Deadly

Copyright © 2013 Sarah N. Harvey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Harvey, Sarah N., 1950-
Deadly [electronic resource] / Sarah Harvey.
(Orca soundings)

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0366-4 (
PDF
) --
ISBN
978-1-4598-0367-1 (
EPUB
)

I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings (Online)
PS
8615.
A
764
D
41 2013          
jC
813'.6          
C
2012-907484-5

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number:
2012952956

Summary:
Amy may be a sinner, but she's not a coward.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Cover photography by Getty Images

In Canada:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 5626, Station B
Victoria, BC Canada
V8R 6S4

In the United States:
Orca Book Publishers
PO Box 468
Custer, WA USA
98240-0468

www.orcabook.com

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Contents

Chapter One: Amy

Chapter Two: Eric

Chapter Three: Amy

Chapter Four: Eric

Chapter Five: Amy

Chapter Six: Eric

Chapter Seven: Amy

Chapter Eight: Eric

Chapter Nine: Amy

Chapter Ten: Eric

Chapter Eleven: Amy

Chapter Twelve: Eric

Chapter Thirteen: Amy

Chapter Fourteen: Eric

Chapter Fifteen: Amy

Acknowledgments

Chapter One
Amy

I wake up in a white room. Not my room, which is the color of a robin's egg. Not Eric's room, which is navy blue (his mom said no to black) and smells like teenage boy. You know— sweat and junk food and unwashed sheets and other nasty stuff. I don't go there a lot. Eric says he likes my house better anyway. My mom often works late, the sheets are clean, there's always food in the fridge, and my older sister, Beth, is cool. My name is Amy. Our mother named us after the two youngest sisters in
Little Women
. To say my mother is a bookworm is an understatement. At least I wasn't named after the sister who dies.

I squint around the white room and wonder if I am in a hospital. But it's too quiet. I've been in the ER enough times in my sixteen years to know that it sounds like pain and smells like fear. All I hear in the white room is a faint hum. And the room smells like... nothing. No leftover cooking smells, no stale perfume, no wilting flowers. Nothing. I duck my head under the white duvet and inhale deeply. Familiar smells—cucumber body wash, lavender shampoo, a whiff of Mom's rose-scented lotion. She's a hugger. I think I can detect a hint of Eric's deodorant. He's a hugger too. I smile under the covers. Mom and Eric, both rubbing off on me. In totally different ways.

Why am I smiling? I don't know where I am, and I have a massive headache. I can't be hung over. I don't drink that much. Not anymore. Not since Beth's accident.

The bed I am lying in is very comfortable. If I wasn't starting to feel kind of freaked out, I'd roll over and go back to sleep in my white cocoon. I'm so tired. I stick my head out from under the covers and look around again, trying to focus, but everything is a bit blurry. When I try to sit up, a wave of nausea knocks me down. I stare at the ceiling for a while. Maybe for a minute. Maybe for an hour. It's hard to tell. My mouth is so dry. I turn my head and notice a bottle of water on a small table beside the bed. Very slowly, I reach out for it and prop myself up enough to drink. It takes all my strength to open the bottle. The first sip is so delicious. I tip the bottle back and chug as much as I can, as fast as I can. A lot of it goes down my chin and neck and onto my chest. I don't care. Nothing has ever tasted this good. For a minute anyway.

The nausea roars back, and I know I'm going to puke. I stand up and am almost flattened by a tsunami of dizziness. I steady myself against the white wall and feel my way along it until I reach a doorway. A doorway to what turns out to be a small white bathroom. I stagger over to the toilet and retch violently. When I am done, I pull some white towels off a rack, make a nest on the floor and pass out again. When I wake up, the nausea has passed, but my whole body aches. Every muscle. Every joint. Every bone. Even my hair hurts. And my toenails. I groan and drag myself up to lean against the wall. So far, so good. I wonder whose apartment I'm in. And how I got here. And what day it is. And why I'm alone. I stand in the bathroom doorway and look around. The apartment is one big room—a studio. A small kitchen is tucked into one corner of the room. There's a mini-fridge but no stove. The small round kitchen table has one chair. Three square white wicker baskets are lined up against the wall opposite the bed. Everything is white. And there are no windows. This freaks me out more than anything. Who builds an apartment with no windows? Who lives in one? And where is the light coming from? The room isn't dark, and the pot lights aren't on. I look up and realize that there is a double row of glass blocks where two of the walls meet the ceiling. Even if I could get up there, I wouldn't be able to see through the blocks.

From where I'm standing, I can see every inch of the place, but I call out, “Hello? Anybody here?” in case I've missed something—another door, a loft, a secret staircase. I am met with silence. I stagger over to the kitchen and open the fridge. It's jammed with Tetra Paks of milk and juice. There's a loaf of multigrain bread, a head of leafy lettuce, a few tomatoes, some carrots, a package of Kraft Singles, three apples and three oranges. My stomach lurches. Whoever has brought me here isn't planning on feeding me for long. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. Under the sink is a blue recycling bin, the only hit of color in the whole place.

One cupboard is full of paper plates, bowls and cups, all made from recycled material. Another cupboard reveals a selection of organic cereal. Buckwheat. Kamut. Ugh. There's a jar of peanut butter too. The kind I hate, made with sugar. One drawer holds bamboo cutlery. Another holds small packets of sugar, salt, pepper, ketchup, mustard, mayo and soy sauce—the kind you get in fast-food restaurants. Weird. A third drawer is full of lined yellow notepads and Sharpies. Weirder.

I head back to the bathroom and find miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner in the glass shower stall (there's no bathtub), some small bars of wrapped soap and a selection of sample-size body lotions and hand creams. The counter beside the sink holds Kleenex, a pink toothbrush (ooh—more color!) and a travel-size tube of toothpaste. Under the sink is a stack of toilet paper. Am I in a hotel? It feels impersonal, like no one lives here.

I'm starting to feel dizzy again—and scared. I need to sit down. I make my way slowly to the table and collapse into the molded-plastic chair. On the table is something I hadn't noticed before: a white envelope. With my name on it.

Chapter Two
Eric

Amy isn't answering her phone or responding to texts. That's not like her at all. Even when we're fighting, she always wants to talk. We joke about the four words no guy ever wants to hear: We need to talk. With Amy, it's all about communication. She says it's because she watched her parents' marriage shrivel up and die. Like a plant getting no water, she says. And talking is the water on the plant of a relationship. She actually says shit like that. Her parents broke up after Beth's accident. So we talk. A lot. When we can't talk, we text. So this isn't like her. Not like her at all.

I call her house and Beth answers.

“Is Amy there?” I ask.

“Don't think so,” Beth says. “Hang on. I'll check.” I can hear her yelling Amy's name. Then she comes back on the line. “Nope, not here. And she was gonna drive me to physio. When you talk to her, tell her to call me.”

“Okay,” I say. After I hang up, I start calling Amy's friends—our friends. People who were at the party last night. No one has seen her, and almost everyone asks me why the hell I'm calling so early.

“It's eleven o'clock already,” I say, over and over.

“Dude,” Cole says, “she's probably at that chick Shawna's place. They were dancing last night. Girl on girl. It was hot. I thought you were gonna get some three-way action.”

“Shut up,” I say, even though I agree. It
was
hot, and I had thought about the possibilities. None of us really know Shawna. She doesn't go to our school, and I don't have her number. No idea where she lives. Or if she'd ever do a three-way.

My phone rings. Amy's home number.

“Where have you been?” I say when I pick up.

“Uh, Eric. It's me, Beth. Mom just got up. She's asking where Amy is. Any luck with your friends?”

“Eric? Eric?” Amy's mom comes on the line. Another kind of three-way. Gross. How can I even be thinking about stuff like that when Amy is missing? Missing. She can't be. She's probably at Shawna's house, wherever that is.

“Hi, Ms. Lessard. I haven't seen Amy since last night. At the party.”

“What party?”

Oh shit. Amy told her mom she was going to Monica's place to work on a dance routine. Ms. Lessard is very down on parties. It occurs to me that
down on
is the opposite of
down with
. I smile to myself. Amy would think that was funny too.

“Eric? What party? Where?”

When I don't answer right away she says, “Eric, I don't care about the party. I just need to know where she is.”

“I left the party early—we had a fight.”

“A fight?”

“Yeah. No big deal. I wanted to go, she wanted to stay. She said she'd call a cab to get home.”

“You left her there. Alone.” It sounds more like a statement than an accusation. But I still feel the need to defend myself. Ms. Lessard is always nice to me, but I don't think she trusts me, exactly.

“Her friends were there. And she wasn't drunk or anything. And she'd never get a ride with someone who'd been drinking. Never. You know that.”

There's silence on the other end of the line, as if both Beth and her mother are holding their breath. Remembering.

“Call me if you hear anything, Eric,” Ms. Lessard finally says. “Anything at all.”

I ride my bike over to the party house—or what I think is the party house. It's in a neighborhood I don't usually go to. The houses are old and run-down and chopped into apartments. The front yards are mostly paved over and filled with crap—rusty car parts, battered kids' toys. Lots of chainlink fencing and bars over windows. But there's the house. I know it's the right one because I remember the neon Bud Light sign in the front window. It's still lit, as if the bar is still open. But there is no bar. And the front door is opened by a tired-looking woman with a toddler clinging to her knee.

“What do you want?” she says.

“Uh, I'm looking for my girlfriend.”

“You one of Devon's friends?” She squints at me. Not unfriendly. More like she needs glasses. She's not as old as I first thought. Maybe in her late teens.