Deadly (2 page)

I don't know anyone named Devon, but I nod. If Devon threw the party, I need to talk to him.

She sighs. “You help trash my house last night?” She swings the door wide open, and I can see the mess inside.

It smells vile, like piss and booze and cigarettes and vomit.

“No way,” I say. “I left early. I'm really sorry though.”

She shrugs and picks up the toddler. “Not your fault, I guess. No girls here though. Just my lazy-ass brother.”

“Can I talk to him?”

She steps aside and motions toward a door decorated with a Tupac poster. I bang on the door and a muffled voice says, “Eff off, Cara.”

Cara steps up to the door and opens it. “Watch your mouth, Devon,” she says. “You got a visitor. And it's time to clean up.”

Devon groans and rolls over in his bed, turning his back to the door.

“Unca Devvy sleepy,” the toddler says.

“Not anymore, sweetie,” Cara replies. She hands me the kid and steps across the room to yank her brother out of bed. She's pretty strong—or else he's wasted. Either way, Devon stumbles past me as Cara drags him into a small messy kitchen. I'm still holding the toddler, who starts to cry. Cara says to Devon, “This guy's looking for his girlfriend. Tell him what you know and then get your shoes on—there's broken glass everywhere. Haley and I are going to her Water Babies class—and this place better be clean by the time we get back. Understood?”

Devon nods as his sister takes Haley from me and leaves the room. He slumps in the chair and puts his head on the table.

“I was here last night,” I say. “With my girlfriend, Amy.” No response. “She was the one dancing with Shawna.”

Devon lifts his head off the table, looks at me with bloodshot eyes and grins. “That girl is hot.”

“Which girl?”

“Yours. Amy.”

Amy is hot, and there's no point fighting every guy who says so. I learned that early on. So all I say is, “Did you see who she left with?”

“Nah. I was busy. In my room, ya know.”

“You know Shawna though, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Got a number for her?”

Devon pulls out his cell phone and scrolls to the number. He holds the phone up to me, and I enter the number into my phone.

“Can I give you my number?” I ask. “In case you hear anything?”

Devon nods sleepily and hands me his phone. I enter my home and cell numbers and give the phone back.

“Thanks,” I say as I step over a bong on my way to the door.

Chapter Three
Amy

My hands are shaking as I open the envelope and unfold the letter, which is printed on plain white paper. No fancy font, no signature. Black words on a white page.

Dear Amy,
Don't be afraid. I don't want to hurt you. You don't know it, but you need me. If you do as I ask, you will only be here a week. If not—well, I know you are a smart girl. In a week you will be free to go back to your life, if you still want to. There are clean clothes in the baskets. With any luck, you will be out of here before you need to do laundry. I hope the food is to your liking. The lights go on and off automatically. So does the heat and air conditioning.

Your task is this: Every day, write a short essay (one page, single-spaced) on one of the Seven Deadly Sins and the part it has played in your life. In case you have forgotten, the seven deadly sins are lust, greed, gluttony, sloth, envy, wrath and pride. Paper and pens are in a drawer in the kitchen. When you have finished each essay, please “mail” it through the slot in the door. The door is reinforced steel, so you will only hurt yourself if you try to break it down. The apartment is soundproofed; screaming will not help you. Please take this assignment seriously, and do not submit more than one essay per day.

I look forward to reading your first essay.

Of course, there is no signature. I look up from the letter and stare at the door. I hadn't noticed the slot before. It's tiny, about the size of two cigarettes laid end to end. My heart is pounding and my mouth is dry. I cling to the words
I don't want to hurt you
, but the terror is coming—I can feel it in my bone marrow. And in my bowels. I throw the letter down on the table and lurch to the bathroom. There is no laxative like fear. My entire body is sweating, as if I have run a marathon. Then I start to shake, and I sit sobbing on the toilet. I am a prisoner. My prison is a white room with no windows. And I have to write my way out. I hate writing.

When my guts stop cramping, I splash my face with cold water and dry it on a white hand towel. For some reason, seeing streaks of mascara on the towel makes me feel better. There is no mirror in the bathroom. I probably look like shit, but that's the least of my worries. There's a big magnet on our fridge at home that says,
Crying is all right in its own way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.
The guy who wrote the
Narnia
books said that. Not sure what he had to cry about. After my dad moved out, Mom cried for days, locked away in her room. Then one day she just stopped, and I haven't seen her cry since. A single tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away. I need to decide what to do. I won't stop being afraid until I'm out of here, but I'll have to live with that.

The phrase
I'm not going to hurt you
keeps running through my head. If it's true, then all I have to do is write seven stupid essays and I will be set free. If it's not true, then I need to protect myself and figure out a way out of my prison. It would help if my brain didn't feel like sludge. Dark and thick and slow-moving. I look around the main room for something to block the door. There is no heavy furniture other than the mattress on the bed. I grab a corner and drag it toward the door. It is very heavy. Or I am very weak. Or both. But at least if my kidnapper tries to come into the room to rape me or kill me, I'll know about it.

When I get the mattress in place, I kneel on it and try and peer through the slot, but I can‘t see anything. And it's way too small for me to get my hand through. And what good would it do to wave my hand out a letter slot anyway? Even though the letter said not to, I scream into the slot. “Help! Help!” I feel ridiculous, but I keep screaming until I go hoarse. Then I pound on the door for a while, but nothing happens except that my hands start to bleed. I flop back onto the mattress and close my eyes.

When I wake up, the light in the room is different. Brighter. It feels like it might be lunchtime, so I make a cheese sandwich. The first few bites make me gag, but I force myself to swallow. If someone attacks me, I will need to have the strength to fight back. I wish I'd taken karate instead of dance. What good was a perfect split leap going to do me now? My dad used to watch this old
TV
show about a guy who could make a bomb out of a gum wrapper and a bungee cord and a single match. I wonder what he would do with bamboo cutlery, peanut butter and a wicker basket. I sure can't think of anything.

I need something metal. And sharp. I look around the room again. All the furniture is made of molded plastic. I stand up and hurl the night table against the wall, hoping it will shatter into sharp shards. It bounces. I smash the chair into the kitchen table, making a tiny dent.

I am suddenly very thirsty. When I open the fridge to get some juice, there it is, right in front of me—a white metal rack. I throw the little boxes of milk and juice on the floor and yank out the rack. I don't know how I'm going to get the metal rods out of the frame, but I have to try. My hands are still sore and swollen from pounding on the door, so I stomp on the rack until my feet hurt as much as my hands do. I wonder where my shoes are. And my phone. I wonder if anybody has missed me yet. I sit at the table and stare at the dent.

Gradually, the room darkens and the pot lights come on. The quiet is deafening. No street noise. No voices. No footsteps. Just the faint hum of what I figure is some kind of air-exchange system. I look up and see a small vent near the ceiling. No help there. I'll work on the fridge rack later. All I can do right now is write my first essay.

Chapter Four
Eric

It's been almost twenty-four hours since I last saw Amy. Ms. Lessard has called the cops, checked the hospitals and contacted Amy's dad. He says he hasn't seen Amy in weeks. I have been on the phone for hours. I call girls she dances with, girls she plays soccer with, girls who like to party. Guys she used to date, guys who want to get with her, guys on the swim team, guys on the chess team. It's a long list. No one has seen her. No one knows Shawna's last name or where she lives. Shawna isn't answering her phone. I leave message after message, text after text.
Call me. Call me. Call me.

I fall asleep in the media room. Yes, that's what Mom and Dad call it. Not a
TV
room, a media room. Massive
HD
-
TV
, Bose surround sound, blackout shades, leather couches and chairs, fully stocked bar, commercial popcorn machine. My dad likes his toys. Not that he's ever around to enjoy them. Mom never comes down here—she prefers her office, on the top floor. And her white wine. And her tennis coach, Axel. Really. I bet his real name is Mike.

My phone wakes me up, and I grab it off the marble coffee table. I'm disappointed to see Ms. Lessard's cell number. Where the hell is Shawna?

“Have you heard from that girl? Shawna?” she says after we establish that neither of us has heard from Amy.

I sit up and try to focus. “No. I keep trying, but nothing yet. What do the police say? Are they looking for Amy?”

There's a pause before Ms. Lessard answers. It's like she's on a five-second delay. “They usually wait twenty-four hours to investigate a missing person, but since Amy's so young...” Her voice trails off. “They still think she's probably with a friend, but they're not taking any chances.” Another pause before she says, “The police are on their way to see you, Eric. It's only a formality, a process of elimination. No one thinks you've done anything to her.”

“They always suspect the boyfriend, right?” I say. I'd never hurt Amy. Ms. Lessard knows that. Doesn't she?

As if she's read my mind, she says, “I know you'd never hurt Amy, Eric. I told them that. They're just being, you know, thorough.”

“Thorough,” I repeat. The doorbell rings. I can hear my mom's heels clicking across the floor. “Gotta go, Ms. L,” I say. “I think the cops are here. Thanks for the heads up.” I end the call just as my mom's voice comes over the intercom.

“Eric. The police are here. Something about Amy. Please come up. We're in the kitchen.”

When I get there, she is offering the two cops—one man, one woman— coffee. When they refuse, she pours herself a glass of white wine and says, “Should I stay?”

“Might be a good idea, ma'am,” the man says, “since your son's a minor.”

“How long will this take?” she says, looking at her watch.

“Not long, if Eric cooperates,” the woman replies.

Mom laughs gaily, as if she's at a cocktail party, flirting with one of Dad's cronies. “Eric's very cooperative, aren't you, sweetie?” She perches on a stool by the counter and pats the stools on either side of her. “Make yourselves comfortable, officers. Eric, tell them what they want to know.” She winks at the man, who blushes. Both officers stay standing.

“When did you last see Amy, son?” the man asks.

I hate it when men call me “son.” My own parents never call me that. Why should anyone else?

“Last night,” I tell him. “At a party on Washington Avenue.”

“We heard there was a fight. Between you and Amy.”

“Where'd you hear that?” I say.

“Doesn't matter. Is it true?”

“Yeah. But it was no big deal. She wanted to stay and dance. I didn't. Like I said, no big deal.”

“What time was this?”

I think for a minute. We had gone to the party at around ten. Had a few drinks. Danced a bit. It was boring. I wanted to be alone with Amy. The music was way too loud, and everyone but me was on their way to getting wasted. Including Amy.

“I didn't check my watch. Probably around midnight.”

The woman writes something in a notebook, and Mom takes a sip of her drink.

“Are you the jealous type, Eric?” the woman asks.

“Jealous? No. Not really.”

“I hear your girlfriend was very attractive. And popular.”

“Yeah. She was. Is.” Why are they referring to her in the past tense? She isn't dead. I know she isn't.

“So that didn't bother you?”

“Not really. She was—is—friendly.”

“Friendly.” The woman turns the word over in her mouth like a hard candy.

“Yeah. As far as I know, popularity's not a crime.”

Mom snorts, and the male cop raises his eyebrows at her.

“What did you do after you left the party, son?”

“I came home. Went to sleep.”

“How did you get home?”

“I walked.”

“From Washington Avenue? That's a long way.”

I shrug. “I like walking.”

“Anybody see you?”

“See me what?”

“Walking.”

“I guess so. I mean, there were cars going by.”

“And did you speak to your parents when you got in?”

“No. It was late. Dad's out of town. I didn't want to disturb Mom.”

The cop turns toward Mom. “Did you hear Eric come in, ma'am?”

“Afraid not,” Mom says. “I took a pill around midnight. Dead to the world until this morning. Sorry, sweetie,” she says to me.

I shrug again. The officers exchange a glance that must mean the interview is over. The woman closes her notebook. The man puts a business card on the granite countertop. “Call anytime,” he says. “If you hear anything. Either of you.”