Chapter Twenty-Six She Doesn’t Know What’s Good for Her
twenty-six
She Doesn’t Know What’s Good for Her
The world turns sideways as I hit the bottom of a deep trench with a bone-rattling thud.
Pain shoots through my ankle. Groaning, I push myself up, my heart sinking when I realize I’m nearly six feet down from the ground.
This trench must’ve been used for storage or something, because there are old broken skids and termite-rotted pallets all around me.
Oh God. I came dangerously close to landing on a wooden stake.
“Ryan!”
I hear my cousin’s frantic voice from above, and then she appears, leaning over the edge, her face stark white against the dark sky.
“Ryan! Oh my God, are you okay?”
I manage a shaky nod, even though every part of me is screaming in pain. “I think I sprained my ankle.”
Jasmine grimaces. “How do we get you out of there? Can you pile up those wooden boxes, maybe, and climb up?”
“No. They’re all broken and falling apart. I don’t think any of them would hold my weight.” My head spins a little as I look up at her, the dirt of the pit casting eerie shadows.
“Okay. Just hang on. I’ll find something to pull you up.”
“Be careful, Jazzy,” I warn her. “I heard someone in the house. Like, loud footsteps. We’re not alone out here.”
Her mouth tightens with fear, and she glances over her shoulder as if expecting someone to jump out at her.
“Watch your back,” I say. “Be quick.”
She hesitates before backing away from the edge. Each second she’s gone drags into an eternity. I wait there, helpless in the pit, watching shadows shift above me.
Sinking down to my knees, I fight it as long as I can.
But it invades, the panic, as it always does when I feel trapped.
I’m suddenly hiding under the bed again, trembling with terror as I hear my father’s footsteps approaching.
I forcibly shove the memory out of my head, but it’s just replaced with another one.
Making birdcages on the kitchen table the summer before he was captured. I see him. My father, carefully working the iron bars into the platform, fixing the intricately carved wooden top onto it. He loved to whittle these things, making them as beautiful as any dollhouse I’d ever seen.
“Oh, little sparrow. Why shouldn’t these pretty creatures have a place to stay?” he asked me.
“But, Daddy,” I protested, “with the cages, they can’t come and go. They’re trapped.”
He chuckled then. “That’s because some birds are so pretty, they have to belong to someone. Otherwise, everyone would want them. They’d be in danger.”
It made sense in my six-year-old mind, why the most beautiful birds had owners.
Once, I saw a bright green parrot flitting through the leaves, and I pointed it out to him.
He tried to coax it down from the branches—come here, pretty girl—but it spread its wings and flew off.
Dad said it was someone’s escaped pet, because there weren’t any wild parrots in our woods.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “She doesn’t know what’s good for her. She doesn’t know that out here, alone, she’s only going to die.”
Now, at the bottom of the pit, my breath comes in short gasps. The air feels toxic. I can’t breathe. I start to pant, thinking of my father, of his touch. I used to be comforted by it, but now it’s all around me, his hands around my throat, choking me…
Every rustle, every creak of branches, is deafening.
A crack of a twig echoes somewhere nearby, and my heart hammers against my ribs.
I strain to see where Jasmine went, but the edge of the trench blocks my view.
She’s out there alone, exposed, and all I can picture is that dark figure jumping up behind her, silent as a ghost, ready to—
A sudden snap echoes above me.
“Jaz?” I call out, a spike of fear cutting through me.
Her voice comes back, slightly breathless but steady. “I found a rope in the trunk. Just hold on!”
Her footsteps get closer until she’s standing at the edge.
She tosses me the rope and I catch it, the rough fibers scraping my palms as I hold tight.
Jasmine braces herself, planting her feet and tightening her grip.
I’ve seen her cheerleading tumbling routines, so I know she’s strong, but I’m terrified she won’t be able to help me up.
“You ready?” she asks.
“Yeah. Just…don’t let go.”
As Jasmine pulls with all her might, I use my good leg to try to climb the dirt wall, my arms aching with the effort. My palms are burning.
She stumbles, her jacket snagging against the rough ground, and I wince when her grip falters for a split second.
Breathing hard, I haul myself up slowly, hand over hand. I’m painfully aware of how vulnerable we both are—my cousin with her back to the woods, her full focus on pulling me out. All I can think is that any second now, someone could creep up behind her, push her, grab her…
Finally, with a last, desperate scramble, I reach the edge, and Jasmine tugs me up. We both collapse onto the ground, gasping for breath. My ankle is throbbing, and my entire body trembles with fear and relief.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” my cousin declares.
We race back to the car, gravel flying under the tires as we speed away, leaving the lumberyard shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Maggie and Dan are asleep when we sneak into the house through the mudroom.
I’m relieved, because now I don’t have to explain why we’re dirty and Jasmine’s jacket is torn.
Or to explain the cut on my cheek where I landed in the pit and a pebble dug into it.
Or the bruises on my arm. Or why we came home instead of sleeping over at Gillian’s.
In the car, Jasmine proposed a far-fetched tale involving a game of truth or dare gone wrong, followed by a screeching fight between her and Gillian that broke up the slumber party. I doubt Maggie and Dan will buy it, but at the moment, I can’t think of anything better.
We change into our pajamas and climb into our beds without even brushing our teeth. I think we’re both ready for this night to be over. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t fall asleep.
Someone was at the lumberyard.
I didn’t imagine that dark figure in Ellerbee’s house. I didn’t hallucinate those footsteps.
The question is, did the intruder follow us there, or were they already at the lumberyard before we arrived?
I’m finally starting to doze off when my phone vibrates beside my pillow. I roll over to check the screen. It’s past two a.m., but it appears I’m not the only one suffering from insomnia tonight.
UNKNOWN: STOP LOOKING OR I’LL TELL EVERYONE WHO YOU ARE.