was slipping from us with every second I dealt with this asshole. It was already dark out. The knives were behind me but I’d only need one.

“Oh… I didn’t just find them sweetheart.” Simon kicked out, and his tennis shoes collided with a book bag I hadn’t noticed. A faded red JanSport. A piece of masking tape holding its front pocket closed, a carabiner hanging from its handle. Like Simon planned on hitting a rock face anytime soon. When he kicked, the bag shifted, and pills settled, a shake of sound like a giant box of Tic Tacs.

I was confused, then I understood.

My medicine cabinet. Three or four years’ worth of meds that Dr. Derek kept sending and I kept ignoring. They’d stockpiled, one neat row before another, each new bottle marking the passage of time. Simon found them, thought he hit the drug mother lode, and shoved them all into this cute little backpack. His face seemed to think I’d care. I didn’t.

“Don’t call her sweetheart.” The hard voice came from behind me, from the third party in this room that I’d almost forgotten. I turned to Jeremy. “It’s okay.” I smiled again. My cheeks were beginning to hurt. “He’s leaving.” I turned to Simon. “I’m sorry about the pills. I was upset because you didn’t unlock me.” I met his glazed, cocky stare, and dropped my eyes. He must have opened the bottle. Took a handful. He wasn’t the shaky addict right now. He was high and confident. He needed to go. I lowered my head and turned my back to him. Walked around Jeremy and toward the door. Smiled as I heard Jeremy speak to Simon. Smiled as I heard them buy my act. Smiled as I bent over and wrapped my hands around the Spyderco.

CHAPTER 72

Past

JEREMY SHOULD HAVE known. That something was wrong, that something was off. But the whole situation was off. Walking into her apartment, his focus had been on one thing: getting her beautiful body naked and underneath him. Hearing her voice break as he pushed inside to the place that made everything sane disappear. There was nothing in life like the connection made when their bodies met. When she whimpered beneath him and took him, ran her fingers over his side and wrapped her legs around him. Whispered his name in the heartbeat right before she came.

He’d been so focused on that goal, the maddening tick of time passing… now only ninety minutes, now eighty-five… now sixty-four… that he hadn’t been aware, hadn’t been prepared. It had pushed at him, that nagging premonition that he always had when he twisted her unlocked knob, when he saw her enter and leave her apartment without hesitation. But by now, that feeling was second nature, easy to ignore, especially when her small hand was in his and she was pulling him forward, his cock already hard in his pants, her giggle a foreplay of things about to happen.

And then… that piece of shit. Standing there like he owned the place. Smiling and taunting her. The woman he knew would have tackled the man. Cut him to shreds with her words. But the woman before him did nothing of the sort. She bent, yielded. Ducked her gorgeous head and pacified. Used soothing words and gestures and asked him nicely to leave. A thousand warnings that he ignored, his heartbeat calming, his step toward Simon accompanied by all of the words he wished Deanna had said. Get the fuck out. What did you take? I’m calling the cops. You worthless piece of shit. He felt empowered, confident, more over Deanna’s reaction than his words. It was his own high, an affirmation of everything he had, deep down, known about her. She wasn’t dangerous. She could control herself. She wasn’t crazy, just passionate at times. It was all okay, they would be fine. Simon’s eyes had hardened, his mouth curling back into a snarl, and it was in that moment when the knife flew, straight and perfect, over Jeremy’s left shoulder.

CHAPTER 73

Past

MY SECLUSION HAS led to a lot of obsessions, but knives have always been forefront. My first year, I learned to spin them in my hand. Flip a switchblade out, then in. Out. In. Out. In. I bought a dozen, cut myself fifty times, and eventually got to the point where the knife was an extension of my arm. I could flip out an arm, then return to a pocket a switchblade, pocketknife, and tac blade with my eyes closed. My second year, I danced with guns, a difficult obsession when you’re restricted to an apartment. My third year, I returned to knives, this time with a focus on throwing. I practiced with darts, then moved to knives, then stars. My fourth year, I refined and perfected the skill. My throw at Simon was the first time I took practical application of my skills.

Go figure that I’d miss.

They didn’t understand what the knife was at first, neither of them did. It wasn’t until it pierced the bag, slicing through the clear plastic, the prescription bottle hitting the floor with a loud knock, that they looked at the wall, at the thud that had sounded, plaster giving easy way to the blade, the yellow handle sticking straight out of the wall. Jeremy turned quickly and was still too slow. I stood with my legs slightly spread, one before the other, my hand still outstretched toward the blade. I tilted my head and frowned, my tsk loud and hollow in the room. It’s funny how everyone shuts up when knives come out. Too bad the Spyderco hit plaster and not skin. No worries. There were plenty more. I crouched before the pile, Christmas coming early, a grin blaring out, everything perfect, everything red, and this was my time, my moment, my victim. My fingers wrapped around a handle and I moved without looking, around Jeremy, toward the asshole by the window whose eyes were wide, fear coming and he had no idea. I broke left, avoiding the block, and when I lunged forward a hand wrapped around my arm and yanked hard and everything was broken, interrupted when I fell into the chest of Jeremy and heard his voice. “Deanna.”

Deanna.

Deanna. I pushed against him, irritated. Simon. Simon is getting away, I need to drag my blade across his skin and bleed him dry. Jeremy holds me tight, repeats my name.

“Deanna.”

Deanna. Fury rips through me, my vision blurring, my control and compartmentalization crumbling in one quick burst of anger. Fuck this man and his firm hands. Muscles can’t beat blades. I see, in slow motion, the widening of his eyes, the change when he goes from attention getting to defense. But he is too slow, my hand jerking forward, my finger hard on the blade’s release, the snap of the metal joyous to my ears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words didn’t belong in this space, in this moment, certainly not from my future victim. I heard his whisper and didn’t understand it, didn’t see his arm move, his body twist, wasn’t prepared when my face exploded under the whip of his elbow. I only felt a brief moment of blinding pain, and fell backward, but I never felt the impact with the floor.

CHAPTER 74

Present

I SIT ON the edge of the bed, my hands fisting at the plastic mattress beneath me, Dr. Derek back in his Range Rover and out of this place. We have a gentleman’s agreement: he won’t declare me incompetent and we’ll meet tomorrow before the arraignment.

I stare at the wall across from me, a slow rage rising through my chest, spreading down my limbs, festering in the pores of my skin. Simon. I’ve been torturing myself, literally imprisoning myself, and Simon was the cause of it all. Him and his damn pills. Him and his damn sister. Had she helped? Had she lifted part of Jeremy’s weight when they’d moved it down the dark streets to the Dumpster? Had she been the one to think of using my knife, that cheery fucking yellow handle a giant blinking ARREST DEANNA sign? Simon. Chelsea. Simon. Chelsea. Punishment. Punishment. Now.

I am in here because of them. Or him. Or them. I’ll get to Simon first. He’ll squeal if she was involved. But of course she was. I couldn’t open my door without seeing her face, then she’d vanished.

I am in here because of them. They let me lie on the apartment floor. They let me wake up with no idea of what had happened. They caused me to miss out on going to the hospital. Holding his hand. Looking into his sister’s face. They caused me to doubt myself, to paint a giant-ass mural in my head of all the horrific things I’d done. They let me lock myself into a place where I can’t kill them both. And that, after you shift through all the other bullshit, is my biggest issue right now.

I stand, walk to the door, and start to scream.

It takes five minutes of screams to get a guard to my cell. My throat is exhausted when he opens the window, my lungs spent, breath short. I take in a deep breath and squeak out my request. “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”

My request doesn’t impress the man. He eyes me for a long minute, his jaw moving in a slow chomp of gum, then picks at a spot on his face. “Okay,” he finally says. “But shut the hell up. I’ll call a PD for you.”

“Thank you.” I step back before he thinks about restraining me. Turn and walk to my bed like a good little girl. Sit on the edge and put my palms between my knees. He eyes me through the open window for one long final stretch, as if I am planning something, as if an extra minute of observation will change anything. Then he shuts the slider, and I hear his steps as they move down the hall.

A lawyer. I have the right to an attorney. They will get me out of this. I have to get out of this, to find my own answers and right Jeremy’s wrong. And if I don’t like their court-appointed attorney, I’ll get my own. Use some of my millions to get Gloria Allred on Nancy Grace, screaming my innocence. But for right now, in this moment, I just need a face. Someone to spit my innocence to who can tell me the process and how soon I can leave this hell. I don’t need a prison, I don’t need safeguards. I was not the one who did that.

I roll my neck and think about my steps. I’ll visit Jeremy first, then go to the apartment. Collect myself and get showered, dressed in clean clothes. Then I’ll rain hell in Jeremy’s name. I grin in the empty cell and can feel the walls smile back.

It doesn’t take long for my attorney. Less than an hour later, my cell door opens and I am escorted back out to the visiting room. There, I’m pleasantly surprised to see the attorney waiting, her navy suit patient in the corner of the room while I am secured.

“Ms. Madden, I am Dana Romansky, the public defender assigned to your case.” She nods at the guard, who leaves us, gently shutting the door behind him.

“Nice to meet you.” It was nice to meet her. A woman. I’m ashamed to say I’m surprised. I’d had visions of my court-appointed attorney, and he’d been short and male and stressed. She was tall and put together and calm.

“You requested me. Is there something you need?

To the point. Good. “Yes. I gave a confession because I didn’t remember what happened. Now that I remember, I want to change my statement.”

Her brow wrinkles. “So… you’re innocent.”

“Yes. Have you reviewed the case?” Please say yes.

“It’s nine o’clock at night. I left a date to come here. You’re lucky I know your last name.”

Figures. The rosy cloud around her dims slightly. “What is the next step?”

“The next step is your arraignment, which is scheduled for tomorrow at two. At the arraignment we can have you plead innocent. A trial will be scheduled, and the time between now and then is when we, or whatever attorney you decide upon, can build your case. It will be difficult to overcome a confession, but it’s not impossible.”

“So… when would I get out?”

She smiles and I do not like her smile. It is smug and intelligent and carries a you dumb little thing in its smirk. “You won’t get out unless you are found innocent at trial. Which is a very long way away.”

“What about bail?”

“You’ve assaulted two people in the forty-eight hours you’ve been here. They tied you up just to talk to me.”

“So… no bail?”

“Most likely not.”

There is a long moment in which I digest the information. Stare down at the table and refamiliarize myself with the scratches in its surface. Line up the players in this game into a formation that I understand. “So… tomorrow afternoon, I go to the arraignment, where I’ll plead innocent and be taken to jail.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t matter if I plead innocent or guilty, I’m going to jail.”

“Yes. Unless the judge, by some miracle, decides to set a bail.”

“What are my chances of that?”

“Less than a percent. It’s not gonna happen.”

Well this sucks. “Can I talk to the detectives? Maybe if I convince them that—”

“You don’t understand.” She interrupts. “Once you are charged, it is put into the judicial system’s hands. If you hadn’t confessed, there is a chance that they wouldn’t have had the evidence to hold you for more than twenty-four hours. But once you confessed, you changed everything. And that’s not just something you can get a do-over on.”

I let out a breath of air, and it comes out a lot harder and angrier than I had intended. She flinches and I lift my head to find her watching me warily.

“I’m sorry,” she says carefully. “I wish I could do more.”

I don’t want her sympathy. I want freedom. I break eye contact and look down at the table. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’d like to go back to my cell now.”

This time, when they open that door and lead me out, I notice everything. The height of the knobs, the construction strength of the locks. The bars, the doors, the exits, the lighting. How many people we pass in the hall, how many guards look up when we walk, how many steps it takes, windows are present, keys jingle from belts. I notice it all. If I learned anything during that meeting, it was that I’ll have to take my own freedom back.

CHAPTER 75

Present

IF I MADE a list of difficult tasks, breaking out of a prison would top the list. Thankfully, I’m not in prison. At the moment, I’m in booking, which… best I can determine, is fairly loose in its security practices.

But still, I’ll need help. Mike, definitely. There is really no one else. I need to call him, plant a few code words that will somehow communicate to him my need to get out. But phone calls aren’t permitted after lights-out. The big woman told me that, right after she said if I tried my foot-kicking-door routine again she’d put me in the straitjacket. I believed her. I’ll keep my stomping to myself. Any minute the lights will go out and my opportunity to call Mike will end. I stand at my door and pray for a guard. The lights above me flicker, then go out. There goes my phone call.

I stay in place, hunched beside the door, and think. Mike knows I am here. Mike knew about NascarGuy44. Mike knew what I said in my statement. Mike probably has a finger on every single thing happening right now in this building. Mike, his level of prep far more advanced than my own, has probably been working his sexy little fingers to the bone since the moment I was arrested. Mike is probably just waiting to push “LAUNCH.” I mentally cross my fingers and hope that I am right.

I step through the dark, my hands outstretched, eyes not yet adjusted to the change. Move cautiously, my hands patting at air, then walls, then surfaces. Running over anything and everything in search of one thing: a sharp edge. I am almost finished with the room, my chest tightening, worry peaking, when I find it, the underside of the left front foot of my bed, the corner of it sharp and unfinished. Jackpot. I lie on my back and shimmy under the bed, supporting the front end with my legs, both knees brought to my chest, feet lifting up the dinky metal frame. I dig the sharp metal point into my right index finger, then birdie finger, then ring finger, each prick hard and painful enough to draw blood. Then I do the thumb and pinkie, holding my bloody hand away when I finish. I scoot right, using my undamaged hand to support the frame, my feet moving, my body rolling out of the way as I drop the bed down, the sound loud against the finished concrete floor. Too loud. I pause, on my belly on the dirty floor, and wait a breath, then crawl to my feet, moving to the wall and raising my hand, softly dragging my first red finger over the white paint.

In the dark shadows, my letters slowly appear. Halfway through the third word, I run out of ink, squeezing of the pads not bringing any fresh blood to the surface. I roll back underneath the bed. Repeat the equation, subbing out my left hand for my right, a new series of pained hisses whistling through my teeth. Back on my feet, I complete the project. Then, I stand before the bloody wall and wait.

Almost an hour later, I hear the slide of my door, a face cutting into the bright white of the opening. Rounds. There is a moment of pause, then the light in my room bursts on, too bright, too white, too perfect. “What the fuck?” a woman utters. Oh. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor. Too bad. I’d hoped to spare her of this. She swings open my door and stands in the opening, feet spread, her eyes wide, darting from me, to the wall, to me. “You got some issues, you know that?”

My feet stay in place, twin roots into cement. The side of my face itches, probably due to the lines of blood, the sticky liquid drying into place. I must look mad, standing next to the words, their formation messy and crooked, the letters as large as I could make them. I lick my lips and taste copper. “You should probably file a report,” I say softly.

She stays still, her head tilting. “We don’t have a nurse here, if this is some big plan to get medical attention.”

A drop of blood drips from my left index finger and hits the floor with a quiet smack. I wonder if she heard it. “No.” I shake my head in case she didn’t hear the quiet word. “I don’t need a nurse.”

Her eyebrows raise and show a hint of pink eye shadow. “Oh… kay.” She steps back, shutting the door and locking it, her mouth moving to the open window. “You know you’re going to be cleaning that up, right? So don’t start smearing shit next.”

Shit. I look down at my bloody and shredded fingertips. Shit would have been easier. Messier, but easier. I shrug and step back to my bed, pushing the edge of it until it was moved back into place. Then I sit on its edge and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, my fists underneath my chin. “Okay, Mike,” I whisper. “Do your thing.”

Before me, in all its bloody glory, my message dried.

GET ME OUT