See Jane Run (14 page)

Terror, like a heavy weight, set on Riley's chest.

“I need to talk about your parents, Glen and Nadine.”

Riley's stomach turned over.

Now. Nownownownownow.

She shifted in the dirt, clenching her eyes shut when a pebble rolled away from her foot. The man stopped laughing, and Riley lunged forward, vaulting across the front yard and onto the sidewalk. She ran hard, her feet aching, her thighs burning. She kept her eye focused on the first house on the block, the one with glowing lights and a car parked in the driveway.

They'll save me,
she thought.
They'll let me in.

She could hear the man's boots clatter onto the pavement behind her. She could hear his hard breathing, feel him as he closed the gap between them. Something inside her propelled her forward, past her burning muscles and pinching lungs, and she jumped over a shrub, her feet pounding across the pristine green lawn. The front door was only inches away.

Riley reached, feeling like her muscles were tearing, her fingernails scraping the door. When she got traction, she pounded with her fists, mashed the doorbell. She could hear the stupid, slow chime gently ringing.

“Let me in!” she screamed. “Please let me in!”

She grabbed the knob and miraculously, the door fell open.

“Call the police! Call the police!” The tears were streaming down her face now, and everything that she ignored came surging back, all together, paralyzing her body in one aching mess. “Call the—”

Riley stopped. All the lights were blazing, and a few pristine pieces of living room furniture were set in the main window, but nobody was there. The kitchen was set up with a bowl of fake fruit on a shiny wooden table and a telephone on the counter.

She bolted for it.

Her fingers closed around the receiver and she dialed 9-1-1 without waiting for a dial tone.

Nothing happened.

“Hello? Hello?”

She yanked the phone and it plopped right off the counter, thunking to the hardwood floor below. It had no wires. No telephone jack.

Her hands started to shake.

A crash against the glass door in front of her snapped her attention, and Riley could see the man, his fists slamming against the door. Each slam shook the glass and rattled the teeth in Riley's head. The glare from the light cut across his face, and Riley knew that if she just stepped forward, she could see who he was—but she refused to step forward.

“Come on, Jane!”

She was close enough to see the spittle come out of his mouth. She took a staggering step back, feeling the phone digging into her ankle.

And then she was falling.

It happened in slow motion. She could see the roosters on the kitchen wallpaper arcing gently as her body went down, down. She felt the crush of her bones as she hit the floor, first her hip, then her shoulder, and finally her head. Somewhere, she heard the sickening smack of flesh against wood, and then the pain was pinballing through her. Her ears rang, and a blanket of red covered her eyes.

Vaguely, she heard footsteps. Then hands working their way under her arms. She felt the prick of her hair breaking as someone tried to gather her up. Riley knew she should fight. She knew she should scream. Those were the last thoughts she had before the darkness fell over her.

• • •

Riley opened her eyes and her body arced in pain. It screamed from her hip, from her arms; she felt like her lungs had been overinflated then popped.

“Mom?”

“Oh, Riley, thank God.”

Riley blinked, trying to clear the fuzz from her head. “What happened? Where am I?”

“You're at home, in your bed. We were hoping you could tell us what happened.”

She pinched her eyes shut, the evening coming back in fragments. She remembered the man, the car, the clawing terror. “There was someone chasing me.” Riley cleared her throat and her mother handed her a cup of water with a plastic straw.

“Take it easy.”

“How did you find me?”

Her mother breathed in a deep sigh. “Someone from the realty office called your father's phone.”

“And?”

She looked away. “Someone reported that there was a young woman running down the street, screaming. He said she went into one of the model homes.”

Riley struggled to sit up. “Did they get him? The man who was chasing me, did they get him?”

Mrs. Spencer's eyes looked glassy and she blinked away tears. “There wasn't anyone chasing you, sweetie.”

Riley's breath caught. “Yes, there was.”

“The young man who called said he saw you run away from the house. He said you tried the door and then took off running. He didn't mention a man.”

“Well then, he didn't see him. But he was in a black car and he knew my name.” Riley clutched at the neck of her nightgown that seemed uncomfortably tight. “He knew her too. He was coming after me. He was pounding on the sliding glass door.”

Riley's mother said nothing as a tear slid down her cheek.

“If you don't believe me, just go outside. There has to be tire marks and, and, he was pounding on the sliding glass door. He was screaming. He was spitting.”

Her mother reached out and cupped her hand. “There was no one there, Riley.”

She snatched her hand away. “Yes, there was.”

“Why didn't you just come home?”

“Because I left my keys here. And Dad took my cell phone.” Riley could hear the frustrated quiver in her voice. “You weren't here. The door was locked. I couldn't get in.”

Riley watched her mother press her lips together and look away then slide Riley's backpack off her desk. She unzipped a pouch, and Riley's heart stopped. Her keys and her cell phone were nestled in the front pouch, just like they always were. She shook her head.

“No, they weren't there. They were here. I left my keys on the kitchen table and Dad took my phone.”

“He gave it back to you last night.”

“No, no, he didn't. I didn't have it.”

“Riley, honey, did you stop taking your pills?”

Riley could feel the flush of heat over her cheeks. “My pills?”

Her mother dug into the backpack and produced the wadded-up Ziploc Riley used to hide the pills she spit out each morning.

Riley swallowed. “I don't like them.”

“That's fine, honey, but you shouldn't have stopped cold turkey. It's dangerous. There are all sorts of side effects.”

Fire burned in Riley's gut. “Like thinking I'm being chased? I was. I was!” She kicked off the covers and tried to stand up, but her legs were heavy and noodly. Her mother rushed toward her and helped her gently back to bed.

“Don't stand up. I've given you something to relax.”

“What?” Riley's vision already started to blur. “You gave me drugs?”

Her mother stood up and pulled the blankets to Riley's chin, tucking them in all around her. “We've all had a rough day, Riley. Go to sleep.” She straightened and smiled, her palm cool against Riley's forehead. “Don't you worry about anything. Your dad and I have it all taken care of.”

• • •

The clattering of dishes in the sink woke Riley the next morning. Her muscles were raw and sore and her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

“Mom?” Riley took a tentative step then picked her way down the stairs. Her mother was scrubbing a dish, but she turned when Riley walked in.

“How are you feeling?”

“OK. Where's Dad?”

Riley's mom waggled a coffee mug. “Gone to get coffee. He really needed to clear his head. Riley, I—”

Riley stepped back, holding up a hand. “Can we not talk about it right now? My head is killing me.”

Her mother sighed, exasperated. But there was something else too—exhaustion.

“Can I go for a walk?”

“That's not—”

“Please, Mom? Just around the block?”

“Ten minutes.”

Riley nodded and scrambled for the door, ignoring the pain in her limbs. Someone had chased her; she wasn't going crazy. And she was going to prove it.

Riley crossed the street, crouching down on the blacktop and scrutinizing it. She followed the path the black car had taken until she reached the house where she had hidden. There was a litter of dirt across the driveway and Riley ran toward it, sure that it would have tracked the car's tire marks.

The dirt was undisturbed.

She searched around the house and found a trail of footprints—size seven and a half, hers. There was only one set. Riley dropped down on her hands and knees and began searching, inch by inch. She was vaguely aware of time passing or cars driving by, but she was desperate to find something—desperate to prove she wasn't crazy.

“Riley!”

Riley's head snapped up as her father coasted to a stop and got out of the car.

“Dad!”

His hand closed over her wrist. “Come on. We're going home.”

Riley tried to pull back. “I don't want to.”

Her father cut his eyes to her. There was something in them Riley had never seen before—something hard, something fierce. Fear zinged down her spine. “Dad?”

“Do you know how panicked we were yesterday? Your mother was sick. We asked you to trust us.” He leveled his gaze at her. “I really hope you do.”

Riley blinked into her father's eyes—mesmerized and paralyzed. She felt her feet moving. She fell into step behind him, his palm still closed over her wrist. He said nothing to her but he was standing too tall, too straight, and his posture spoke volumes. He was angry, frustrated, sad. His jaw was clenched, and Riley veered back, knowing better than to talk.

Instead, she let herself be led, closing her mind off to the wild possibilities that were ricocheting inside her skull: she was being led like a lamb to the slaughter. Like an unruly teen by her frustrated father. Like a victim with the man who stole her.

• • •

Riley sat in the front seat, staring silently out the windshield.

“Where did you go?” her father asked.

Riley pretended she didn't hear him.

“Did you talk to anyone?”

Again, silence.

“You're going to have to talk to me eventually, Ry.”

She turned slowly, staring at her dad's profile. “So are you.”

“We're going to explain everything in a second. But, Riley, honestly, you can't just go running off like that. Not you. Not now.”

Riley was sure she felt her heartbeat slow. “Who's Tim?”

Her father's eyebrows went up. “Tim? I don't know any Tim. What are you taking about?”

Riley bit into her bottom lip, relishing the metallic taste of blood that filled her mouth. It was real. She wasn't sure anything else was.

“Why, Dad?”

“What?”

“Why the secrecy? Why the lies? If I'm really Jane—”

Her father's glare was sharp. “I want you to forget you ever heard that name, you hear me? Jane O'Leary is gone now.”

Riley turned in her seat, her glare as fierce as her father's. “I'm right here.”

Her father clapped a palm to his forehead and dragged it over the back of his head. Riley noticed that his hair was thinning, something she hadn't noticed before.

“Ry, you don't understand what you're dealing with. This isn't a silly teenage thing. You've got to believe me. You've got to trust us.” He blew out a sigh that Riley swore hitched on a sob. “Please, honey, you've got to trust us.”

Something stabbed at Riley's heart. This was her
father.
His hair was thinning and there were wrinkles around his eyes—not just when he smiled now, but all the time. She wanted to soften. She wanted all of this to go away so she could crawl in between her parents while they watched a black-and-white movie, eating popcorn while her father did some stupid impression.

But
none
of
that
was
real.

Riley refused to cry. She spent the rest of the ride staring straight ahead, back ramrod straight, her teeth digging into her lips, begging not to cry.

• • •

They were only driving a few blocks, but it seemed to take forever. The asphalt seemed to peel on, inch after inch, going achingly slow. When they finally crested the slope in front of her, Riley suddenly wished the ride were longer.

Her heart started to speed up again, and her stomach folded in on itself. She played with the automatic window button, sliding the window all the way down, gulping in a few breaths of fresh, ocean-tinged air, and sliding the window closed again. They turned the corner onto Riley's street and ice water shot through her veins.

There was no one else in the neighborhood. Even the other house where a family lived was shut up tight. The sound of car doors slamming—Riley's and her father's—echoed against emptiness.

Riley's throat was dry and she found herself reaching out instinctively, grabbing for her dad. Her fingers found the edge of his sweater and she held it like she did as a small child, her fingertips brushing over his wrist.

“I'm scared, Dad.”

She expected the word “dad” to sound wrong in her mouth—to look wrong on this man. But she felt more attached to him than ever.

He reached back and pulled Riley to him, crushing her in a tight hug.

“What's going on?” Riley whispered again.

“I'm so sorry, Ry,” he breathed, kissing the top of her head.

Riley trailed behind her father, walking toward the house like a condemned traitor to a hanging. Halfway there, her father turned around and held his hand out to her. Riley rushed toward him and he pulled her into a hug. She wanted to rewind a week, back to when she was Riley Spencer and no one else, when she would skulk around her bedroom on Saturday nights because her overprotective parents wouldn't let her go anywhere. But time had passed, and her father had aged, and Riley Spencer had no idea who she was.

Her mother was waiting at the front door, her hands crossed in front of her chest, holding her elbows. Riley wondered if her mother had always been that fragile-looking, always been that fine-boned. Her eyes were red-rimmed but she smiled at Riley anyway—a smile that was half welcoming, half apologetic.

Riley's heart slammed. Stepping over the threshold into the house—her own house—seemed like an admission of something, a willingness to acknowledge that from that moment on, her life would never be the same.

Both her parents flanked her, ushering her into the room. She settled in the easy chair, her parents settling on either side of her. The birth certificate—Jane Elizabeth O'Leary's birth certificate—lay on the coffee table in the center of the room, in the center of everyone, but nobody acknowledged it.

“Riley, this birth certificate you found is yours. Your mother and I are your parents. Your real name is Jane Elizabeth O'Leary. Our real names are Seamus and Abigail.”

There was a brief pause; Riley assumed it was to let her absorb what she already knew.

“So why am I Riley? Why are you Glen and Nadine?” Her eyes skidded over the birth certificate. “Why are you just telling me this now?”

“Fourteen years ago—back when you were still Jane, we lived just outside of Granite Cay.”

Riley shrugged, her hands clasped in her lap. “OK, so?”

“There's a large Irish community there. You're Irish.” Her mother's cheeks pinkened. “We're all Irish—the three of us. Your father was a woodworker. He made beautiful furniture. It's what his father did and his father before him back in Cork.”

“Ry, I worked for a man who ran a large import-export business. He did remarkably well and was well-known in the American-Irish community as well as in communities back home. Families sent their children—kids about your age, maybe a little older—out to Alistair Foley. He gave them jobs, let them earn some money and learn a trade.” Riley's father's eyes darkened. “At least that was what he said he was doing.”

“Your father found out that Alistair was bringing kids in, but he wasn't letting them go back.”

He nodded. “Right. At first we thought he was just making the kids he brought over work in the furniture store for free. That's what he said; that they worked for free, at first, to pay off his ‘investment' in them. He paid their airfare over, the kids' living expenses while they were here, clothing, food. It seemed reasonable. The kids didn't complain.”

Riley's mother cleared her throat then shifted her weight on the couch. “But these kids were never able to pay off their debt. In a sense, Alistair owned them. He brought them into this country as his nieces and nephews and then he exploited them.”

Riley cut her eyes to her mother then back to her dad. “So that's why we moved away? That's why you changed my name? So your boss wouldn't make me work for free? That's—” She wanted to say it was dumb. It was ridiculous to be afraid of your boss. But one look at the consternation and fear on her parents' faces let Riley know that there was more—so much more.

“Alistair was trafficking in kids and young adults. He made money off them and threatened them if they ever told or tried to escape. He forced them to do illegal things and—he hurt them, Ry. Sometimes—sometimes the kids would just disappear. He'd say a kid that disappeared got a great new job somewhere or that he went back home.”

Riley's mother crossed herself. “But they never made it home. Your father uncovered this, honey.”

“I didn't have proof initially. At least not enough that could convict Alistair. But I brought it to the police anyway. I thought I did it without Alistair's knowledge, but things got out of hand.” Glen pressed his palms against his thighs, and Riley could see that there was a slight tremble in his fingers. It made her nervous. “Alistair had his hands in a lot of pots.”

“The police promised they would take him down.”

Riley gulped. “Did you have to do some kind of sting operation, Dad?”

Glen chuckled. “Nothing so exciting. I knew Alistair was laundering his trafficking money through the furniture store. I was able to get proof that he was embezzling, cooking the books, but still not enough for the trafficking conviction.” He shrugged. “Most of the kids were too scared to talk.”

“So he's just free? We're hiding and he's free?”

Riley's mother shook her head. “They were able to make some of the embezzling charges stick. But that only gave him a short time in prison.”

“Long enough for us to get most of the kids somewhere safe.”

“Most of them?”

“Alistair had a lot of people working under him, turnip. Even some in the police department.”

Riley felt the dread well up inside her. She shook her head.

“No, no, I don't believe this. This is crazy. Are you trying to teach me a lesson or something? So I'll call you every time I—”

“I know it sounds crazy, Ry. And believe me, your mom and I hardly believed it ourselves.”

“Once they had enough evidence, they took Alistair into custody. Your father was a key witness.”

Riley brightened. “Yay, Dad. So you took down the bad guy.”

Her parents exchanged an uncomfortable look. “Sort of. But not everyone was happy. We got death threats.” Her mother drew a hand through Riley's hair.

“But it's over, right?”

“Alistair came to see me after he was released. He told me that since I had taken his children, he was going to take mine.”

Her mother was holding back tears. “We wouldn't even take a chance of that happening, Ry.”

“But couldn't you just pay him off or get him back in jail?”

“Even if we had the kind of money Alistair was used to making, it wouldn't have been any help. He didn't want money. He wanted revenge. He wanted you.”

Her mother looked away. “He came for you one night.”

“Alistair?”

“Alistair's men. Or the men above Alistair, we never knew. I was working then. I used to be a librarian. I went to work that night and you stayed home with your father.”

“You liked my impressions then.” Riley's dad's smile was wistful. Then he swallowed slowly, his neck corded and strained. “They came that night. Pounded down the door. They were like animals. There wasn't time to get out. I locked you in the closet.” He hung his head. “I'm so sorry, Ry.”

Riley felt her eyes widen. “The nightmares. The claustrophobia.” Her lower lip started to tremble. “I remember. It was you.” Her vision darkened and she was back in her nightmare, back in that closet, straining to see through those slats. She heard the thud. It was her father's body on the ground. The acrid smell of blood… Riley doubled over, heaving.

“I'm so sorry, Daddy.”

“They left your father for dead. We contacted the police and left that night. We left everything behind. We stayed in a hotel until the authorities could get us situated with new identities, new jobs—new lives. You were Riley Allen. We were the Spencers. The O'Learys didn't exist anymore.” Riley's mother splayed her hand on her chest, her eyes brimming with tears. “We didn't exist anymore.”

“So, you had to rename me?”

Riley's mother shook her head. “We didn't have a choice.”

“The Witness Protection Program gave our family new names, new identities, new birth certificates, social security numbers—everything. But the identities you assume with the program are real people. Or they were.”

Her mother put in, “Riley Allen Spencer was a baby boy. He was born on your birthday—at least the one we've been celebrating for the last thirteen years.”

Riley stood up and then sat down again, feeling the intense need to hyperventilate—or possibly pass out. She could see the worry in her mother's eyes.

“Are you OK, hon?”

Riley nodded. The action was rote; she wasn't sure if she'd ever be OK again.

“I need to get to school.” She stood, her parents jumping up on either side of her.

“Actually, Ry, you don't need to go to school today,” her father told her. “You're already so late.”

“Your father is right. It's probably better that you don't.” Her eyes went over Riley's head and locked on Riley's father's. Riley was beginning to hate those looks—her parents exchanging them when they thought she wasn't looking, over her head. They may have told her the truth, but all these silent conversations let Riley know that what she was told was just the tip of the iceberg.

“Why don't you change into your sweats? I can make you a grilled cheese,” her mother said. “You love grilled cheese when you're sick.”

“I'm not sick. I'm going to school.” Riley shook her head. “I want to. I want to—to process this.”

I
know
who
I
am
at
school.

Riley's mother wrung her hands in front of her.

“Maybe Riley being around her friends—having a normal day—would be better for her. It's not like there has been a breach of security.”

More silent conversation. Riley watched her father suck in a deep breath before he turned to her, his eyes clouded and locking on hers.

“You cannot mention this to anyone, Riley. It is incredibly important that you go to school today and act as if nothing—none of this, none of us”—he spread out his arm, indicating the whole room—“ever happened.”

Riley's throat itched. She stood, grabbed her backpack, and hiked it up on her shoulder. “Like this never happened,” she repeated. “Sure.”

• • •

Classes had already started when Riley's father let her out in front of Hawthorne High. She turned, watching him drive away, watching his taillights fade into the distance before turning back to the sprawling school buildings. Without students milling about out front, their cars thudding with sound as they pulled into the lot, the school seemed ominous—although really, nothing about it had changed.

Nobody questioned Riley when she picked up her late pass. She walked down the silent hall, each step making her heart beat a little more smoothly, making her breath come a little more normally.
My
school,
Riley thought.
I
belong
here. I'm Riley Allen Spencer and I'm a Hawthorne Hornet and I'm a junior. I'm not Jane Elizabeth O'Leary. I don't know who Jane Elizabeth O'Leary even is. She doesn't even exist.

“Miss Spencer, so nice of you to join us.” Mrs. Halloran greeted every late student the same way, and it was comforting to Riley. She went through the expected rush of heat on her cheeks and took her seat, letting Shelby hiss to her what she had missed.

“A total snoregasm,” Shelby said. “And where were you yesterday? I called you a thousand times!”

Riley opened her mouth but Halloran cut in with a sharp look. Shelby looked away for a half second before hissing, “And by the way? You're just in time for a freaking pop quiz.”

“Thank you for catching Miss Spencer up, Miss Webber,” Mrs. Halloran said as she came down the aisle, sliding Riley's test paper onto her desk. Riley swallowed, feeling the butterfly wings start to flutter in her belly.

This
is
good,
she thought.
This
is
normal. I always get butterflies before a test.

Nothing
happened
at
home. Nothing happened. Everything
is regular.

Riley poised her pencil over the paper, her eyes skimming over the subject matter.
Red
Badge
of
Courage. OK, OK, I totally
know this.

For the first time this morning, a smile broke across her lips. She zipped down the page, penciling in answers, glad they weren't buried in her brain under every question she had about her parents, about Jane. Then she went back to the top of the page and stopped. Top line. Top question: NAME.

The word throbbed on the page. Riley looked around. Every other student was writing, heads bent, pencils scratching.

Because they knew who they were.

The thought sickened—and terrified—her.

“Is there something wrong, Riley?”

Mrs. Halloran's eyes were on her, but Riley couldn't force her mouth to move. She shook her head and wrote the words—the name Riley Spencer.

If she wasn't anybody, she thought, she could be anyone.

But the name swam in front of her eyes. Her blood was pulsing again, this time through her ears and behind her eyes. She raised her hand.

“Mrs. Halloran? Can I be excused? I don't feel so well.”

Shelby swung her head and grimaced. “You don't look so good.”

Riley leaned over. “I feel horrible.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?”

Mrs. Halloran strode down the aisle and handed Riley a pink hall pass. “Riley, you can go to the nurse. Shelby, you can get back to work.”

Riley felt dizzy and queasy the second she stood up. She edged her way out of the classroom, trying to remind herself how to walk. She picked up speed as she went down the hallway. When she got to the door of the nurse's office, she stopped then abruptly turned around.