The Girl in the Wall (7 page)

Yes, those things were awful. But they don’t touch the feeling that came with the force of a wave grabbing me and pulling me underwater so fast it crushed me: the feeling of pure and total helplessness. There are no words for that feeling, knowing that they could do anything to me, anything they wanted, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
I
was nothing, just a whimpering, pleading bundle of nothing. Thinking of my begging makes me want to heave. But remembering that helplessness makes me feel dead. Which was why I was slicing my arm. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I was just trying to feel alive again.

Knowing that John and now Marc are trapped in this, and knowing that Abby is going to be dropped off and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, is massing together into another wave about to engulf me.

I struggle to my feet, my stomach heaving, and run back to my room, pausing just long enough to make sure it’s empty. I race in and make it to the bathroom just in time. I sink in front of the toilet and the contents of my stomach come rushing up, bile stinging my throat. I puke and puke and puke, every last drop in my stomach pumping out of me. I’m not even aware of the hand smoothing back my hair until I stop, spent and empty on the cool tile.

“Are you okay?” It’s Milo.

I can’t talk yet, my throat is too raw so I just nod.

“I heard the noise in here,” he says. “But I don’t think anyone else did.”

In a minute I’ll care about that and be thankful that it was him and not another agent who came to check things out in my room. In a minute my stomach will settle and my throat won’t be burning. And in a minute I will stand up and do something. I need to act, to stop thinking and move, to interfere with what is happening in my house.

Because I will die before I’ll ever be that helpless again.

It was just a pat down. I mean, it was more thorough than you’d want but not a strip search or anything, and it was obviously a woman so it definitely wasn’t what it could have been. I feel relieved about this for about ten seconds, then start my phone panic again. But Hudson is still on the sofa so no one could have found it while I was gone.

The agent leads me to my seat, then points to Hudson when we reach our sofa oasis. I watch for a second as they go, then as subtly as I can, slip my fingers between the seat cushions and nestle the phone back up my sleeve. It’s starting to feel like it’s part of my body. I try to brainstorm more code possibilities but I don’t try any of them out, not while there’s a room search coming and Hudson isn’t here to keep watch while I do it. It’s not like I come up with anything good anyway.

Hudson is back about five minutes later and he grins as he gets closer. “The agent said we can eat something now.”

That is the best news I’ve heard in a while.

He gives me an inquiring look about the phone and I nod.

“Let’s go,” he says, leading the way across the huge room. We both slow down as we get closer to the doorway where an agent stands, gun at his side.

“Um, we were told it’s okay to go to the kitchen to get something to eat,” Hudson says. I see him picking at his fingernail as he speaks.

The agent nods and waves us through. My legs feel a little shaky as we walk down the short hall to the kitchen.

The Barett kitchen is amazing: wide expanses of granite countertop, gleaming Le Creuset cookwear hanging from racks, state-of-the-art appliances that are so sleek they have a sports car feel to them. A skylight opens the ceiling and when I look up I see stars far off in the night sky.

If it weren’t for the agents lurking in both doorways it would almost feel normal.

The agent at the far doorway sees us come in. “You can eat what’s on the counter or stuff from the fridge,” she says. “No opening drawers or cabinets. Got it?”

We both nod. The huge island in the middle of the room is covered with trays of hors d’oeurvre.

“Should we heat some of these up?” I ask, looking at the shrimp toast and mini-quiches. My stomach is a tangle of knots and I’m not sure how much I’ll actually be able to eat.

Hudson grabs a goat cheese and bacon roll and stuffs it in his mouth, looking like any of the guys I go to school with scarfing down a hamburger. I guess refinement doesn’t come with fame.

“This is okay to start but I want real food,” he says. “Not just stuff to graze on.”

“I hear that.”

It’s Mike and he’s walking in with Trevor, Ravi, and Ella. Ella stopped talking to me when everyone else did, of course, but she lent me clothes after gym once, when mine mysteriously disappeared from my locker, and she’s one of the only girls who never sent me dirty looks or started whispering when I walked in the room in those awful early weeks. Obviously she’s not a friend—I don’t have any of those—but she’s not an enemy either. I sit on one of the stools, my arm resting across my lap, hiding the phone as the agent repeats the kitchen rules. I can eat with my other hand, if I can manage to choke something down.

“Where’s the meat?” Trevor asks, opening the fridge.

He is striving to sound jovial but his eyes are darting around, as though on the lookout for an agent to come haul him away. I guess we’re all kind of feeling that way.

“I think Ariel said it was going to be sushi for dinner,” Ella says, and all three guys groan.

“There has to at least be sandwich stuff in here,” Trevor says, poking around in the huge fridge.

“What happened to serving steak?” Mike asks, peering over Trevor’s shoulder. “Because that’s a dinner.”

He is doing a better job of sounding normal but I think he’s looked at the clock like ten times in the two minutes he’s been in here. I would know—I keep checking it myself.

“A real dinner is barbeque,” Hudson says, grabbing a wedge of brie. Even his voice has the undercurrent of tension we are all feeling.

Ravi glances at Hudson, his face slightly flushed. All the guys are talking just a bit too loudly and not quite looking at Hudson. I realize they are starstruck, which is kind of funny because they usually walk around like rock stars themselves. It’s also strange to realize that I stopped thinking about Hudson as a rock star hours ago.

Ravi takes a mini spring roll and eats it. “These aren’t bad,” he says, his voice just slightly higher than usual.

Ravi is one of those guys who gets off on risk, who does every extreme sport there is, and who’s broken like twelve bones. The fact that his face is tight, that his hands are shaky, makes the knots in my stomach tighten.

“Sweet potato biscuits are better,” Hudson says to me with a grin.

It’s almost like he knows I need distraction. Though I’m probably reading too much into it, he’s probably just starving and excited to eat.

Ella raises her eyebrows and I see the guys exchange looks. I guess they’re surprised that of anyone he could talk to, Hudson chose me. I mean, if I hadn’t told him about the phone who knows if we’d still be hanging out, but they don’t know that.

The agent in the doorway shifts and we all glance over. The knots in my stomach tighten but I guess she was just stretching because she doesn’t say anything. Still, the air in the room feels different. Ella clears her throat and Trevor pulls out a sushi tray.

“I guess we’ll just bring this out,” he says.

The three of them head out, Ella casting one last look at Hudson, then a bleaker glance at the agents.

“I bet I can find something in here,” Hudson says, walking over to the fridge.

I pick up a stalk of endive with blue cheese and shaved apple. I’m curious what Hudson will come up with but I still feel too anxious to think about eating very much.

“Victory,” he says happily, emerging from the fridge with a yellow plastic package.

He clearly doesn’t have the same problem. What is it with guys and food?

I stifle a laugh when I realize what he’s holding.

“That’s Mr. Barett’s guilty pleasure,” I say.

But as soon as I say his name there’s a weird hollowness in my stomach. Because Mr. Barett will never eat a midnight baloney sandwich again.

“I thank him for it,” Hudson says.

I hear a noise in the doorway and we turn again. Another agent has arrived and the two of them start talking in low voices. For a few moments I wait, to see if there’s some kind of problem, but it seems like they’re just passing time. Which is actually kind of a relief because I don’t feel quite as watched.

“All the gourmet food here and you’re really going to eat baloney?” I ask Hudson.

“Baloney is quality food,” he says, as he pulls on the package. It’s hard to open without a utensil but he manages.

“I can think of a lot of food experts who would dispute that,” I say.

“They’d be dead wrong.” He flashes me a grin. “I’m making you a sandwich too.”

He is back at the fridge taking out lettuce, mayo, sliced cheddar, and a loaf of bread. I watch him for a moment, then notice the vase of lilacs resting on the side of the counter. I reach out and run my hand over one feathery bloom.

“You like lilacs?” Hudson asks, laying slices of cheese on the bread.

“They’re my favorite,” I say, leaning in to inhale their heavenly scent. It feels so good to stop thinking about the agents and Ariel and everything going on around us. I know it won’t last but I wish it could.

Hudson whips up the sandwiches, slathering an appalling amount of mayo on the bread (which he spreads with a folded piece of bread because we can’t open a drawer for a knife), and piling each sandwich with towers of baloney. He adds lettuce and with a flourish of triumph, passes me mine on one of the small plates piled up next to the trays of food.

I look at it unsure how to start. It looks way too big to bite as is. “I think I might need a fork or something.”

Hudson scoffs. “You rich folks and your crazy ideas,” he says, wrapping his hands around his sandwich. “It’s simple. It’s a sandwich and you eat it with your hands.”

“You’re rich,” I point out.

His face seems to crumple the tiniest bit. “I guess.”

I think about the fact that his money was earned on a lie and how much that clearly bothers him. I can think of a hundred people who couldn’t care less how their families got rich. And I realize I like the fact that he
does
care.

“So are you going to show me how to eat this thing or what?” I ask.

He grins and then defying both odds and gravity he manages to get the thing into his mouth and takes a huge bite.

I carefully pick up my sandwich. A slice of baloney slithers out the back but I get the rest of it up and stuff as much as I can into my mouth.

“There you go,” Hudson says approvingly, his mouth full.

I chew. Hudson’s right—baloney really
is
good.

He smiles at me. “You love it.”

There’s no denying it as I take another bite, a bit of mayo dribbling down my chin which I quickly wipe away.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. I plan to only eat half of my sandwich; I gave up carbs a year ago and processed food when I was eleven. But if there was ever a time to break food rules, it’s when you’re being held hostage and could get shot at any minute for having a cell phone.

When I’m done I lean back and groan. “That was incredible but I think my stomach might explode.”

“That is one of the dangers of baloney,” Hudson says, putting both our plates in the sink. He does it naturally, like he’s just some regular guy trained by his mom, not someone so rich he can have people wait on him hand and foot. “Do you think they have—”

A sharp voice interrupts him. “Everyone come to the living room.”

I realize I’ve been lulled by our conversation, allowed myself to forget for just a few minutes what’s going on around us. But now a third agent appears in the doorway and she sounds serious. I stand up, my body tensing.

“Now,” she says.

The sandwich is turning into a ball of cement in my stomach and Hudson’s cheeks have lost their reddish hue. He looks pale under the lights as I follow him out of the kitchen and back to the living room where The Assassin is telling everyone to sit. My classmates are mostly there, sitting up straight as though we are about to take a final. It’s funny to think that less than twenty-four hours ago finals were our biggest worry.

“We haven’t found Ariel,” The Assassin says, his words clipped. “Which can only mean one thing. You helped her or you’re helping her now, keeping her concealed from us. She is somewhere on the property, that we know for sure, and so I’ll ask one more time. Where is Ariel?”

A terrible silence follows. I put my hands on my bloated stomach, afraid I might puke.

“You need more incentive I see,” The Assassin says after a minute, his voice compressed fury. “And so we will give it to you.” His upper lip curls as he pauses and I can feel his eyes boring into me, to the others, through his shades.

Bile gathers at the back of my throat.

“It’s simple,” he says, his voice a blade of steel. “You have until midnight to tell us where she is. If we don’t have her by then, someone in this room will be shot.”

“Do you want water?” Milo asks. Usually I keep a glass on the shelf over my bathroom sink but it got smashed when my room was ransacked.

“No,” I say. I clear my throat, which is still tender. “Milo, thanks for coming and holding my hair and stuff.” I’m feeling more together and can now appreciate not having hair covered in puke.

But Milo frowns. “My name isn’t Milo.”

Oh.

“It’s Nico.” He looks at me, his brow furrowed. “I’ve worked for you for three years and you don’t even know my name?”

I try to shrug it off. “I was close.”

“Really?” he asks and for the first time his voice isn’t ringing with honesty and goodness. It’s ringing with sarcasm.

I suck in a breath. I hate to eat crow but I know it’s not optional. “I’m sorry,” I say, looking at him instead of looking at the floor, which I’d prefer.

“People matter and their names matter,” he says with deep conviction.

I let out a long impatient breath. But he is my only ally and I can’t have him angry at me. “Yes, people matter and their names matter,” I say through gritted teeth. “Nico is a wonderful name.”