If You Wrong Us (11 page)

“Jesus, Becca.” I bury my head in my hands, completely lost. “This is so fucked up.”

“Fucked up?” she asks, her lips turning up in the corners. “Or brilliant? This is what we call increasing the odds.”

Welcome to Hush

Responsible:

I did it because of love. Isn’t that always the reason? In my case, unfortunately, I loved more. And that’s not a good feeling. It’s not equal, and there’s nothing that feels worse than an imbalance. Luckily, I was willing to do almost anything to level the playing field. To get us on equal footing.

It’s common sense. Basic math, really.

Though prediction, analysis, and statistics should not be mistaken for control.

I learned that the hard way.

17

B
ECCA

I
t wasn’t easy to break up with Travis, especially being in lockdown. Not that I was there long. My parents had read something about increased suicide rates for twins who lose their other half; in reality, the findings from this supposed study said that the increase in suicide was really quite minuscule and the number of subjects included in the analysis was far too low to hold any validity. To use Brit’s words, it was bunk. But my parents didn’t care. When they found me in the fetal position in the special waiting room after my visit with Ethan, they thought I was having a breakdown and decided they weren’t taking any chances with their remaining progeny.

It was either that or they simply couldn’t deal with me.

What my parents didn’t know, that day they dropped me off on the infamous fourth floor, was that I’d just dealt with a message from Brit’s murderer. Something sure to make the most stable person snap. Unfortunately, or predictably, Ethan was nowhere to be found once Nurse Julie showed up. He (and his daisies) disappeared, so I looked like the delusional one.

For three days I sat in a semi-sedated state—sleeping, daydreaming, and plotting. Once the medication wore off, I vowed never to feel like that again. Out of control. I wouldn’t let my
feelings
get the best of me again. I wasn’t weak or stupid. I was driven. Determined. Focused. Yes, from that point forward, I’d hold on to my anger and use it to right all the wrongs, to make things even again. As Isaac Newton once said, “To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction.” As I sat in that place where life and death fought every single second, I began to formulate my reaction.

Sadly, a hospital stay was nothing new for me. My parents were frequently concerned about my “behavior.” I’d started seeing a psychiatrist when I was thirteen. It was just another thing that Brit convinced them to do, despite the fact that my little meltdowns always came after she’d screwed me over in some way. I was never good about handling her—never could manage it. My punishment? Psychiatric help.

“Rebecca,” Mom would say, using my given name as she started one of her many speeches on the subject while I tried to conceal my laughter. As if using my full name would make me take her seriously.

“We know the bond between you and Brit is strong, but you have to remember that you are your own person,” she’d say. Followed by, “Your worth isn’t connected to your sister.” And closing with, “You need to focus on yourself instead of being so worried about what Brit is doing all the time.”

I’d heard various forms of that lecture over the years and was forced to see the doctor whenever Mom thought it was time for a “tune-up.” I can’t blame her. After my first few sessions, the doctor tossed around all the key words that would put Mom on high alert. Words like “obsessive,” “compulsive,” “detached,” “depressed,” “anxious,” and “narcissistic.” Basically every parent’s nightmare.

So I’d go to see the doctor to appease my mother. The result was always the same: inconclusive. My condition wasn’t serious enough—or the doctor wasn’t confident enough in her diagnosis—for medication, so the solution was talk therapy and group meetings.
That
was brutal enough, but after we lost Brit, we added all these sessions about surviving the loss of your twin. Even in death my sister continued to take center stage.

The sessions didn’t last, and in the months that passed, my mental health became a fading issue in the Waters household. Simply getting through the day was the best we could hope for.

Once I was free from the Nut Hut, and my parents were off suicide watch, I went to work. First order of business? Terminating my relationship with Travis Kent.

I wanted him rattled. Looking back, I guess I could’ve stayed with him and let him think he had the upper hand before making a surprise attack that would shatter his world. Then I thought,
that would be too easy for this scum
. I wanted him worried, paranoid. I wanted him to get sloppy. That’s why I took my time.

And it took some doing to break up with him—a little legal work, if you will. He didn’t go away easily. Not until that December day when I told him I had evidence that put him at the scene of the accident and I was going to the police with it.

He believed me.

When I went on to mention other little theories about his motive and opportunity, he panicked. He’d been through the court system enough times; he was fluent in legalese. He denied and backpedaled and made excuses like any guilty party would. This definitely was not the untouchable Travis Kent I’d come to know.

But then he had the nerve to threaten me. Well, let’s just say that he shouldn’t have done that.

“I’ll tell them you were part of it,” he said in the darkened corridor of the school where he used to steal me away for a kiss or touch—something he always needed more than I did. “That you were part of the whole thing.”

“Doubt that’ll work, since the only person who knew about us is dead.” I chuckled, keeping a safe distance between us.

“It’ll be my word against yours.” He slammed his hand against the wall.

“You think that will work with your record?” I asked, unflinching. It was clear he hadn’t thought it through.

“It may.” He shrugged as he tried to regain his composure.

“Do you know how many of Brit’s friends would testify against you? All I’ll have to do is plant the seed. You were obsessed with her. You couldn’t have her. You chased her off the road. The girls would eat it up.”

“Do you know how many people I could get to say you hated your sister?” he countered.

It was either a standoff or a game. But one thing was certain—our relationship was over.

It was the first step.

Who would make the next move?

It didn’t really matter to me. Point was, I was ready to play. And I always won.

18

J
OHNNY

T
he car ride is uncomfortable the rest of the drive. Ethan is still knocked out. I don’t have a clue about the drug in the syringe. Becca said it was best to keep some details secret, in case something goes wrong and I have to talk to police. But what about Becca? How is she protected? Why didn’t we talk about what she would do if questioned?

She pulls the car in as close as we can to our holding place—the ruins.

Detroit has become known for its abandoned homes and businesses, churches and schools, factories and shops. Some have been out of use for so long that they’re being taken over by Mother Nature. Grass, plants, even trees have grown inside, around, and over the cement and wood and brick. It’d be pretty cool if it weren’t so depressing. We call them the ruins. Yes, Detroit is the modern-day Rome, and Becca and I are modern-day gladiators fighting for our lives. Or maybe Ethan and Travis are, and Becca and I are just the cowards manipulating everything from the stands for our entertainment.

The ruins have many purposes in the city. The homeless, people down on their luck, and runaways squat in the open structures. Some people use the buildings to get extra cash, stripping them of anything of value—like copper piping, fixtures, furniture, you name it—and then selling off the pieces. I know of a few locations that are used for underground fighting events. But my favorite? High school parties. We’ve had some of the most epic benders in the larger spots—sometimes with live music.

And because the ruins are so popular, and some locations are really busy (or dangerous), Becca gave me the job of finding the place for our negotiations with Travis. Safe, remote, not too far from home … with a room where we could contain a person should his confession take longer than expected.

That was the gist of our entire plan.
Get Travis to confess.

It was only a few weeks into our investigation when Travis Kent became a suspect. Becca told me that he’d been hooking up with Brit on the down-low. She also knew that her sister was trying to end it. That’s where Brit was before the accident—at Travis Kent’s home. Becca didn’t tell me everything—she said she still felt obligated to protect Brit’s privacy—but she was positive that Travis was to blame for the car wreck.

She said he’d threatened Brit all the time when they were together. She’d overheard him at the house. And after, she heard him bragging about it to one of his freaky gamer friends.

“I understand if you don’t want to get involved,” she said to me. “But I can’t let my sister’s killer walk free.”

She had this accusing tone—as if she cared more about losing her sister than I cared about losing my mom. I wasn’t having it.

“And I won’t let my mother’s killer walk, either,” I countered.

So began our pact to make Travis Kent pay.

“You should take the pawn over there,” Becca says now, shaking me from my memory.

Of course, he’s not Ethan to her. He’s just the pawn.

I know what she’s trying to do, but holding this kid at a distance isn’t going to work. Not for me.

She points from Ethan to the streetlamp. “It’s time to send a message to our opponent. The game has begun.”

I open the door to the backseat and slide my arms under Ethan’s pits, dragging him out of the car. He’s about his brother’s height. Tall for a middle school kid, but scrawny under his bulky sweatshirt. His head plops back and rests on his shoulder and I can’t help but stare. No visible Adam’s apple on his exposed neck and not a trace of stubble on his skin. He’s still a boy—an overstretched baby.

I set him down by the light and prop him up per Becca’s instructions.

My heart squeezes in my chest. This is so wrong. I wonder what I would do to somebody if they did the same thing to Cassie. But I know I can’t go there right now. We are simply doing what we have to do. It’s what I keep telling myself.
It’s just a game. Only a game.

Yet the battered face and bruised body that’s currently leaning up against the lamppost tells a very different story. We’ve stopped here because we need light, and Becca wants to alert Travis. But I want to delay as long as possible. Where we’re going next is anything but pleasant.

“Christ, what’s that smell?” I ask, trying not to dry heave.

“Urine and feces,” Becca answers easily. Unaffected. “I’m sure the pawn defecated on himself during our struggle. It’s pretty common in this type of situation.”

The fact that she’d know this makes me go cold.

“Here,” she says, handing me the newspaper. “Just like we planned to do with Travis.”

We planned to document everything with Travis. Take photos with dates—mark the moment when we took him hostage—in case we needed it later. Now, even though our hostage has changed, the plan has not.

Holding my breath, I unfold today’s newspaper, rest it on Ethan’s chest, and take a photo with the untraceable prepaid cellphone we picked up a few weeks ago.

I hold out the phone and show the photo to Becca. She nods, so I take the newspaper off Ethan’s chest, make sure he still has a pulse, and sling him up over my shoulder. We have to walk now.

Becca shines the light in my path so I can see where I’m going. I raise my eyes to the sky instead, hoping to see Anna’s Star. Though I know it wouldn’t guide me in this direction. It would point me in the direction to get my ass straight home. Shit. Mom would be so ashamed if she could see me now.

I slow my pace, almost expecting to hear a crack of thunder. I think we’re making the Gods very angry tonight.

Before I met Becca, I never committed a crime. Not one. No drugs, underage drinking, or speeding tickets. No truancy, assault, or vandalism. I never even pocketed a stick of Laffy Taffy from the gas station like everyone else did back in middle school before the Friday night football games.

As we walk, I tick off the offenses one by one. I’ve counted a minimum of ten—most of them felonies. Several involving a freaking thirteen-year-old. And if they figure it out, I’ll be charged as an adult and put away for the rest of my life. No question.

Still, I let Becca lead. Maybe because that’s how it’s always been with us. Maybe because this plan has let me escape what’s really happening in my life. The ultimate distraction. Maybe because doing
something
feels better than doing
nothing
.