“Hi, Mrs. Worthen,” I say, forcing a smile. “I don’t know if you remember me. I go to your church, and . . .”
“Yes, you’re Zahra’s friend,” she says. “I remember you. Ruth, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Is Pastor Worthen in this afternoon?”
“I’m afraid he’s still at work,” she says. She hesitates for a moment, her eyes flickering behind me, to my car in the driveway. “Is there something I can help you with? Or maybe I could give you our youth pastor’s phone number, he’s very . . .”
“No, no, thank you,” I say quickly. “I was actually hoping to talk to you.”
Her frame stiffens, ever so slightly. Somehow, slender as she is, she manages to fill the doorway. Her shoulders are bony epaulets, angling sharply to block my view.
“I was talking to Charity,” I say softly. “Your daughter?”
“Yes, I know my own daughter,” she says, an edge creeping into her voice.
“And she says you haven’t been in contact with her. It just strikes me as kind of weird. Wouldn’t you reach out to her in the middle of a crisis like this? Even if you don’t really get along?”
Her lips go thin.
“My daughter has made it very clear she doesn’t want me in her life,” she says.
“Sounds like you guys made that clear to her, honestly,” I say. “Beating her, locking her up? You didn’t like that she was a free spirit, so you tried to break her. Right?”
“Young lady . . .”
“And now . . . now you’re doing the same to Zahra,” I say.
She goes extremely white beneath her makeup. Her eyelid flicks again, that little nervous flutter.
“Why would you say a thing like that?” she whispers.
Because I go to Victory Evangelical. Because I’ve seen the way Worthen talks about sinners—about women. Because he killed a boy once for kissing his daughter. Because Zahra has been wracked with some heartbreak since the last time she saw you. Because something hurt her, and I think it must have been him.
“Because . . . because I saw her in the window upstairs,” I say softly.
It’s a bluff. I don’t even know what I saw, not really. But Grace Worthen turns to look at me for the briefest moment. Then she slams the door shut.
Almost.
I manage to wedge my knee in before it clicks shut. The door cracks against my kneecap, but I ignore the pain. I push my way through into the foyer.
“Where is she? Upstairs? Locked up somewhere?” I ask.
She gives a strangled cry. “Nobody’s here!”
I run toward the stairs. I’m four or five steps up when she grabs me, her hand gripping the fabric of my sweater. How’s she so fast? She doesn’t look like she should be. I try to twist away but she reaches her other arm up and grabs my elbow.
“Get off me!” I hiss.
“You can’t go up there. Get out of my house, or I will . . .”
“GET OFF OF ME!” The words tear out of me in a blast of rage. I turn and shove her, quick and sharp, in the chest.
There’s not enough time to register the look of surprise as she falls backward.
The sound is stomach-turning, a crunch, a sob. I turn away from her again. I run up the stairs, two at a time.
On the second floor I throw doors open wildly. Linen closet, bathroom, office, guest bed. I kick things out of my way. I feel Zahra’s name in my mouth, again and again, and I realize distantly that I’m calling for her.
“Zahra! Can you hear me? Zahra?”
I stand on the landing for a moment and look down. Grace Worthen is sprawled on the floor. Her hair is matted with blood; she must have hit her head. I watch as she stirs, her hand creeping up to wipe at the blood on her face.
There isn’t much time.
Up another floor, I find the room where I saw the curtain move; I’m almost sure of it. A small guest room, bed made; a fireplace that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used. Nothing personal on the surfaces or walls. I go to the window and look down at my car. Yes; this is right. But she’s not here. No one’s here.
Then I turn to see the closet door. There’s a knob lock on it; why is there a lock on a closet?
Slowly, I step closer to it. It’s not locked. Not right now. I grip the knob and throw the door open.
She’s curled up on the floor, in the fetal position. She opens her eyes and squints up into the light.
“Zahra,” I whisper.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
SHE TRIES TO GET up but collapses on the weight of her arms, and my eyes are running over her, looking for signs of pain, of injury, but maybe her hand just fell asleep, maybe she just got caught on the yards of fabric she’s swathed in. Her skirt is long and full, and she’s wearing a gray sweater that hangs off her narrow shoulders. I kneel down next to her. “Zahra,” I say again. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
She scrambles away from me, pressing her body to the back of the closet. She’s silent except for her heaving breath. My heart gives an unsteady lurch. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s me, Ruthie. Zahra. I’m here. I found you.” The words don’t seem to calm her. She looks up at me, uncomprehending, blindly terrified. My hand goes to my mouth.
“What have they done to you?” I whisper.
She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a wail and a sob. It spikes the hair on my arms. My mind races through scenarios, through all the half-remembered stories of cult discipline and brainwashing and ritual abuse I’ve ever heard. They’ve broken her. They’ve left her unable to speak, to move, to be a human being. All because she was beautiful and untamed and they couldn’t abide it.
I push myself up, run to the bedroom door, and look down the stairs.
There’s a smear of blood on the bottom three stairs. But Grace Worthen is nowhere to be seen.
We have to move.
I scramble back to Zahra. “Can you walk?” I ask, trying to sound gentle. “We have to go, Zahra. Your grandma . . .”
“Grandma?” Her voice sounds like a child’s. “Where is she? Is she . . .”
“She’s coming. We’ve got to go. Come on.” I wait for a half second, but Zahra’s not moving. I’m going to have to help her. I reach down to take her hand and she recoils with a sob.
“I can’t. Please, please, just leave me alone . . .” she cries.
“Never,” I whisper. “Never again.” I kneel down and grab her by the forearm, pulling her up. I expect her to be weak, pliant, but all of a sudden she’s all muscle, thrashing and wild. She pulls away and stares at me with burning eyes.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “We can’t wait. We have to move. I’m sorry.”
I grab her again, this time more forcefully, and pull her toward the door. She lets loose a scream that makes the window shudder in its frame, throwing her weight backward, but I don’t let go. I hear the sound of sirens. Grace must have called the cops, or hit a panic button. The sound is far away, a distant echo. My fingernails catch on Zahra’s skin—I feel them scrape, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t want to hurt her, I don’t want to touch her when she’s so afraid and so lost, but we have to move, because now, louder than the sirens, so much louder, I hear footsteps on the stairs, and they’re quick, quick, quick . . .
Grace is a horror, straight from a slasher movie. Blood covers her face and mats her hair. She holds a rifle in both hands. Her grip is awkward, cringing, but the barrel is aimed right at me, and her finger is on the trigger.
“Let her go,” she says, her voice shaking.
I freeze, my hand still tight around Zahra’s wrist. Behind me Zahra moans softly, but she stops struggling.
“I won’t let you have her,” Grace says. She takes another step into the room. Her face is a grim red mask, pale blue eye
s peering half-mad from behind locks of bloodied hair. I keep my eyes trained on her, but my mind is spinning around the room, trying to remember what’s in there. If there’s anything I can use as a weapon. If there’s anything I can use to get us free.
“She’s not yours to keep, Grace.” I mean the words to sound defiant, but they come out in a strangled squeak. Still, a look of fury blows across her face.
“You . . . will . . . not . . . leave . . . this . . . house!” she screams, lifting the gun up to look through the sight.
An explosion tears through the room. A lamp explodes behind me as the bullet hits it. My fingers slip free of Zahra’s arm; she falls to the floor. Grace slumps against the wall; for a minute I think she somehow shot herself, though that makes no sense. Then I realize the recoil of the gun has knocked her back.
And then my body’s moving, and it’s almost like it’s outside of my control. I lunge toward the fireplace, my fingers fumbling at the wrought iron stand to its right. The poker is cool in my fingers, my muscles thrilling a little at its weight. I raise it high. And I don’t hesitate. I don’t wait to see her face, or telegraph my intentions, beyond the simple, swift downward stroke. I bring it as hard as I can across Grace Worthen’s head. And even when she falls to the ground, I keep it clenched tight in my hand.
The sirens are loud now. Blue and red lights start swirling through the window. Downstairs I can hear someone calling out. I hear the word police. I don’t look at the end of the poker. At what is dripping from its hook. I don’t look down at the woman on the ground, her blood seeping into the carpet.
Zahra’s crouched next to the bed, crying softly. She looks so small, somehow—as if some part of her has been chipped away, worn down by the blasting winds. My heart wrenches dully in my chest. Because I’ve found her . . . but what if it’s too late to save her?
But then she looks up, and the tears on her face are illuminated red and blue, and they glitter as bright as stars. As bright as magic. And I smile. Because there she is—my dearest friend. The Starmaiden.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON THE CLOUDS are dark, the mountains hidden behind a gray mist. There’s a chill in the air. I hunch into my peacoat as I walk up the trail to the playground.
Finally. Finally, I’m going to get a chance to talk to Zahra.
The world has been in a tumult ever since the moment I arrived at Grace Worthen’s house yesterday afternoon. After the police arrived, Zahra was loaded into an ambulance and whisked away. I was taken to the station to make my statement. Again and again, I sat across from Detective Teffeteller and told her what’d happened. That I’d gone to the Worthen house on a hunch, more or less. That I’d seen Zahra in the window and hadn’t thought twice, but had pushed past Grace to get to her. That I’d been desperate to get her out of there. That she hadn’t wanted to leave—but that the Worthens had a history of abusing, manipulating, gaslighting, and brainwashing people.
She’d refused to tell me how Zahra was doing or what she was saying. It was all confidential, “part of an ongoing investigation.” But she told me they’d arrested Dale Worthen at the church. She also told me Grace Worthen was in the hospital, in stable condition.
By the time I got home it was almost one in the morning. My phone was blowing up with texts—mostly from Tabitha and Ben and Marcus, Soo-Jin and Margo, but some from people I didn’t even know. I don’t have a clue how the news made it out there so quickly. I sent a few messages—I’m okay, Zahra’s okay, I will tell you everything as soon as I can—but the only person I really wanted to talk to was Zahra.
She texted me from her mother’s phone this morning, unprompted.
This is Z can u meet at Pedo Park 4pm
It was nine and I was still lying on my bed, not sleeping— I hadn’t really slept all night—but resting, waiting for an update. I held the phone in front of my face for ages before I could quite process what I was seeing. A text. From my best friend. For the first time since I touched ground in Anchorage. It’s everything I’ve wanted. The only thing I’ve wanted. And now . . . now I don’t know how to feel. Who will she be? The girl I dragged, screaming, from the closet yesterday afternoon? The one I’ve been chasing for the past few weeks, through rumors and half-heard stories? Or someone else entirely?
But she was reaching out to me this time. I’d been planning to wait a few days, to let things settle down. To let her talk to her parents, to let her sleep and eat and regain her strength after whatever she’d been through with the Worthens. The fact that she wanted to see me made me feel hopeful for the first time in weeks. The fact that she wanted to see me at our old haunt? That made me feel happy.
So here I am, a few minutes early. I crest the hill, then cross down into the little clearing. The deciduous trees are all bare now. Only the conifers stand, shaggy and dark in their coats of needles. The investigators that found Bailey last week trampled a lot of the undergrowth flat, and the playground is still festooned with police tape. I walk to the center of the equipment and look around at the damage—the slide uprooted from the earth, resting on its side; the enormous tire gone entirely, pillaged or removed. There’s evidence of intruders other than the cops, too. Empty beer cans litter the damp earth, and someone’s spray-painted RIP BAILEY on the playscape in bright green.
Under the highest platform on the playscape, there’s a patch of dirt recently turned, a scraped-looking place where someone has filled a hole.
Slowly, I start to unthread the police tape from the equipment. They’ve already learned everything they’ll learn from the playground. At the most recent press conference, Detective Teffeteller said that the crime scene was so old, and so contaminated, anything they found there was of limited value. Vagrants have come through, and kids looking to party, and urban explorers, and plenty of other people.
The police will have to rely on other methods to find out who killed Bailey Sellers.
I look around the clearing. We’re too old, now, to turn this place into a hideout. But I wonder if any of this—the playground, the Precipice, the long-ago connection between two lonely girls—can be pulled from the wreckage. If we can excavate some tiny, glowing seed from all that’s happened since. I get the last of the tape off the playscape and crumple it into a little ball.
When I look up, she’s there.
It’s almost stunning to see her there, in the flesh, after so long. Yesterday I didn’t even have time to process it. But I’ve gone over and over my memories, tracing her face in my mind for so long, and now, here she is, braced at the edge of the woods like a doe considering flight. She’s wearing the same baggy sweater she wore last night, but she’s traded the skirt for jeans and boots.
There’s something so fragile about her face. I keep thinking of stone formations in the desert, left behind by the water that wore them down. Something in the angles of her cheekbones, the jut of her chin, reminds me of that. As if some great and terrible force has carved some piece of her away.
Her eyes meet mine. I’m not sure if I should smile, or look serious, or what, so I just raise a hand to wave.
She steps over one of the metal bouncy animals, looking around the clearing. “Wow,” she says. “This place is . . .”
“Pretty trashed,” I say. “Yeah. They tore it apart.”
She doesn’t answer. Her hands drift over the surfaces of things—the slide, the swing set. I watch her face closely, trying to see what she’s thinking. Once it would have been easy. Now she’s impossible to read.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “I mean . . . did they hurt you?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment. But after a moment she looks at me again. Her gaze is so direct, so bold, it startles me a little.
“What did you tell the cops?” she asks.
For some reason I’d expected her to sound robotic, like she’s in some kind of trance. Like she’s been brainwashed. But she doesn�
��t. She sounds . . . like Zahra. Like the same girl I knew three years ago. And somehow, that’s almost more frightening, though I’m not sure why.
My voice is slow and even when it comes. “I told them that I went looking for you, after your mom told me how abusive your grandparents were. That I saw you in the window and I pushed your grandma out of the way. That I ran upstairs to find you. That she pulled a gun on us.”
I take a step toward her and stop when I see her tense. We stand on either side of the fallen slide, facing each other. She’s taller than me now—we used to be around the same height, but she’s gained a full two inches on me, at least.
“This isn’t how I imagined seeing you again,” I say. And the moment the words are out, something in me throbs in pain. All the scenarios I’ve spun—the homecomings I’ve imagined, both of us back here at the playground—are all flat, lifeless things now, as two-dimensional as the notebook paper we used to write on.
Her lips push together into a sneer, but there’s a look of curiosity in her eyes, too.
“What did you think would happen?” she asks.
What did I think? I don’t know. Not this. Not that I’d be squaring off across a broken slide, my shoulder still sore from swinging a metal poker at an old woman, my best friend’s face twisted in scorn. I feel my lip start to quiver, and so I bite it down to hide it.
“I don’t know,” I say softly. “I guess I hoped it’d be less complicated.”
She just smirks. My heart gives a sharp stutter.
“What happened to you, Zahra?” I take another step closer to her. I watch her eyes narrow, but I don’t move away. “Something changed you. Something . . . hurt you.”
There’s something uncertain in her eyes. No—not uncertain. Incredulous.
“You’re kidding, right?” she says. When I just look at her, she laughs. “Come on, Ruthie. You remember. I know you do.”
I Know You Remember Page 21