Dead Girl in 2A (ARC)

by Carter Wilson

  A hand touched mine, fingers grasping. I thought I was alone, but then realized there were other children in the room. I couldn’t really see them; I only had a sense of them. I’m not sure how many we were, but the group of us just stared at these horribly mutilated bodies in the bed and listened to the shrieks of the little boy. I think the little boy was already in the room when we got there. I think…maybe this was the son of the dead people.

  I squeezed back at the hand gripping mine.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said in my memory, staring straight ahead. I just said it reflexively, over and over, a chant. A mantra.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  Nothing was okay.

  Twenty-Four

  Eaton’s bathroom is now suffocating me, and I need all the effort I can muster to slow my breathing. I steady myself against the jolt of this memory, eyes still closed, almost afraid to open them back to reality.

  I try so hard to remember what happened next, but I can’t recall a single thing. The movie in my mind ends with a view of the bed, bloodstains inking white sheets, the child screaming. Nothing more.

  Is this how repressed memories work? Is there truly no sense of what happened until it comes roaring back and tears through your head?

  I splash water on my face, hoping it will help somehow. It doesn’t.

  There are two possibilities here, and only one of them can be true. One, what I remember is real, and I witnessed a horrific pair of murders when I was young. Perhaps…perhaps I even participated in it.

  A rapping on the bathroom door.

  “Can I help? You’ve been in there quite a while.”

  Collect yourself, Jake, because you can’t stay in this bathroom forever. You have to go back out there, and you have to decide what’s real and what’s not. No one else will do that for you.

  Possibility number two: I’ve officially lost my fucking mind.

  An image bursts into my mind. An image I’ve stared at a thousand times before, one I’ve struggled to understand. All those little scratches from a single pen that impossibly aggregate into an image. The image of a king, sitting on his throne, his crown adorned with the heads of snakes. The king’s eyes are wide with excitement as a whiskered man leans into his ear.

  Let’s play a game of war.

  There is a palpable shift in energy as I open the bathroom door. Sudden heat, a fresh pounding in my head. Sweat tickles my forehead, and when I try to ground myself and slow my breathing, I fail.

  Eaton is standing just a few feet away from the bathroom, which feels intrusively close.

  “Maybe it was something I ate,” I manage.

  I walk past him, avoiding direct eye contact. Back into the living room.

  “I’ll be okay,” I say.

  “You don’t seem so.”

  I take my place back on the couch and wipe the sweat off my forehead.

  Eaton sits, a bit closer to me this time, clearly unafraid I might spread some disease to him. In his weakened state, I would think this would be a concern, but it doesn’t seem to be. Instead, he leans in closer, his eyes searching mine.

  “What just happened, Jake?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. Like I said, maybe it was something I ate.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  He shifts closer. I drop my gaze because his stare is becoming uncomfortable. He almost seems to be excited about my current state.

  “I don’t think it was bad food,” he says. “I think it was something else entirely.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No,” he says. “But I am a bit of an amateur scientist.”

  “Look, I’m fine,” I say. “We have a lot of work to do. Maybe we should just get on with it.”

  He doesn’t listen to me.

  “Look at me,” Eaton says.

  Having someone you hardly know say Look at me is an unsettling experience. But I look at him, and when I do, I see his eyes wide with…what, delight? He’s barely suppressing a smile.

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  The throbbing in my head is replaced with the feeling of ice being packed inside my chest cavity. I don’t answer immediately, because I’m not fully certain what to say first. My instinct is to say I don’t know what he’s talking about. But whatever is happening here, I think we’re past that point now.

  “How do you know I saw something?”

  “It’s on your face. What was it?”

  I’m not the only person good at reading others.

  For a moment, I actually consider telling him. I saw death. Horrible, mangled, gutting death.

  I don’t say any of this. I sit here, head bowed. Eaton doesn’t fill the silence, nor do I. Seconds pass. Maybe a full minute. It avoids being awkward only because I feel a shift inside me, as if the memory was the start of a metamorphosis.

  I can’t get the word death out of my head. It flashes over and over, pulsing, the letters growing larger, darker. Thicker.

  “Jake, tell me what you saw.”

  Then, an urge both incomprehensible and overwhelming floods me.

  Kill him.

  Right now.

  Kill Eaton.

  He’s weak, frail. Get on top of him, wrap my hands around his throat. Squeeze his windpipe until he’s dead. It would be easy. Over in minutes.

  I squeeze my eyes shut against this irrational thought, pushing it away as much as I can. This is crazy. This is crazy.

  I am crazy.

  I can smell him. Smell his fear, his excitement. Smell the blood coursing through his thin veins, and for a moment, I can taste it. Warm and salty, thick like milk.

  Sweat seeps from my forehead. Bile starts creeping back up my throat. My sudden rage is as indecipherable as my recalled memory, as if I’ve transported into someone else’s body and mind. My body craves control, my mind craves direction, and everything suddenly is telling me the only way to attain those things is through violence.

  Kill him, Jake.

  “I…I have to go.” I jump from the couch and stuff everything back into my bag as fast as I can. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Eaton stands in an effort to block me.

  “Tell me. You can tell me.”

  I’ve never been in a fight, never had a tendency toward violence. But this unthinkable urge to tear this man apart is now beyond an irrational desire. It’s a primal hunger.

  He stands, reaches over, places a hand on my shoulder.

  “I can help you, you know.”

  I’ll attack him if I don’t leave right now. I can see it happening. The blow to his jaw with my right hand, dropping him. My body on top of his, legs straddled firmly over his bony torso. Fists flying, knuckles smashing against cheekbones, over and over, each punch filling me with more rage, finding no satisfaction as long as he continues to breathe. Blood spurting, splattering the floor, my shirt. Finally, his face caves in, a rotten pumpkin, moist and meaty, fresh only in death.

  I push his arm out of my way and nearly run to the front door, not bothering to look back or say anything else.

  Into the hallway, an interminable wait for the elevator. Down, into the lobby. I pass the security guard, who offers me a quizzical look. He surely sees the sweat on my face, hears my labored breathing.

  I pass through the lobby doors and into a cold and rapidly clouding Colorado morning.

  I hear her voice in my head. Elle.

  Are you having radical thoughts you hadn’t had before? I’m talking something significant. Like…thoughts of violence.

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  Twenty-Five

  Ten months ago

  Jake loved picking Em up from school. Wright Elementary was out of district from their home, but the highly rated
charter school made the easy six-mile drive more than worthwhile. The trip was only ten or so minutes, but it was alone time with his daughter that Jake cherished. The smile on her face when she spotted his car in the school pickup area, that instant flash of love, was enough to make his day.

  Em picked up her pace as she approached Jake’s Subaru and, rather than entering the back seat, she opened the front passenger door.

  “Can I sit in front today?”

  She’d started asking this every time Jake picked her up, which was usually two or three times a week. Abby never let her. Jake usually didn’t, though he was guilty of letting Em get her way a few times here and there.

  “No, sweetie.”

  “Please? It’s the last day of school. It’s special.”

  She had perfected the art of puppy eyes, which she used with particular flair right now. Jake looked at her as light snow started to fall. It was the Friday before the school’s winter break, and Christmas was just a week away.

  He was in a good mood; the week leading up to Christmas was one of his favorite weeks of the year. So he caved.

  “Okay, only because it’s the last day of school. Not because you’re cute. Though that helps.”

  She gave a little squeal, threw her backpack to the floor, and climbed in the front. Jake eyed the rearview, scanning for the scolding glances of other parents in the car line. Em buckled and he drove away, feeling a little guilty about his decision and hoping Abby wouldn’t see them when they arrived in the driveway. He wouldn’t tell Em to keep it a secret—he’d never ask his daughter to keep anything from his wife. But that didn’t mean he wanted Abby to find out.

  They talked about school, and Em pulled Jake’s iPad from his messenger bag, then launched a game. Jake glanced over as he turned onto a four-lane thoroughfare that ate up four of the six miles on their path home.

  “Let’s not play a game right now,” he said.

  “Aww.”

  “Come on, Em. You have enough screen time as it is.”

  “Can I take a picture of the snow?”

  He noticed it was coming down heavier now, though not sticking.

  “Sure.”

  Em launched the camera on the iPad and held it in front of her face, arms extended, aiming out the front window.

  “Pretty,” she said. Then, “Music?”

  “Music what?” Jake asked.

  “Can we listen to music, please?”

  Jake sped up to merge with traffic, which seemed heavy for this time of day. Almost as soon as he reached the speed limit, the cars in front of him slowed down, causing Jake to do the same.

  A little snow and everyone forgets how to drive, he thought. Every single year it’s the same thing.

  “Sure,” he told her. He quickly looked down at his phone and launched a Spotify playlist that he and Em had built together. It only had about thirty songs at this point—and Jake was sick of nearly all of them—but Em never tired of their little music collection.

  Three Dog Night started belting out “Joy to the World” when Jake remembered something.

  “Oh,” he told her. “There’s a new song that I meant to add to the list.”

  Traffic sped up again, and Jake inched the car just past fifty. Maybe a little fast given the weather, but still within the speed limit. Seconds later, traffic slowed again, forcing Jake to brake, though not too hard. He looked ahead and couldn’t see any reason for the slowdown other than the car in front of him being overly cautious. Jake moved to the right lane.

  “What song?”

  “Have you heard the new Imagine Dragons?”

  “I don’t think so. What’s it called?”

  He couldn’t remember. “Powerful”? No, that wasn’t it.

  “I’ll find it. It’s definitely an Em song.”

  He’d love to take Em to an Imagine Dragons show. She’d never been to a concert, and that would be an amazing first one. He reminded himself to Google when they were next coming to Boston.

  Jake passed the car that had been braking in front of him, seeing an older woman hunched over the wheel, both hands death-gripping the steering wheel. He wasn’t technically supposed to be passing her on the right, but others were doing it. She was going at least ten under the limit.

  He looked down at his phone in two-second bursts, navigating to the search feature in Spotify. He knew he wasn’t setting a good example here, but he was good most of the time about using his phone while driving. He never texted or replied to emails (though he was occasionally guilty of checking them). Navigating music and podcasts were his sins, though he’d mastered how to do those things while barely taking his eyes off the road.

  Em kept taking pictures of the snow with the iPad. Jake knew none of them would be much more than a blur, but kids didn’t care about those kinds of things.

  He looked down and thumbed in the letters I-M-A. Sure enough, Imagine Dragons was the first result to return. He clicked on the link to the group as he flicked his gaze back to the road.

  The snow wasn’t falling any faster, but the flakes were definitely getting larger. Jake hoped for a white Christmas. It had been years since they’d had one, and Em had even added that request in her list to Santa.

  Up ahead, the traffic light turned red. Jake took his foot off the gas but didn’t yet brake, nor did the car in front of him. There was time.

  He glanced down as the last of popular songs suggested for Imagine Dragons. The title “Beautiful” stuck in his head, but that wasn’t quite right either.

  He scrolled through, looking.

  Damn it, he thought. Where is it? I’ll know it when I see it.

  Then.

  There.

  “Natural.” Yes, that’s it. It’s called “Natural.”

  “Here it is—”

  Em screamed. “Daddy!”

  The sound pierced him as he looked up. The car in front of him had braked, and it was close. Too close. Jake knew immediately in each and every one of his bones that there was no way to stop in time before hitting it. The inevitable and horrible was happening, and Em was in the front seat. Jake braked as hard as he could. The tires on the aging Subaru still had tread, but no amount could keep the car’s grip on the wet road. Hurtling. Metal facing metal. The glowing red eyes of the brake lights in front of him, looming larger as time slowed.

  Em screamed. Not his name. Not any word. Just screamed.

  In the final moment before impact, Jake pulled the wheel to the right. They’d been in the right lane, so there was just the shoulder next to him. He didn’t have time to see what he was pulling the car toward, but he knew a one-car accident was better than a two-car accident.

  The Subaru missed the car in front by inches.

  Over the shoulder. Into the scrub. There was no controlling the car. There was no control of anything. Jake was always so good at being in control, and now he helplessly floated in time and space toward whatever life had planned next, which maybe was death.

  In the distance, a copse of trees. But they were far away.

  The ditch, however, wasn’t.

  The Subaru flew over the edge of the ditch, which was less than five feet deep. The nose slammed into the other side, bringing the car to a shattering stop.

  The sound of airbags, exploding like cannons. Glass shattering somewhere. Sickening crunch of plastic and metal. Jake’s airbag delivered a punch like a heavyweight, pummeling his torso and head.

  No sound from Em.

  Em. Oh my god, Jake thought.

  Em.

  He wrestled out of his deflating airbag and clawed over to his little girl. Her airbag had deployed as well.

  “Em!”

  She didn’t make a sound.

  Honking in the distance, behind him, another world.

  Then Jake saw the blood on her airbag. He ripped i
t away from her and found the source.

  The iPad. She’d been taking pictures when they hit. The airbag had smashed it against her face, lodging a long slice of broken screen glass above her temple. Blood streamed from her wounds at an impossible rate. Her eyes were closed, and Jake told himself she wasn’t dead.

  She isn’t dead. She can’t be dead.

  He reached over and desperately clutched her body, holding her against him while thinking he shouldn’t be moving her. Her blood spilled onto his face, his neck, his shirt. God, how could he stop the blood?

  Jake held his daughter and told her the same thing over and over, the thing he always said when things were rough. But they’d never been as rough as this.

  “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay. Everything going’s to be okay.”

  In the distance, sirens.

  Twenty-Six

  Jake

  Nighttime.

  I’m back in the hotel bar after having slept most of the day. I haven’t day-slept like that since… Well, I can’t remember. Probably years ago when I had the flu. Makes me think what happened at Eaton’s apartment was some kind of illness, but I don’t think so.

  There was so much to process that I think my body just overloaded and shut down. Now, as I sit at the bar counter and wolf down a twenty-dollar burger and beer, I allow myself to think about all that’s happened, taking it a little bit at a time.

  I meet a woman on a plane whom I’m convinced I know, and she tells me she’s going to kill herself.

  Another mysterious woman approaches me and says there’s a group of us—myself and the woman on the plane included—being targeted for some kind of… What did she say? Experiment. That Landis is not who he claims to be, and this bogus clinical trial could end in violence. That, in fact, two other participants in Landis’s program are already dead.

  At a work meeting, my client tells me of his presence at one of the worst mass shootings in history. Immediately after telling me this, I black out and have a sudden memory from my childhood. A repressed memory. One of a brutal set of murders.