Chapter 36
It’s all but impossible to do anything but sit here and freak out. I heard a click earlier—like the fake camera sound my phone makes when I take a picture. After that, an annoyed sigh. But when I called out, no one said a word. I don’t know if I’m alone or not. These people move like cats, apparently.
Until they don’t.
Heavy, echoey footsteps alert me to a presence, but I didn’t hear the door scrape open. Must have come from another door. Sounds like boots, but I still cannot see them. And they’re dragging something on the floor. A chair, maybe? They’re close, too, so I guess they’re behind the light.
Then I can see the outline of him. It’s definitely a him, too—unless they’re a beefy, broad-shouldered woman. He sits down, and I still can’t see his face because he’s right behind the light. I get only the shape of my captor and the faint distinctive sound of leather rubbing on leather. His coat.
And he’s a big one. Like a breathing threat.
A deep voice rumbles, “How did you meet Anderson West?”
Well, shit. That’s not exactly what I thought he’d ask about. What does he know already? They know my name. They think he and I are together. What does it matter how we met? Is this a test? To see if I lie to him? What would they do if I did? The man has no discernible accent—he sounds just like every other person in Boston.
My mouth is dry, and my head is spinning with questions. Fewer details seem the best route. I rasp out, “School.”
A grunt of acknowledgement. “How long have you been together?”
“Not long.”
“Would you say it’s serious?”
“I’m wearing his ring.”
He pauses. “Would you say it’s serious?”
I thought I answered. What is he saying by asking it twice? “You just asked me that.”
Another pause. “Would you say?—”
“Yes. I would.”
“Who is your best friend?”
I laugh. What the hell kind of question is that, under these circumstances? “I’m not sure I have one.”
“Do you have pets?”
“No. What sort of interrogation is this?”
“Thorough. Do you have houseplants?”
This is so weird. “Why? Are you offering to water them for me while I’m here?” Okay, maybe it’s not the best idea to smart off to your captors, but this line of questioning is just plain bizarre and it’s setting me off.
“What is your banking pin?”
Well, that was a zig when I thought he was gonna zag. “It’s four fives.”
“Are you in love with Anderson West?”
I laugh, but the question takes the air out of my lungs. “Can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
This guy!I snap, “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m not sure.”
“What grades did you get in elementary school?”
Elementary school grades? Seriously? Just before I answer, I realize what he’s doing. It’s two things—getting a baseline of my responses and to see what pushes my buttons. The answers themselves don’t really matter, so long as they’re honest. It’s more about how I respond to them. If I lie, if I don’t. If I have an emotional response or not. It’s all a test.
It’s like talking to the police after an accident they think you may have caused. Like when I was a kid.
I’ve done a lot to forget about what happened back then. Shoved it way back in the rear of my memory, but right now, I can’t help but recall the accident. The thrashing. The panic. All the splashing?—
“Could I get a drink? My mouth is?—”
“What grades did you get in elementary school?”
That’s a no. Super. The knot in my gut keeps growing. “Mostly A’s. Why?”
“Have you ever gone hiking?”
Why did he have to ask about that? “Yes.”
“Do you have any regrets in life?”
My jaw grits. “Yes.”
He pauses again, but then his outline gets up and his heavy footsteps fall away from me. He didn’t take the chair with him. It should be a relief that he’s gone, but the truth is, having a person nearby was a strange sort of comfort after sitting here alone for so long. Even one as inscrutable as that guy.
It’s not long before there’s more footsteps. Lighter ones. A slender woman sits in the chair now, and she scoots it from the light some. I can’t make out her face, but her clothes are in view. A pantsuit. Not expensive. More like a bank teller or a government worker. No coat on her.
“How did you meet Anderson West?” Her accent is more New York than Boston. That and her gender are the only differences between them, evidently.
“School.”
“And how long would you say you’ve been dating?”
I pointed out the ring to the last guy, but she calls it only dating. Is she trying to trip me up? “We haven’t been together for very long.”
“But you’re serious about him?”
She’s asking the same kinds of questions, but in a friendlier way to make me more comfortable with her. Bad cop, good cop. God, I do not like cops. Not after what happened … No. We are not thinking about that. I clear my throat. Am I serious about Anderson? That’s the question right now. “Yes.”
“Who have you told about your relationship with him?”
Is this the best friend question in a roundabout way? “Just a work friend.”
“Does anyone depend on you? Family? Pets?”
“Not really.”
“Would you mind sharing your banking pin?”
I huff. “It’s four fives, but you won’t find much in there.”
“Are you in love with Anderson West?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What were your?—”
“Grades in elementary school like? Mostly A’s. If you’re going to ask the same questions as the other guy, you’re going to get the same answers because I didn’t lie to him. This is a waste of your time and mine. Can I get a drink? I’m parched. Gags will do that to a girl.” I’m surly because I’m thirsty and trying not to panic, and being rude probably won’t make me any friends, but to be fair, they were rude first, and I’m at the end of my rope.
Oh god. Rope. Rope in the water. Too short. Not enough. Fingers sinking?—
“Do you hike?”
“Not anymore,” I blurt. The panic is hitting me and I can’t stop it this time. My toes tap in my shoes and I’m gripping the chair so I don’t lose my fucking mind.
“Do you have any?—”
“Regrets? Yes. Of course, I do. I’m an adult who learns from her mistakes. Do you have any regrets? Like treating me like a suspect when I’m the victim here?”
She pauses before standing up. Her light footsteps carry her away, but as she leaves, a faraway click happens before the bright light turns off. It’s pitch black in the room, save for the rectangular outline of a door closing.
No, no, no, “Wait!”
But it’s too late. I’m left in utter darkness.
Just like when I sank beneath the surface of the lake. Only this time, I know I’m breathing. I’m breathing and dry and not about to drown. My foot is in a boot and that boot is on a concrete floor, not dangling in the water. When I push off the floor, it’s a floor. Not someone’s hand.
Not Claire’s hand.
I take a breath and try to slow it down. Hyperventilating will not help right now, but I’m not sure I can stop it, either. Get your shit together, June. I am not twelve. I am not being interrogated by the police about a prank gone wrong. This is not that. I am an adult who has been kidnapped. Not a child who made a mistake.
And I need to get the fuck out of here.
Okay. They’re not going to leave me here. That much is certain. I’m not going to be abandoned down here to—no. Not the d-word again. I am not thinking about that or anything related to that.
Claire’s face. Under the water. Lifeless.
I can’t stop the thought. Can’t make it go away. It’s there. Right in front of me. No matter what I try to think of, she’s right there. Just … there.
I wrench air into my lungs, before a sob wracks and takes it from me. I can’t do this. This is going to kill me. I can hear her laughter. The sweet way she used to sing herself to sleep at night. It wasn’t her fault the other kids liked to tease her. I tried to make them stop. I didn’t even know what was going on until it was too late, and we were both in the water.
Summer camp was supposed to be fun and safe. Canoeing was one of the best activities there. But when twelve-year-olds decide to fuck with you, they don’t play around. I’d seen Wendy and Pippa by the canoes earlier, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. But those sisters were monsters, and I knew it and I should have done something.
When we got our boats in the water, I paddled with Claire because the other girls didn’t like her. Pippa had made sure to help her with her life jacket, and I hadn’t paid attention when Claire said it felt heavy. Said it felt like rocks were in there. But I was too excited to go out on the long trip to the island in the middle of the lake.
As we passed by Wendy and Pippa in their canoe, a pop rang out, and suddenly, our canoe sprang a leak between the shore and the island. Too far from safety.
We sank fast. We screamed. A lot. The counselor was already on the island—Becka had led the way. There was supposed to be a counselor behind the group, too, but she wasn’t there. I found out later that she had food poisoning. No one knew if that was intentional … but I think Wendy and Pippa did something to her food. I’ve always thought that. After everything else they did, why not that, too? Those girls were evil. Pure evil. And their parents were too rich for it to matter.
The more I think about it, the more I can’t breathe. Just like Claire.
Tears stream down my face, and I can’t stop seeing her in front of me. “I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t know.”
Not that it matters now. In the water, I kicked and kicked, trying to get to the surface. My life vest was weighted, too, but I wriggled the clips open and got out of it, and swam for the surface. Someone threw a rope toward me, but it was too short and panic splashing made me sink. When I did, there was Claire. Dead.
I screamed underwater and thrashed for the surface, kicking Claire’s body in the process. Sometimes I still feel that sensation when I’m in the water. The softness of it. Soft, but still solid. I knew right then what I’d done, and the thought made me blackout for a flash.
But it was that little extra push which got me back to the surface, like kicking off the bottom of the pool. She saved my life because I had her body to propel me upward. It was instinct—I was kicking wildly, didn’t have a plan or a thought in my head. I didn’t want to use her like that. It just happened.
I’m not in the lake.
Chanting that over and over is the only thing that will keep me from losing my shit right now. My face is cold from the tears dripping down it, but that doesn’t matter because I’m not in the lake. I’m dry—face aside—and I’m not blacking out. That is not an option. I am present and I am not drowning and I am going to get the fuck out of here somehow.
Focus. Breathe.
If not for myself, then I’ll do it for Claire. Because when I get out of here and I get my money, I’m going to open a firm to help people who get stepped on by everyone else.
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