Deadly (6 page)

“If you know what's good for you, Eric, you'll forget about Amy.”

“You're blackmailing me into being your boyfriend?”

“Whatever it takes,” she says.

“You can't be serious,” I say.

“Serious as herpes,” she says. “Amy's not good for you. You'll see that soon.”

I stand in the doorway and watch her prance into the kitchen.

“Want a beer?” She opens the fridge, and in the moment when her back is turned, I realize she has left her phone on the hall table. I slide it into the back pocket of my jeans and say, “I gotta go. Mom needs the car.”

“You always were a mama's boy,” Nicki says, taking a swig of beer.

“Yeah, that's me,” I say as I leave.

“Good talk,” Nicki says. “Call me, okay?”

I nod as I drive away. She waves and goes back into the house.

I am officially in crazy-town.

As soon as I get home, I check out Nicki's phone. The two people she's in constant contact with are Shawna the mystery girl and Jason Broderman, Amy's old boyfriend. I'm not surprised to see Shawna's name, but Jason's? That's just weird. I had no idea he and Nicki were friends. I scan the texts, hoping to get a clue to where Shawna lives. Or where she goes to school. No luck. Jason's texts read like they're from a really dumb six-year-old. A six-year-old obsessed with getting hammered and getting laid. I can't believe Amy ever went out with him. He can't even spell wtf.

I scroll through Nicki's photos. Nicki in a bikini. Nicki and her friends making that stupid duck face. Nicki and Shawna drinking vodka coolers and giving guys lap dances. Same old Nicki. I check her videos. More parties. More duck faces. Then I open a video of Jason screwing someone in a bathtub. The girl is Jeremy Bryson's little sister, Vanna, who looks like she might have passed out. She's only fourteen. Jason is groaning, “Amy, Amy, Amy” as he screws her. Rapes her, really. What I'm seeing makes me twice as scared for Amy. And I know I'll have to report the rape to the cops. Jason can't get away with that. I want to kill him—but I force myself to go back to the photos. I'm so freaked out, I almost miss the shot of Amy and Shawna kissing outside Devon and Cara's house. Next to them is a dark BMW hybrid suv. I enlarge the picture. Amy's eyes are glazed over, and it looks as if Shawna is holding her up while they kiss. Jason is standing by the car, watching the girls, his hand down his pants. The next shot is of Jason and Shawna shoving Amy into the backseat. After that—nothing.

I put the phone down and go into the bathroom and puke. Then I lie on my bed and try to stop shaking. What I saw doesn't make sense to me. Jason, Nicki and Shawna drugged Amy and took her somewhere? But where? And why? And what was Jason doing to her? Would he rape her too? I can't get the sound of Jason saying Amy's name out of my head. But whatever he is doing, I have to stop him.

I go online to search for Jason's address, using the home number I found on Nicki's phone. I hit the jackpot right away. Broderman isn't exactly a common name. I use Google Street View to check out the address. He lives in a luxury condo development near the lake. I remember Amy saying something about how loaded his parents were. How they made a fortune tearing down nice old buildings and putting up big ugly ones. So the fancy condo makes sense. I need to get over there. I turn off Nicki's phone and stash it in my bottom drawer, under some old T-shirts. It's evidence of at least two crimes. I should take it to the cops right away, but I don't have time. I grab the car keys and am about to duck out the back door when I hear Mom say, “Oh good, you're back. I need the car.”

Chapter Thirteen
Amy

I don't know what time it is when I wake up. A bit of gray light is coming through the glass blocks. I stare up at the place where I've been stabbing the grout, and I see something that makes me sit up and rub my eyes. The longer I look, the more certain I am. There's a sliver of brighter light between two of the glass blocks. Maybe it's moonlight. Maybe it's light from a streetlamp. It doesn't matter. I lie down and watch the stripe of light get brighter and brighter. The sun must be coming up. I eat an apple and a peanut butter sandwich, washed down with mango juice.

Then I take all the bras from the pile of fresh clothing and tie them into one long rope. I try not to think about the fact that whoever locked me up knows the kind of bra I wear and my size. At the end of the bra-rope I tie a pair of yoga pants. Then, just to be on the safe side, I sit down to write what I hope is my last essay. It's going to be a three-in-one. Pride, lust, gluttony.

Pride goeth before a fall.
My gramma, Dad's mom, used to say that to me. When I was little, I thought she meant a real fall—like off a ladder or something. It took me awhile to figure out that she wasn't talking about being proud of, say, scoring a goal in soccer. Or getting an A on a test. She was talking about being arrogant or boastful about it. And guess what? She was right. I found out the hard way in grade seven. I won a dance competition and got on
TV
. And I made sure everyone knew about it. And then all the girls I danced with stopped talking to me. And the girls at school called me a stuck-up bitch and a whore, among other things. They said I was sleeping with my lesbian dance teacher. In grade seven! To be honest, falling off a ladder would have hurt less. Anyway, I learned to shut up about stuff I do well. But it's weird—I still have a rep for being a bitch and a slut, even though I don't go around bragging anymore. And Eric still has a rep for being violent. I wonder how long that will last.

Speaking of Eric, I might as well get lust out of the way. Was it lust that made me want him? Maybe. Jason was so lame. Always crying afterward. And moaning my name. And telling me how much he loved me and how he'd do anything for me. Except figure out how to last more than three minutes. Standing next to Eric made the hairs stand up on my arms. Still does. That's all I have to say, other than I'm not on board with lust being a sin.

And gluttony? Well, it's disgusting, for sure. I mean, look at how many obese people there are. But a sin? There a lot worse things than stuffing yourself with Big Macs or KFC. Like hurting an animal or killing a child. Or just not caring about anything. What's that called? Apathy. That's a bad one. So here's my updated list of the Seven
Deadly Sins:

1. Murder/violence

2. Hurting animals or children

3. Wrecking the environment

4. Greed

5. War

6. Gossip/trash-talking

7. Apathy about any of the above

Notice that only one—greed—was on the original list. That's because being greedy for wealth and power can lead to all the other things on my list.

I put the pen down and flex my fingers. Still sore. So are my shoulders, my back, my legs. I fold the paper up and “mail” it through the slot. I write
DAY 5
on the wall. Next to it I draw a fat dude with an erection, falling off a ladder. Three sins in one. It makes me laugh. Writing on walls is awesome. It's like being three again. When I get out of here, I'm going to paint one of the walls in my room with that chalkboard paint. Then I can write on the walls all the time.

I tuck the Sharpie into my bra and tie my bra-rope around my waist before I climb the tower for what I hope is the last time. When I get close to the glass blocks, I feel something I haven't felt in days—fresh air on my face. It feels amazing, and it smells slightly like...water. And beer. The lake. I'm near the brewery at the end of the lake. I attack the grout like a maniac. Sweat pours down my face and back. My arm feels like it's going to fall off, but I keep going. The grout is coming away quickly now. Two sides of the block are free, then the third. I pull the Sharpie out of my bra. I hope it will write on glass. It does. I write in block letters
LOOK UP
and then my name,
AMY LESSARD
.

Then I get to work on the fourth side of the block. When I can see sunlight all the way around the block, I start to shove it out. I scream and swear at it as if it is my captor. “Bastard! Asshole! Jerk-off!” At last it starts to move. Slowly. Really slowly. When I get it to the edge, I stop pushing and tie my bra-rope to my toilet rod. I'm ready. Or as ready as I can be. I give one last shove to the glass block and it falls away, leaving me a small window. Way too small to climb out of, but not too small to get my hand and arm out. I inch closer to the window and shove the toilet rod out. The rope dangles from it and just before I start to scream, I hear the most beautiful sound in the world—the glass block hitting something and, a second later, a car alarm going off. I wave my bra-flag and scream, “Up here! Up here! Up here! Amy Lessard! Up here!”

I scream until the car alarm stops. And then I scream some more. I wave my bra-flag. I cry. And then I hear a new sound. Footsteps, followed by someone banging on the door and calling my name. There's a scuffle, and suddenly the door bursts open. I sink to my knees on the mattress, sobbing. It's over.

Chapter Fourteen
Eric

Once we're inside the room, I tackle Jason from behind and wrestle him to the floor. Amy is huddled on a mattress, crying, but as soon as Jason is down, she jumps up and starts to kick him. She is barefoot, and it must hurt every time her foot connects. But rage makes her ignore the pain.

“You bastard,” she screams. “Did you do this to me?” She looks over at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Her cheeks are streaked with tears. “Did he?”

I nod.

He tries to roll away from her, but I've got his arms behind his back. One of her kicks connects with his balls. He shrieks and curls into a ball. Amy kicks him in the face.

“I need to tie him up,” I say, struggling to hold on to him. He's a big guy—bigger than me, but not stronger. “Then I'll call the cops.”

Amy stops kicking him and runs over to a weird pile of furniture next to the wall. She grabs something and tosses it to me. “I don't need this anymore,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. She collapses on the mattress again while I tie Jason up with what appear to be bras. I don't ask. This is so messed up. I just want to get her out.

Once I have Jason hog-tied, I pick up his keys from where they've fallen on the floor. “Let's go,” I say to Amy. “I can call the cops from outside.”

“Not before he tells me why,” she says. She gets up and crouches next to Jason. “Why, asshole? Why did you do this?”

“I love you, Amy,” Jason whimpers. “I just wanted you to love me again.”

“So you thought you'd kidnap me?”

“I thought if you had some time to yourself, away from him”—he jerks his head toward me—“you'd remember how good we were together, how much you loved me.”

“I never loved you, Jason.” Amy leans closer to him and spits in his face. “I barely even liked you.”

“I wasn't going to hurt you, Amy. I was always going to let you go.”

Amy rocks back on her heels and stares at him. “You're insane, you know that? Why the essays? The seven deadly sins.” I have no idea what she's talking about. I can't even remember what the seven deadly sins are. I want to leave. Get her away from here. From him.

Jason squirms and mutters, “I saw it in a movie. I thought it was cool. And scary.”

“You thought it was cool. And scary,” Amy repeats, shaking her head. Her hair, which is usually shiny and thick, is lank and matted.

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I'm sorry. Nicki said it would work. She said she'd get Eric back, and you'd be with me again.”

“Nicki?” Amy sounds dazed.

“So Nicki's the criminal mastermind?” I ask.

Jason nods. “It was all her idea.”

“Even the rape?”

Amy gasps. “What rape?” Her face is ashen, her eyes wide. She gets up and backs away from Jason, tripping on the mattress.

“Vanna Bryson,” I say. “Jeremy's little sister. Jason raped her. Nicki took pictures. It's all on her phone. Which I have.”

Jason groans. “It wasn't rape, man.”

“Looked like rape to me,” I say. “Statutory. Guess the cops can figure that out.” I pick Amy up off the mattress, where she has curled herself into a ball. She smells bad, but I don't care. I look around the room before we leave. There is writing all over one wall. And pictures. Crazy pictures. An animal, a devil, a treasure chest, a lightning bolt and a fat man with a huge hard-on. The tower of furniture leads to a small opening in a row of glass blocks. I can see a little square of blue sky. I carry her out of the room, locking the door behind me. She buries her face in my shoulder as the elevator drifts silently down to the ground floor. Once we're outside, I put her down on a low stone wall and drape my jacket around her shoulders.

“What is this place?” she says. Her teeth are starting to chatter.

“Some building Jason's parents own,” I say as I call the police and ask for Detective Rayburn. “It's unoccupied. I guess that's why no one saw Jason bringing you here.”

“How did you find me?”

“I followed him. He wasn't exactly hiding. Just being Jason. You know— stupid.”

“But how did you know it was him?”

“Nicki took pictures of you and Shawna outside the party. And of Shawna and Jason putting you in the Beemer. You were pretty out of it. My guess would be Shawna put something in your drink.”

“I don't remember anything past getting in the car,” Amy says. “Nothing at all.”

“I would have been here sooner, but Mom needed the car.” The minute I say it, I realize how lame it sounds. “I mean, I had to have a car to follow him. But it looks like you figured a way out anyway.”

Amy is silent.

Detective Rayburn finally comes on the line, and I say, “I found her. I found Amy. We're over by the lake. Near the brewery.” I give him the address.