You’re Next

by Kylie Schachte

  I lean over and rest my head on Cass’s shoulder. She tenses but then leans her head back into mine. My near-death experience has given me a pass for the moment, but I know things are still a mess between us.

  Richmond returns. “All right. We have an APB out for Elle Dorsey, and a warrant for her arrest. My sergeant wasn’t happy, but with everything you’ve got here… I have to hand it to you, Calhoun. You have a knack for pissing off powerful men.”

  She doesn’t mean it as a compliment, but I’ll take it.

  “Thanks.” I glance at Cass. “It’s a team sport.”

  Richmond rolls her eyes. “You better have those witnesses you mentioned. This is going to be a tough fight in court.” She looks at me. Really takes in the shriveled, wet-rat look I’m rocking, not to mention all the bruises from the crash. “Go home. I’ll have more questions for you, but you look like you could use some dry clothes and a week’s worth of sleep. We’ll be in touch.”

  Gramps, Cass, and I stand to leave.

  As I’m about to walk out the door, Richmond adds, “Try to stay out of trouble, at least for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I wheeze.

  In the car, I stare out the window. Cass and I sit together in the back seat. I reach for her hand and lace my fingers tight with hers.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  She doesn’t look at me. “You and me, Flora? We’re not okay. And I don’t know if we ever really will be.”

  It hurts, but I understand. “I know, but I’m not giving up on you.”

  She turns back to the front but tightens her grip on my hand.

  “Elle’s going to have some very expensive lawyers,” she says after a bit. “Richmond’s right, this fight has just begun.”

  She’s right. Finding Ava’s killer was only the first step. The world is built to protect some people and not others. Girls like Ava, like Molly, are left forgotten on the street, and no one ever expects someone like Elle to face any consequences.

  I used to think justice meant answers. You figure out the puzzle, and the world is set to rights. But it wasn’t that way with Lucy, and it won’t be that way for Ava. It’s going to be a long road of backbreaking work to make Elle pay.

  As tired as I am, the thought doesn’t fill me with dread.

  I squeeze Cass’s hand tighter. “I’m not afraid. We’ll do it together.”

  At first I think she’s going to give me some well-deserved skepticism. It’s not the first time I’ve said something like that this week.

  Instead, she shrugs. “Well, you only had to die to get it through your thick skull that you need me.”

  I squeeze close to her. She’s warm, and I’m freezing under my blanket. “You’re going to be insufferable about the fact that you saved my life, aren’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  At the hospital, Cass agrees to sit with Olive while Gramps escorts me through the dizzying chaos of the emergency room. I slip into a kind of lucid dream as nurses and doctors whirl around me. Gramps does all the talking. I mostly stare into space while they make sure I didn’t sustain any lasting brain damage in the water.

  Hours later, they let me go. We check on Olive before leaving. She’s stable, her doctor tells us. She’ll wake up soon.

  The drive home is quiet for a long time.

  Eventually, Gramps speaks. “It is unacceptable that you left the hospital earlier, after I’d asked you to stay.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  He nods slowly. “It is also unacceptable that I was too overcome to properly support you.”

  It’s true, but I can’t hold it against him anymore. I’ve been giving him all these little tests, waiting for him to leave me. To be Mom. But every time he let me down, he only came back and tried harder. That might be the best us two emotionally stunted curmudgeons can manage, for now.

  “Don’t worry, Gramps,” I say. “We’ll find new ways to fuck up next time.”

  His mouth twitches. After a long pause, he adds, “I am proud of you, you know.”

  “I know.” He’s said it before, but I don’t know if I ever really believed it until now.

  “Yes. Well.” He coughs. “I should tell you anyway. I’ll endeavor to be more open with you. And with Olive.”

  “Me, too.” The words are too small. I don’t know how to tell any of them that it’s different this time. I came out of the water different.

  I remember sitting on my bed a week ago with Olive. She’s always been better at this.

  I say, “Olive told me that we can’t be so scared of each other, the three of us.”

  Gramps thinks that one over and nods. “She is the most intelligent member of the household. I’ve always thought so.”

  I smile. “Let’s tell her that.”

  Back home, I stand in the hot blast of the shower until I start to nod off. I hunt down one of Olive’s fuzzy robes to wear. It smells like her, and that makes me feel stronger.

  As I towel off my hair, I open my laptop and turn on the news.

  Congressman Dorsey is giving a press conference. “I am alarmed and appalled by the accusations against my daughter. As a parent, I love my child unconditionally. But as a citizen and a public servant, it is my duty to support the pursuit of justice no matter the personal cost. That is why I will not be withdrawing my candidacy for Senate, despite the acute pain and suffering my family is experiencing right now. I believe in the future of this state, and more than ever I want to fight for the kinds of policies that will keep girls like Ava McQueen safe—”

  I slam the computer shut. I’m not surprised, but I am disgusted. How is it that he still manages to exploit both Ava and Elle, even now? I don’t feel any pity for Elle, but her father really sucks. It’s not hard to imagine where she learned to use people the way she does.

  I drop the towel on my bed and find the house phone. I have an important call to make.

  It rings and rings, then goes to a generic voicemail message. I chew the inside of my cheek while I wait for the tone.

  “Valentine, it’s me. Listen, I know you’re probably mad. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have left you like that. I didn’t mean to, it was unplanned. I was—you know what? It’s a long story. Not good for voicemail. Um. It meant a lot. What you did for me last night. And I thought you’d want to know that I’m okay. And I did it. I ended it. So, yeah, my phone is broken, that’s part of the long story. Call me on this number. I’m going to the hospital to see Olive later, but I-I wanted you to know. We did it.” I hang up before I can ramble any more.

  I’ve been thinking all week that I need to have answers about him. That I need to have my feelings fully sorted, categorized, examined, before I let that go anywhere. We’re both such disasters, and I don’t think that’s getting worked out overnight. But just like Cass, and Gramps, and Olive, he was there with me when it counted. We can start there.

  Cass was right. It only took a near-death experience to gain some perspective.

  I lie down on top of my comforter and close my eyes. I’ll get under the covers in a second.

  With my eyes shut, I hear a car pull up in front of the house. The engine turns off. A car door opens, then shuts. Another does the same.

  I sit up and look out my window.

  A cop car is parked in front of my house. I had kind of hoped I’d get to sleep for, like, a minute before I had to answer more questions.

  I lie back on the bed. Maybe Gramps can field this one, and I’ll just call Richmond later.

  A moment passes. Doorbell. Front door opens. Voices. I roll over, snuggling deeper into my pillow, but my skin prickles with the need to know what’s happening.

  I trudge down the hall. Take my time on the stairs.

  My grandfather stands in the hallway with two cops. Patrol officers. I recognize them but don’t know their names right away.

  Everyone looks at me, then looks uncomfortable.

  There’s a Pop Rock’s fizzle of fear in m
y gut. Something terrible has happened.

  Correction: something else terrible has happened.

  “What is it?” An iron fist clenches around my lungs. Was it Olive? Cass, this time?

  My grandfather uses his soft, calm voice. “Why don’t we all go into the living room to discuss—”

  “Tell me.” I have not moved from the foot of the stairs. From here, I can still run.

  The cops share a look.

  The one by the window steps closer. “Miss Calhoun, we believe you are acquainted with a man named Valentine Yates?”

  The fist twists.

  I have enough air to whisper, “Yes.”

  The cops share another look. “What is the nature of your relationship?”

  “We’re… friends.”

  “Does he have any family that you know of?”

  I shake my head. Terror seeps into my veins like ink in cold water. “His family is gone. He’s alone.”

  The cop by the window nods a couple of times. “Miss Calhoun, I’m afraid there was a fire late last night at 13 South Water Street in Whitley, where Mr. Yates lived. We believe he was trapped inside.”

  “You believe?” someone asks. It’s me. I’m the one who asks. I shake my head again, trying to clear the water from around my brain.

  “We uncovered a body in his apartment, but it was too badly burned to identify definitively. We’re waiting to hear back on dental records.”

  My mouth opens and closes, but nothing goes in or comes out. No air. No sounds.

  “W-why me?” I finally manage. “Why are you telling me?”

  The other cop finally speaks. “We found Mr. Yates’s cell phone in his car and looked through the calls. It’s something we do when there’s no clear next of kin. The last call he made was to you. Actually, your number was just about the only one in there.”

  That’s the detail that breaks me. I turn on my heel and run for the bathroom.

  I hear something that might be “sorry for your loss” behind me, but who knows what’s real anymore?

  I barely make it to the toilet before my stomach empties itself. Mostly spit and bile. I dry heave and retch, desperate to expel something, anything, from inside me, but I can’t even remember the last time I ate.

  I stay that way for a long time. I might hear voices in the front hall. I might hear my grandfather asking if I’m okay through the door. I might hear him try the knob. Who knows?

  A lifetime later, I stand. I wash my hands slowly, step by step. Water. Soap. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

  I wipe my mouth.

  Finally, I lift my chin to meet my own gaze in the mirror. This girl is tired. Her skin is sallow. She is wearing her sister’s fluffy pink robe, and her eyes are pure rage.

  I look at the girl for a long time. Eventually, I see the other parts, too. The parts she’s tried to hide under all that fury.

  Pain. Fear. Loss.

  There’s no hiding anymore. Tears well up in my eyes, and I don’t try to hold them back. They flow freely over my cheeks. I watch the grief overtake me, and I don’t look away.

  Another dead body. Another person I care about, gone. My family in pieces.

  A wave of hurt rolls over me, and I grip the edge of the sink to keep from collapsing. I might break.

  But here’s the thing: this time I know that even broken, I can survive.

  I think of Cass’s words from earlier, in the car.

  The fight has just begun.

  In some ways, writing a book can be a pretty lonely experience. I worked on You’re Next for nearly four years on my own—just me and Flora, hanging out in the early mornings on my couch. But the truth is, it was only once other people got involved that the magic started to happen.

  I want to say a giant thank you first and foremost to the hardworking team at Jimmy Patterson. For the longest time, this book only existed in my head, and to find a whole team of people who immediately understood what You’re Next and Flora were all about… well, that’s nothing short of a miracle. Thank you to Linda Arends, Caitlyn Averett, Liam Donnelly, Tracy Shaw, Virginia Lawther, Dan Denning, Josh Johns, and Diana McElfresh. To Julie Guacci for being a rock star publicist and answering all of my over-anxious debut-author emails with nothing but kindness. Eternal gratitude to Jenny Bak for being the one to see everything this book could be, and to T.S. Ferguson for all of his support in seeing us through to the finish line. And of course, thank you to James Patterson, without whom none of this would be possible.

  To my agents Kira Watson and Margaret Sutherland Brown, as well as the entire team at Emma Sweeney. Kira was one of the first people to really believe in this book, and Margaret, you were one hell of a pinch hitter. Thank you so much to both of you for your support, compassion, and general bad-assery.

  To Brenda Drake and the entire Pitch Wars team, most especially my incredible mentor Amy Trueblood: until the fall of 2017, this book had a different title, a different plot, and, largely, a different cast of characters. Amy, you pulled my manuscript out of a pile and saw through all the flaws and weird plot-holes. You didn’t just love my story, because that story didn’t even really exist yet—you loved Flora. Loved her the way I loved her and helped her to become the larger-than-life character I wanted her to be. Pitch Wars changed my life forever, and none of that would be possible without the gift of your hard work and time.

  Not only did Pitch Wars make me the writer I am today, it introduced me to an entire community of beloved writing friends. Thank you to Aty S. Behsam, Layne Fargo, Shelby Mahurin, Lisa Leoni, and especially to Ciannon Smart, Kyrie McCauley, Erica Waters, Margie Fuston, Molly Kasparek, Sarah White, Julie Christensen, and Andrea Contos for reading earlier drafts and providing such invaluable feedback and enthusiasm for Flora and her story.

  Shortly after I moved to Portland, I took a writing class hoping to make friends in my new city. I could not have imagined how lucky I would get. Thank you to the Writing Crones—Elena Wiesenthal, Susie Frank, Lori Ubell, Mary Rose, and Dolores Maggiore. You have read every draft, every revision, every complete and total overhaul of the plot. But more than that, thank you for being the dear friends I was looking for. A special shout out to Emily Whitman for bringing us all together. And thank you to all the other critique partners, early readers, and writing friends who have cheered me on along the way—Suzanne Robbins Goddyn, LeeAnn Elwood McLennan, Michelle Janikian, Rachel Kass, Izzy Hardin, Hazel Frew, and Kimberly Keeping.

  Saying thank you to my parents seems wildly inadequate, so I’ll go with this instead: I love you both. Mom, thank you for teaching me not just how to read, but how to love reading. You told me I was a writer before I ever knew it myself. Dad, thank you for not just reading an early (terrible) draft of this book, but for calling to provide insightful commentary about dialogue and plot twists. Everything I know about being a working artist, collaborating with others, and how to tell when a story isn’t perfect, but it is done—I learned all of that from you. No one is as lucky as I am to have parents like you two, and I won’t hear otherwise. Also thank you, I guess, to my siblings—Sarah, Janey, and Louis—my creativity was forged in the fires of your mockery, bullying, and withering sarcasm (I love you all).

  To Maggie and Lorenza, the two sides of my Libra scales. So much of the beauty, kindness, and magic I try to put into the world is inspired by you. The stars had something right when they brought us into the world in perfect, near-symmetrical order. I am so glad I found you.

  Last, and always, to Xander. Thank you for making dinner because I’m too busy writing, helping me brainstorm solutions to impossible plot-holes, and telling me you’re proud of me when I’m sobbing hysterically because I think I broke my book… again. You believe that my dreams are important, that my story deserves to exist, and that means everything to me. Thank you for being the most supportive partner in the world, and for not complaining (much) that time in late 2014 when I woke you up at 6 a.m. to read you seventy pages of a brand-new story I’d just started about a snarky gi
rl detective.

  KYLIE SCHACHTE lived in nine different cities—from Moscow to Los Angeles—before making her home in Portland, Oregon. She studied creative writing and psychology at Sarah Lawrence College, and You’re Next was a Pitch Wars 2017 selection. When she’s not writing, Kylie can be found attending concerts, exploring the Pacific Northwest, and refereeing between her tiny cat and giant dog—the cat always wins.

  JAMES PATTERSON PRESENTS

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  When We Were Lost by Kevin Wignall

  Swipe Right for Murder by Derek Milman

  Once & Future by Amy Rose Capetta and Cori McCarthy

  Sword in the Stars by Amy Rose Capetta and Cori McCarthy

  Girls of Paper and Fire by Natasha Ngan

  Girls of Storm and Shadow by Natasha Ngan

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  The Angel Experiment

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  Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports

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  Confessions of a Murder Suspect

  Confessions: The Private School Murders

  Confessions: The Paris Mysteries

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  Witch & Wizard

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