by Jette Harris
He nodded. It must be the drugs. “That’s what I thought you said.” He held the tablet up. “You know, your grandpa is going to want this back.”
She froze. Her mind didn’t want to work around the implication of his words. “No…”
Rhodes nodded, turning back down the hall. Heather hurried after him, begging, “No! No, please! Avery, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. Don’t hurt him! I’m sorry! Please!”
Before she could cling to him, the door slammed. Screaming, banging on the door, she slid to the floor.
Only a short time passed before the door opened again. Heather was sitting on in the hallway, knees hugged to her chest. Rhodes had to open the door carefully as not to hit her. Her face was red from crying.
“Is this what you’re going to do to break me?” she asked. “Just kill everyone I love?”
“What are you going on about?” He leaned down to hover over her.
“Z, my grandfather…”
“I didn’t touch your grandfather,” Rhodes scoffed. She stared up at him, incredulous. “I did exactly what I said I would do: I returned his tablet.”
Face burning, Heather let her head fall back against the wall.
“I love doing that,” he chuckled. “I did it to Z, too. I stole his mom’s cell phone. It was hilarious. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“You have a seriously demented sense of humor.” She shook her head. Covering her eyes, she began to sniffle. Rhodes sighed and sat next to her. “Please…” she whispered, “tell me my grandfather is OK.”
Frowning, he shook his head. “Of course he’s not OK. He has been convinced—all but convinced—that his granddaughter, the last of his line, is dead. He has a plot and everything.”
“That’s his plot.”
“It makes no difference whom it’s allotted for: You’ll be dead; He’ll be alive.”
“Is he really drinking again?”
“How should I know?”
Heather rolled her head toward him, her eyes demanding an answer.
“Not anymore,” he replied.
Sniffling again, she wiped her face on her sleeve. She waited until the urge to cry passed before she opened her mouth again. “Why do they call you the Phoenix?”
Rhodes chuckled. “Because that’s where the press thinks I started, Phoenix. I burnt the house down, destroying all the evidence. Very effective. So effective, I did it again in Detroit. That’s when they started calling me the Phoenix, rising from the ashes.” He flapped his hands like wings. “That’s me.”
“Where did you actually start?” she asked, trying to sound innocuous.
“At home, of course.”
“Where is that?”
Rhodes scoffed, shaking his head at her blatant attempt.
“If you’re just going to kill me,” she pointed out, “what does it matter if you tell me a little about yourself?”
“I don’t play dice.” He shook his head.
Heather’s brow furrowed. “Everything about this… this”—she searched for words to describe the situation, gesturing at the house around her, but failed to find a proper description—“this! is playing dice!”
“No,” Rhodes countered, “this is carefully calculated, considering every possibility, based on empirical research.”
“You’re making too many assumptions!”
Rhodes tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “I feel like you just called me an asshole again…”
“No, but… you’re assu—hoping no one here or no one involved in the investigation is as smart as you are, or as strong, or tenacious.” She spoke excitedly, relieved to compartmentalize her situation. “Witt was easily stronger than you are, and if he had a mind to, he could have crushed your skull. And Zachariah was smarter—as smart—and almost escaped. If—if I had fallen behind and let you catch me—”
“You would be dead.”
“—he could have gotten away!” She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the thought away. “And—and—there’s a lot of chance involved. You’re supposing a hunter doesn’t walk through the woods and see through the windows, or a Jehovah’s Witness doesn’t knock on the door, or they don’t think to trace the signal on the tablet when you accessed my Facebook.”
Heather was too caught up in the endless possibilities, she did not notice Rhodes’s face becoming grim. She continued heedlessly.
“You’re assuming you can control aspects of the situation that you just… can’t. Hell,” she studied him, “you’re—what? Mid-forties?—you could have—”
Before she could elaborate on what age-related disaster he could encounter, Rhodes clapped his hand over her mouth.
“Stop—talking.”
Heather grunted her compliance. He stood, pulling her up with him. He pushed her across the room. Turning her around, he shoved her against the window and pulled her robe open. Whimpering, she tried to push herself away. If anyone did look up, she didn’t want them to see her like that. But he pinned her there, his hands wandering up to her breasts and down between her legs.
“Let’s see if the dice are in your favor,” he murmured in her ear.
67
“He’s been acting really weird.” Heather was sitting on the kitchen counter, licking cookie dough off a spoon.
“How is ‘weird’ weirder than he usually is?” Monica had her own bowl—an entire mixing bowl made from the remainder of the ingredients—and sat on the counter across from her. The bowl was already almost empty.
Heather considered how to put Rhodes’s behavior into words. “More restrained. Nicer… I kind of want to say ‘nicer,’ but he’s still threatening to kill everyone, and still messing with my head. Needy.” She leaned over the bowl in her lap and spit in it, then passed it over to Monica, who did the same.
“‘Nicer,’” Monica nodded, licking her own spoon. “That is weird. He—uh”—she lowered her voice—“he stopped coming to see me. I guess that’s nice.”
“I wonder if that means he’s about to kill us…” According to her calculations, they still had five or six days before the end of the month, but her count could be off. He could also choose to kill them at any time before his appointed deadline.
“He could be about to let us go,” Monica countered.
Monica’s optimism broke Heather’s heart. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Monica about how he was intending to terminate their one-month residency. She took a deep breath, trying to figure the best way to explain it to her, but Monica spoke first:
“Listen, Heather,” she began in a low voice, “I—um—if… when we get out… I don’t want anyone to know what happened in the Camera Room.” Heather’s chest tightened. Her face began to tingle. “Not just with you,” Monica added, “but Witt and Z, too. I don’t—I mean… It was special, but I don’t think people would understand.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, really, when we get out of this house, I just want to forget everything. Leave it all behind. I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Oh.” Heather couldn’t think of anything else to say. She had to force herself to swallow the little bit of dough she had just licked off her finger.
“What?” Monica sensed her discomfort. “Why would you want to remember this? Anything that happened here? I mean, you lost the love of your life…”
Heather couldn’t conjure more than a whisper. “No, I didn’t.”
Monica recoiled. She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted when Rhodes entered from the dining room.
“Smells amazing!” He rubbed his hands together. “When will they be ready?”
“I’ll let you know,” Heather said.
“What, no timer?” He glanced around. The girls shook their heads.
“Cookie dough?” Heather offered him the remnants of the bowl in her lap. Rhodes peered into it, then back up at her. She made a point to lick a large swath off of her spoon, to show him it wasn’t poisoned. He accepted the b
owl and used two fingers to shovel a large glob into his mouth.
“Mmm…” he said, nodding. “Tastes like spit.”
Pursing her lips, Heather nodded. “It’s my secret ingredient,” she murmured.
“Moné-sha didn’t get any?” he said, peering into her bowl. “No secret ingredient?” The girls exchanged a glance as he scooped out another glob. “Here, try this. It’s delicious.”
“I’m good,” Monica said.
He stuck his fingers into her mouth, forcing her to lick them off. Heather squeezed her eyes shut. Pulling his hand away, he licked away what Monica left behind.
“Monica will know the answer to my question, won’t she, little rabbit?” Heather stared at him until she realized what he was talking about. Monica glanced from Rhodes to her. Heather shook her head violently. “You know everything about Heather, don’t you, Monica?” He smiled down at her.
He had used her real name. The sound was terrifying. Monica shook her head and shrank away.
“How did Heather lose her virginity?”
Monica’s jaw went slack. Heather started to have trouble breathing. She attempted to hide it by staring down at the little piles of flour they had spilled on the floor.
“I always thought Z was her first man,” Monica replied.
“Lies. I know you know; I can tell by the look on your face.”
“That’s not a lie,” Monica said in a small voice. Despite the tense situation Heather had to fight smirking. “I don’t know who it was.”
“In that case, now you’re lying.” His arm shot out and wrapped around her shoulders, snatching her off the counter. Her bowl clattered to the floor.
“Don’t!” Heather screamed, jumping off the counter.
When she saw the knife, she thought she was going to faint. He pressed it against Monica’s throat.
“Stop!” Heather dropped to her knees. “Stop! Please let her go! It’s Monica!”
“Not until you answer the question!’’
“She just did, dickhead!” Monica shrieked.
Rhodes dropped her. Slack-jawed, he stared from one to the other. Monica pressed herself against the counter, unable to get far enough away from either of them. Heather ran her fingers into her hair, beginning to sob. The one thing she didn’t want exposed, did not want to remember, returned to her mind, as clear as yesterday.
“I didn’t see that,” he admitted. “Tell me.”
But Heather couldn’t reply. She shook her head. The memories formed a lump in her throat that wouldn’t clear. Shaking her head, she dropped to her knees.
Monica spoke quickly: “It was the summer before high school. We were just messing around. It was nothing.”
Rhodes looked at the mess on the floor that had been Heather, then back to Monica’s burning face. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could see bitterness there. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It was nothing!”
He pointed to Heather, bawling on the floor. “That is not nothing!”
“IT WAS NOTHING!” she screamed down at Heather, then stormed out of the room. Rhodes followed until she ran into the library and stomped up the stairs. The door to the Camera Room slammed shut.
Despite wanting a moment to puzzle over the quirks and inconsistencies of teenaged girls, he returned to the kitchen. Heather was pulling the cookie sheet out of the oven. Tears streamed down her face, and she clenched her jaw. She slammed the cookie pan on the counter.
“Your cookies are ready.” She tore off the oven mitts and threw them to the floor. “We’re even. I hope you choke.” She pushed past him, but he grabbed her arm
“Get away from me!” she shrieked, trying to shove him away.
“Uh-uh.” He pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her tightly. Eventually, she stopped struggling and cried into his chest.
68
“I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
They sat on the floor of the kitchen, among the little hills of flour, leaning against the cabinets. Rhodes had the baking sheet across his lap, occasionally shoving a cookie into his mouth. Heather had stopped crying, but hadn’t contained her sniffles.
“Who else knows?”
“Our moms. Well…” She rolled her eyes at the slip. “Her mom. We never told anyone.”
“You lost the only person you could talk to about it.”
Heather nodded. “Mom said that I might grow out of it. So I kept waiting for it to go away, but it never did.”
“Being a lesbian?”
“No, being in love with Monica.” Heather took a cookie and nibbled at the edges. “She may have meant being a lesbian. That would have made more sense.”
Rhodes chuckled. “By all accounts, your mother sounds like she was an amazing woman.”
“She was.”
“You’re incredibly like her.”
“Don’t—”
“These are fantastic, by the way.” He stuffed an entire cookie in his mouth, then sucked the sugar off his thumb. “So what started your little affair?”
Heather chuckled. “Witt stole one of his dad’s dirty movies and gave it to Monica to get her off his back. She and I watched it together.”
Rhodes snorted. “Knowing what I know of Frank Witt, that’s kind of hilarious.”
“You have no idea.”
Rhodes nodded, raising his eyebrows. “I have a very good idea, actually. I’ve met him. Witt told me stories. He’s a bigger asshole than I am.”
She glanced at him askance. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”
“Now you have no idea.” He offered the last cookie to Heather. She shook her head. Popping it into his mouth, he placed the cookie sheet on the counter above them. “See, now everything makes sense,” he said around the cookie. “I was under the impression that you two were best friends, but some of the things the others said didn’t line up.”
Heather nodded. “She didn’t speak to me for a year. All year. The only reason she starting talking to me again was…”
“Your parents died.”
She shook her head. “After that. David was attacked by a dog, and I had to drive them to the hospital. And even then, it was mostly just…” she sniffled. “Monica learned I couldn’t really say no to her, so she would ask for a lot of favors. It was… it was kind of messed up.”
Rhodes smirked. “Did she ever call you up for a—uh—a booty call?”
Snorting, Heather shook her head. “No, I imagine she had boys for that.”
“No, she never did.”
Heather frowned. She had been under the impression that Monica was a party girl, surrounded by indiscretions. “That’s kind of depressing.”
“What?” He brushed the crumbs off his shirt.
“That her first time with a man would be with you.”
Rhodes grew still. “That depends on how you look at it.”
“No,” she laughed. “No, any way you look at it, being with you is sad.” She began to chuckle, covering her face with her hand. After a moment, the sobs returned.
69
Heather woke to the sound of a guitar and thought she was still dreaming. Once she realized she was awake, she thought it was a recording. She was surprised when the door opened, and Rhodes rounded the corner with the instrument.
“Look what I found!” His tendency to sound like an excited kid was starting to get under her skin. Strumming Can’t You See? by The Marshall Tucker Band, he climbed clumsily onto the bed and stood over her. Realizing he was wearing nothing but his open robe and the guitar, she had to fight the urge to pull the covers over her head.
“I know.” Rhodes mistranslated her discomfort intentionally. “It’s out-of-tune. I’m going to have to get a tuner.”
He jumped off the bed, sat in the chair, and began attempting to tune the guitar by ear. Heather rolled her eyes, then froze for a moment, expecting to be slapped. When he didn’t fly out of the chair, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“No, you don’t.” She held
out her hands for him to pass it over.
“You know how to tune a guitar?” he sneered.
“Of course.” Running her tongue over her lips, she decided to test his new-found patience. “I’m wondering why you don’t.”
A shadow passed over his face. Heather feared she would be getting a guitar to the head. To her surprise, he set his jaw and forced a smile. “I’ve always had a tuner.” He handed over the guitar.
“Sit down before you hurt yourself.” She smiled to show him her words were in jest. She was shocked not only by his mellow reaction, but also when he pulled his robe closed before sitting back down. She began to strum, to survey the damage done.
“These strings are about to snap,” she informed him. She set the guitar across her lap like an offering and met his eyes. “I’ll tune it if you let Monica stay in the other bedroom,” she proposed, “instead of going back to the closet.”
She had been waiting quite a while to use his tactic against him. Rhodes narrowed his eyes as he turned this over, and chewed on the tip of his forefinger.
“Tune it,” he told her, “and I’ll consider your… proposal.”
Knowing it was the best she was going to get, she began to strum and tune. Twisting the pins hurt her shoulder, but she pushed through it. As soon as it sounded right, she began to pick out a tune, then offered the guitar back to Rhodes.
“Play for me.” His tone was strange, between command and request. He leaned back into his chair, kicked out his legs, and folded his hands over his belly.
She settled the guitar back in her lap and began to pick out a Collective Soul tune. He shook his head. She countered with one from R.E.M. He groaned.
“You can go to Hell,” she said, as if his distaste in local bands was the greatest of blasphemies.
“Hell is, in fact, a summer in Georgia.”
“I-75 is that way.” She pointed to the wall behind him.
Smirking, he shook his head. “No, it’s not.”
Heather puzzled over this, attempting to calculate their position with that information. Afraid he might be able to read these thoughts on her face, she pretended to inspect the rusty strings. “What would you like?” She tried to keep derision out of her voice.