Cut Me Free (23 page)

A girl walks from the rows of shelves on one side of the room to the other. I'm suddenly very aware that we're not alone. People quietly move up and down the aisles, studying books, typing on keyboards. They make me feel exposed. I want them to go away so I can sort all this new information into something logical, something I can understand or control.

Only one fact matters right now—the Father may still be alive, but he's become the prisoner I used to be. He can't come for me, can't hurt me and the people I care about, not anymore. And if the Father isn't breaking into my apartment and leaving me black presents with dark messages, then who is?

I whisper, “Check the man who had Sanda.”

Cam gives me a grim nod. With two clicks the Father's face disappears from the screen and I can breathe easier.

“What can you tell me?”

“It was on Clarion Street.”

“Okay, and what was the date?”

“Maybe five weeks ago?” I try to piece together the timing of the last few weeks for more specifics, but my brain refuses to cooperate and I come up empty. “His name is Steve Brothers, if that helps.”

He types for a few moments in the computer. “Nothing under that name, but that doesn't mean anything. Let me adjust these dates a bit.”

After about a hundred more clicks he stops. “Is this it?”

A black-and-white photo of Brothers's charred building is right there on the screen. It is even creepier with the color stripped out. “Yes.”

Cam skips through the article. I skim the words as fast as my eyes can read them, but as hard as I've tried to teach myself how to read quickly I still can't keep up with Cam. I only catch a few words here and there as he flies down the page. Then suddenly the little arrow on the screen freezes over a single paragraph.

In a stroke of luck, the fire happened during the middle of the day when none of the tenants of the building's three apartments were home. No injuries or fatalities were reported.

Clenching my hands by my sides, I read it again and again. Each time hoping it will say something different than the last, hoping it will say he's dead. I remember the dark thrill in his eyes when he saw me in the mirror at his apartment. He's alive and in the city, and that alone makes him the prime suspect.

Cam lowers his chin and meets my eyes. I realize from his expression that he's been speaking. I didn't hear a thing, nothing but my heart plummeting through to the floor of the library basement below us and landing with a sickening thump at the bottom.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“This is a lot of information to process at once.” His brow furrows and he brushes his knuckles against my forearm. “You're freezing. Are you okay?”

“No. Do you expect me to be?”

Cam shrugs out of his light jacket and drapes it across my shoulders. It's filled with his warmth, and the smell of him. Tugging it tight around me makes me feel significantly better.

So many things about this don't add up. How would he know my real name or find out where I live? “Are you sure this is right? Any chance they didn't see him in there?”

Sam's whimpering fills my head with images from Brothers's apartment. He doesn't want to admit the possibility any more than I do.

Cam shakes his head and gives me a rueful grin. “No. Missing dead bodies in a burned-down apartment is kind of frowned upon. I'm sure they were thorough.”

My fingers tug the jacket tighter against my neck. It's still filled with Cam's heat. He's warm and I'm cold, inside and out.

“Wow, I'm kind of terrible at killing people,” I mutter, low enough that even Cam has to strain to hear.

“I'm not sure that's a bad thing,” he says, and laughs.

“It's not looking so great right now.” When my hands tremble on the buttons of the jacket his grin fades, and he moves my hands aside and buttons it for me before turning back to the computer.

“Let me check a couple of other things.” He glances around to make sure no one is watching and pulls a small black square out of his pocket. He pushes it into one of the holes on the front of the computer below the desk.

“What is that?” I ask.

“It's a flash drive.” At my blank look, he continues, “It has some programs that help me dig deeper than a normal person can for information.”

Within a few seconds, a bunch of new boxes pop up on the screen and he is flying through them so fast it makes me dizzy. Half of them are filled with some other language that doesn't even seem to use complete words.

After about a minute, I stop watching the screen and watch Cam's expression. The way his scowl keeps deepening fills me with a sense of dread. Finally he steps back, hits a few keys, and the picture returns to the one we started on. The flash drive disappears back into his pocket and he shakes his head.

“Steve Brothers doesn't exist.”

My breath catches in my throat. “So he
is
dead?”

“No. He never lived. At least not the Steve Brothers that was receiving mail at that address.”

I can't quite get my throat to release air, and my words are a whisper. “I don't understand.”

“I checked back through every record that exists on him: no credit cards, no cell phone contracts. The police are looking for him since they found some ‘articles of interest' when cleaning up the fire, but everything leads to a dead end. It's a fresh identity—a sloppy one, definitely fake. Steve Brothers is even less real than Charlotte Thompson.”

“Then who is he?” My voice is a whisper as the implications fall into place. Who knows how long he's been doing this under different names in different places? How many other kids has he hurt or killed? Kids like Sanda. Kids like Sam. I slip the bolt back in my pocket as anger lends me strength in its place.

“I don't know and neither do the cops.” He rubs a palm against his eye. “But I guess we've figured out who's leaving you presents.”

“Fine. So it's Brothers or the guy who calls himself that. He knows where I live. He's b-been in my home.” Staring down, I avoid Cam's eyes. I don't think I can take them reaching into me right now. Filled with fresh fire, I remove his jacket and hand it to him. I straighten my spine and head toward the library doors. “Now it's time to make sure he won't come back.”

 

24

“Will you be able to find him?” Cam asks. “He's obviously comfortable in hiding,” he adds, his long legs easily matching my fastest stride as we round the corner toward our destination.

“I don't know,” I answer, without raising my eyes. I'm afraid he'll try to stop me if he sees me preparing to fight. Even my voice sounds grim. “But I have a good idea of where to start.”

I can only think of one way to stop Brothers, and that's to turn him from the hunter into the prey. It'll at least make it a lot harder to spend so much time breaking into my apartment if he's watching over his shoulder all the time. But none of it will matter if I can't discover where he's been hiding out.

“Are you sure you want to be a part of this?” I don't stop walking, but I'm ready in case Cam does. He should turn back now. It's the right thing—the smart thing—to do. “I'll understand if you don't.”

Cam doesn't respond and I shiver, afraid of what he'll say when he does. But his warm jacket drapes back around me again and I have my answer.

*   *   *

The bar is nearly empty. I guess it isn't exactly a Sunday afternoon hot spot. Other than the bartender, there is one guy passed out on a nearby table and another playing pool by himself in the back.

When I walk up, the bartender's bloodshot eyes go from me to Cam. He shrugs and presents us with two highly questionable glasses. A tag with the name
JIM
printed in large black letters hangs diagonally off the front of his shirt. “What'll ya have?”

“I need to know about one of your customers. His last name is Brothers and he's been in here more than once, sometimes with a young girl.” I keep my voice low, leaning across the bar so he can hear me.

I swear I see a flicker of recognition in his eyes at the name, but he turns away and rubs his grimy towel over a couple of glasses. “If you ain't payin', you need to leave.”

Digging in my pocket, I bring out a hundred-dollar bill and slap it on the bar. “Now do you remember him?”

The money disappears into Jim's pocket before I can blink, and he leans a little closer. His breath smells like he drinks more liquor than he pours for customers, and I fight the urge to take two big steps backward. “Yeah, I know him. That it?”

“No.” A dark thrill of anticipation sweeps through me. “Have you seen him recently?”

“Yeah, he comes in pretty regular.” Jim stuffs the corner of the towel into the waistband of his jeans, and I'm glad I didn't order anything to drink. “Don't talk to him more'n I have to though. We get some twisted customers in here.”

I hear a low chuckle from Cam behind me and he mutters, “No freakin' kidding.”

“He moved a little over a month ago and I'm trying to track him down. Any clue where he's living now?” I ask.

Jim shakes his head and his jowls keep moving when his face stops. “Nah. But come back with more money tomorrow and I'll introduce you to his buddy. He's always here on weekdays.”

I bend closer, pretend I can still breathe and my throat isn't threatening to close up just from being near him, and smile. Jim grins back and I see a couple of missing teeth on each side. “I want to surprise him. You don't mind keeping our chat a secret, do you, Jim?” I pull out another hundred and tap his chest with the corner.

“Nope. I'm good with secrets.”

“I bet you are.”

*   *   *

My mind is a jumbled mess as we walk back to my apartment. What we'd discovered at the library, plus Jim and the bar, made me want to take a hundred scalding hot showers. Even with Cam sleeping on the couch, my nightmares plague me. I'd awoken this morning, screaming, from a world filled with hanging knives, the Father, Brothers, and blood—so much blood. Sanda cowered in the corner as Cam tried to hold me, but I'd pushed him away. That's the answer. It's the only way to stay safe from the pain.

Only I'm not sure I want to be safe if pushing him away again and again is what it takes.

As he walks beside me, I can't meet his eyes. I'm pretty sure he'll find mine empty, haunted. I don't want him to pity me. I'm stronger than that.

“I'm confused.” The truth comes without thought. My brain is too overwhelmed to battle with honesty.

“I know.” Cam doesn't need me to clarify. This has been hanging between us like a dark cloud. He knows exactly what I'm referring to. “I was wrong. I don't know that I would've done anything different in those situations. You did the best you could with what you had and there is nothing wrong with that. I'm sorry.”

My relief on hearing his words isn't nearly as sweet as it should be. So many things have been poisoned between us. If I'd never told him about my past, if Sanda and I had never been in danger … There are so many ifs, and at the end of each is something I wish I could take from him right now. Something I've never asked for from anyone: a moment of solace, a moment of protection, of safety in his arms. I wish I could take it now with no consequence to either of us, but I know I can't. Ours is a world where the choices have already been made and we can't go back without risking us both.

Yet, even with me fighting him every step of the way, he's still here beside me, climbing the stairs to my apartment.

I only speak two words before I walk through the door he's holding open for me.

“Thank you.”

One fact remains after everything else settles. I will not let Cam or Sanda become collateral damage in the carnage of my life.

*   *   *

Sanda and Rachel skip ahead of us the entire way to school. I've never seen Sanda this happy. Cam went home to get some fresh clothes as long as I promised to stop by the studio and pick him up as soon as I'm done.

I lied.

“It's my first day. My real first day! Can you believe it?” Sanda comes back, squeezes my hand, and giggles.

“Yep. It's real.” I smile, and Janice laughs next to me as Sanda skips up to link arms with Rachel.

Rachel's excited squeal can probably be heard a block in any direction. “I'm so excited! First days are the best.”

“I want to walk home with you,” Sanda yells back to me. “You'll be there to pick me up from school, right?”

“Right.” My hands shake and my fingers slip as I struggle to bring the envelope out of my pocket and hold it in front of me. I'd mulled this over all night. Inside, it holds everything Janice will need if I ever stop coming home. The combination to my safe, a letter to Sanda, and instructions on what is in the safe and what to do with it. It's a just-in-case plan, and I hope she never has to use it. Reaching out, I press the envelope into Janice's hand.

“What's this?” She turns the envelope over, but it's blank on both sides.

“It's for you. If anything ever happens to me, please open it.” I plaster a grin across my face when Sanda looks back at me again.

“What do you mean ‘if anything happens to you'?” Taking her cues from me, Janice keeps smiling, too, but she grips the envelope anxiously.

“The person who hurt Sanda is back. I'm going to find a way to stop him.” I hope this is enough explanation for Janice, because it's the only one I am comfortable giving.

There are a million reasons to go after Brothers. I'd been running and hiding since I left the attic. I don't know if I can go back to that or force Sanda to live that way without losing the pieces of myself—the sanity, the security, the hope I've fought so hard to regain. On top of that is an intense desire to stop being a victim … to fight. Even if it's the last thing I do, I must make certain the man who has spent the last year hurting Sanda will never have the chance to put those scars on any other child.