If You're Out There

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Damn,” I say, my face pressed to the glass.

  I drop down into the yard, a little shiver running through me as I return to myself. I’m not sure what I was expecting.

  It feels like night has fallen all at once. The golds and pinks have turned to blue.

  A light turns on above me, one floor up.

  A window opens, letting out the sound. The voice is gravelly but pretty, one word lazing into the next. It’s like a call. Pulling me. I scan the yard and land on a rusted ladder on its side. It’s heavy and noisy as I hoist it up and rest it against the side of the house. I don’t think as I draw closer to the music. I just climb—slowly, silently, until I’m up there hovering, looking straight at the back of the old woman’s head.

  Amanda.

  She sings into a mirror, a lamp illuminating her face. On the windowsill before me sits a pillbox, marked with the days of the week. A pair of plush slippers rests beside an ornate dresser. A silky robe drapes on a hook, below a huge banner that reads HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS!

  The woman’s eyes lock with mine in the mirror as she sings, more curious than startled.

  A heart full of joy and gladness

  Will always banish sadness and strife.

  So always look for the silver lining

  And try to find the sunny side of life.

  I scramble down the ladder. What was that? The windows along the side of the house are all above eye level. I pull myself up, one after the other. A dim kitchen light is on. There’s a cluster of bananas on the counter. A curtain blocks most of my view at the next window, but I can see in through a small slit. The dining room looks scarcely used. There’s china in a cabinet.

  I hop down and peek out at the street. No Logan.

  I look up, to the second floor, and run back for the ladder, wincing with each tinny sound as I clutch the cool metal and start to climb. The light in the other bedroom is off, but I can see in faintly. Target bags in one corner, with products lined up on the dresser, and a pair of dressy men’s shoes against one wall.

  Back down, I scan the street again. No Logan. We must keep missing each other. I should stay still. I should wait. I kick at the dirt and a loose pebble bounces away. I hear a plink, and I realize it’s hit glass. There’s a little slit at the base of the house—a sad excuse for a window that looks onto the basement.

  I see flashes from a TV. Plush cream carpet. A blanket over legs. Feet up. A profile on a big white couch. She’s eating popcorn, a flowery little journal discarded off to one side. It’s her.

  Priya. Just . . . there. Just sitting there, her face lit by the shifting light. She looks absorbed in the story, eating kernels one by one. She looks . . . fine.

  “What?” I say out loud. I lower myself to sit and watch her through the glass. I feel abruptly numb, but tears prickle behind my eyes, the thought crashing down like a heavy weight: It was in my head. She let me feel this way. Let me live in the dark. She wasn’t reaching. Didn’t feel me reaching back.

  Sitting there, crossed legged in the gravel, I let it out: the doubt, the fear, the worrying. I expel a baffled breath—or maybe it’s a sigh of relief. Because I meant what I said. If she’s okay, then I am. Or will be.

  For a minute I just cry, letting myself grow puffy and splotchy and sniffly. Because I’m hurt, and drained, and probably foolish by any reasonable measure. But as I watch her there, it strikes me—I’m not ashamed of caring this much. Because I’d rather live my life trusting in people. Even if once in a while, I’m dead wrong.

  As I get up, I think Priya glances over, but I don’t wait to find out. I wipe my tears and take a breath. I need to find Logan. To get out of here. My feet drag against gravel as I work to calm myself.

  Behind me, I hear a shuffle—a few sharp taps against the glass. With a heavy sigh, I turn around and walk back. I’m not sure I’m ready to face her, but I crouch down anyway, jolted by the moment her eyes meet mine.

  I’m still crying, and I realize so is she. I throw my hands up and let her see me. What the hell? She says something I can’t quite hear and runs off.

  “Priya, wait!”

  I watch her at the couch. She comes back a second later with the journal, opens it to a middle page, and scribbles something quickly before slapping it against the glass.

  HELP

  My ears begin to ring.

  She holds my gaze, waiting. I don’t understand.

  And then slowly, slowly, I think I do. The singing stops, and her expression shifts.

  I keep my eyes on her. Try to smile. Try to say, It’s okay. My hands tremble, tears on the screen as I start to punch in 911. It’s okay now, I tell her, my shaking finger over the button.

  The song comes back and Priya’s eyes go wide.

  What?

  She shouts something I can’t make out. A slap to my hand sends the phone flying. No time to look up.

  Sharp pain.

  A blow to my skull.

  I see black.

  HELP

  Shit. Okay. Evidence. This is evidence!

  If anyone finds this, my name is Priya Patel.

  Ben Grissom stole funds from my mother’s charity, the GRETA Fund.

  His partner in Mumbai, Karim, sent someone after us because of a financial dispute and Ben has become increasingly paranoid.

  He’s been holding me against my will for several weeks in his mother’s suburban home.

  I just witnessed him strike my best friend, Alexandra Martini, from the basement window.

  I hope she’s okay.

  I hope this journal was not, after all, for posterity.

  Shit, I think he’s coming downstai

  Eleven

  Friday still? . . . I think?

  Time had passed.

  How much, I’m not sure. The ground beneath me is firm but soft. Carpet, feels like. I’ve kept my eyes shut. Heard bits and pieces, in and out.

  It was Priya’s voice that came first.

  “What did you do?”

  “What did I do? What did you . . .” There was a pause. “The email. But I checked. It was just garbled letters.”

  “I’m sure it was the email among other things. You weren’t exactly a criminal mastermind through all of this.”

  It went on like this for some time, as my heart threatened to leap out from my chest. But I stayed as I was, collecting strength, the pain raging at the back of my head.

  Now, though, I feel hovering.

  Warm breath on my face.

  “I didn’t mean to hit her that hard.”

  “You need to call 911. Leave before the ambulance comes, I don’t care. But all this? It’s going to come out. And you don’t want a dead girl on your hands.”

  A few tense moments pulse by and I work to quiet my racing mind. I have to listen. To understand.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “Look around you, Ben.” Priya’s voice is strangely calm. Delicate, even. “Use that Harvard brain of yours. You keep digging deeper every day. I’m not even messing with you right now. I swear. For your sake and everyone else’s, you need to end this before you bury yourself entirely.”

  “Stop,” he says.

  “Ben—”

  “I said stop!”

  All I want to do is open my eyes. But I stay frozen.

  “What’s your plan here?” she says after a moment. “What are we thinking? Double homicide? In your mom’s basement? Huh.” I can actually feel her smiling. “You’d be like the ultimate loser of murderers.”

  I have to work to keep my lips from curling up. I’ve missed that wit of hers. I know I shouldn’t, but I peek—just for a second—and see a jolt of recognition pass through her before I return myself to darkness. “I have a gun,” says Ben, making my insides clench. “Now might be a good time to show some respect.”

  “Please. Maybe no one else was looking for me. But Zan’s family will notice she’s gone soon enough. The cops will find this place. All this carpet down here is basica
lly a giant evidence sponge. And I highly doubt anyone’s going to be pointing fingers at the sweet old lady upstairs.” A lingering silence swallows up the room. “You’ve backed yourself into one hell of a corner, Ben.” A pause. “Get some cold washcloths. Maybe we can wake her up.”

  He scoffs. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Alive girl, dead girl. Those are your choices.” After a moment, I feel him get up. “Not there,” she says. “You took all my towels for the laundry. Go upstairs.”

  “Priya—”

  “Go, Ben! She’s hurt!”

  Over grumbling I hear a door close and the click of the dead bolt. I open my eyes and Priya remains frozen, listening for footsteps.

  I sit up, mouth gaping, and she pulls me in for the tightest hug of my life. “He got your phone?” she whispers as we break apart. I nod, still frozen and stunned. I feel myself prickling awake as I take in the room. Everything soft and white and cozy. It’s oddly terrifying. My eyes spill over, hot tears streaming down my cheeks.

  “Hey.” She grips my chin. “We can’t freak out right now.”

  I look to the narrow window up by the ceiling. “Should we try to break the glass?”

  “Can’t,” she says. “Shatterproof. Amanda had it installed after some infomercial on home invasions.” She sighs up at the ceiling. I can hear Ben talking, but there’s no other voice. “Must be on the phone.”

  I look toward the murmuring above us. “Ben did this? Wha . . . Why?”

  “A while ago, Ben got himself buried. Money stuff,” she whispers. “He was spending more than he made. I should have seen it. But uh, basically he started scamming GRETA.” I stare at her, taking this in. It oddly fits. “And . . .” She leans in close and keeps her voice low. “There was a guy in Mumbai. Helping him.”

  A lightbulb. “Karim?”

  She nods. “It fell apart when the volunteer program got the green light.”

  “The fire at Friends Elementary,” I whisper, beginning to understand. “And the Priti School grant . . .”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Ben had to shut it all down before we showed up to schools that didn’t exist.” She pauses. “How do you know all this?”

  “I have my ways.”

  She smiles, impressed. “Well, it went sour when Ben cut out the other guy. He said he was going to send someone after us to collect his money.” I think of the note in the office—Found you—and the man I met outside their house. The “family friend.” Jesus.

  I shake my head, still confused. “Okay, but why are you down here?”

  She thinks a moment. Shrugs. “Despite everything, for a little while there we were weirdly . . . in this together? And then . . . we weren’t.” She freezes. A door opens upstairs. Footsteps rushing down.

  I find my position on the ground and close my eyes.

  The dead bolt clicks open. “What took so long?” says Priya at once, convincingly angry. “This is serious.”

  “I had to take a call,” he says, his voice strained.

  “Cops again?” she asks, a hint of pleasure in her voice. “More updates on the break-in you committed at your own house? Here’s a pro tip for you. Bring keys next time.” The words click in my head. I did that. I locked Ben out! I feel a wet cloth against my cheek. “Don’t you see what’s happening? It’s all catching up with you. Just let me get Zan to a hospital.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It could work. I won’t say a word till you’ve fled the country.”

  “You know I can’t leave,” he says. “That man is still after me. I could have been killed today. Is that what you want?”

  “Ben,” she says, “you know I didn’t want any of this. But Zan’s not waking up.”

  I feel something hard nudging me—a shoe, maybe. “God. She’s really out.”

  “Just run, Ben. Grab your passport and head to Canada, or Mexico. Like we’ve talked about a million times before. As long as Zan makes it, no one’s gonna look that hard. And even if someone is chasing you, is that scarier than prison?” I wish I could see his face. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s working. “Leave me your phone,” says Priya, “and I swear on my life—on Zan’s life—I will give you a head start.”

  The room is still. Three sets of filling lungs. I hold my breath and hope my racing heart won’t somehow give me away. I swear I can feel Priya’s heart racing too. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  I relax, just for a moment, before I sense a sudden shift. He’s closer to me now. I can feel it. “Her arm,” he says. “It wasn’t stretched out to the side like that before.”

  “What? Yes it was.”

  He laughs. “Wait. Are you listening to this, Zan?”

  “Ben . . .”

  “Get up,” he says. I realize he’s talking to me. “I said get up!”

  “Ben. You’re imagining things.”

  “Okay. If she’s really unconscious, then this won’t scare her.” I hear a click and can’t help it. I open my eyes.

  A gun is pointed right at me.

  For a moment, the world seems to slow as Priya leaps to stand, and I shout, “No!” I watch her hand connect with metal before the gun flies from Ben’s grip. It feels as though the whole room freezes, until I whisper, “Fuck,” the moment the gun hits the carpet.

  Unfreeze.

  Ben lunges for the gun, but Priya kicks it away. “Ben, stop it!” They’re on the ground in seconds, Priya clawing at his arm as he strains to reach. When his hand gets too close, she pulls his hair, and he shouts. They roll over, once, twice, but he wriggles free.

  Ben stands and I’m jolted awake. I leap to my feet and try to throw a jab, which he dodges. From the corner of my eye, I see Priya bend down to pick up the gun.

  I charge at him again, but his wrist makes contact with my throat.

  I clutch my neck—can’t breathe—and realize Reggie taught him that. Goddammit, Reggie! I jump back the moment he heaves an elbow toward my middle. I know the sequence. Windpipe, solar plexus, groin.

  Ben smiles at me, abruptly wicked, and I scream as I attack again—provoking his response. I duck before he can make his move, and when he whips around to face me, I throw a body punch. He clutches his gut, coughing, and before he can straighten up, I sling a hook to the face that makes him cry out.

  Blood gushes from his nose as he stumbles back. My first two knuckles seethe with pain, but I shake it off. “Zan!” calls Priya. “Run!”

  She’s ahead of me, flinging herself up the stairs. I’m right behind her, almost to the top, when I collapse forward, my chin slamming into wood. I twist back to see his arms wrapped around my legs, pinning me there.

  “Ben.” Priya looms above us at the top of the steps, framed by an open door, the gun pointed down. It’s a bizarre sight, to say the least. “You need to let her go now. Don’t make me use this. Please,” she says with quiet terror in her eyes. “I’m a fucking pacifist, but I’ll do it.”

  After a moment, his arms go slack. Then I kick behind me, and he lets out a wail as I scramble up the steps. When I reach the light, Priya slams the door, flicking the lock.

  We stand there a moment, heaving in the cozy living room. She peers down at the gun in her hands. I catch my breath, meeting her wide-eyed stare. And then, I shit you not, she laughs. “Holy guacamole,” she says, shaking her head.

  She opens the gun’s chamber and lets the bullets slide into her palm.

  I glance toward the foyer, suddenly aware of the banging sound coming from outside. Logan’s face peers in through a glass panel. “Zan? Zan!”

  I run to open the door and Logan’s face falls as he touches my chin. I can already feel it swelling where it hit the stair.

  “I’m fine.” He looks past me, still in shock, and Priya studies us quizzically. “Oh, sorry,” I say. “Priya, Logan; Logan, Priya.”

  “Hi,” she says, with a slight, curious smile. “We better go. Can you call 911, Logan?” He nods quickly and gets out his phone. We’ve only
made it a few steps when a rattling hum starts above us.

  “Aw, crap,” says Priya.

  I follow her gaze. It’s Amanda, cruising steadily down the banister on the seat of an electronic stair lift. “Priya dear? Is that you?” We wait for a good thirty seconds. The chair is quite slow. At the bottom, she unbuckles herself, takes hold of her walker, and frowns. “What’s going on? Who are these people?”

  “We have to go,” says Priya.

  “Hmm . . . No thank you,” she says, shuffling past without further discussion.

  “Mom,” Ben calls from the other side of the basement door. He starts pounding. “Mom, I’m in here!” Logan walks out onto the front porch, plugging his ear to concentrate on the phone.

  Amanda eyes the basement door, pondering a moment, before addressing Priya once more. “I think I’ll . . . go make some tea.”

  “Mom!” Ben shouts as she shuffles away. A gas stove clicks in the other room and the doorknob to the basement jiggles. Priya and I both watch as something thwacks the wood from the other side, like Ben is throwing his body weight against it. The door doesn’t budge. “Goddammit, Mom!”

  I nod toward the kitchen, incredulous. “So . . . She was here for all of this? Thanks a lot, Grandma.”

  Priya sort of wavers. “Ben took all the phones from the house. And she wouldn’t have been able to get down the basement stairs. There were days I got the sense she was on my side. Hard to say, though. Amanda has dementia.”

  “I most certainly do not,” Amanda calls from the kitchen.

  Priya smiles. “Kind of goes in and out.”

  “Police should be here any minute,” says Logan, returning inside.

  Ben bangs on the door again. “Hey. Okay, hold on. Maybe we can work out a deal here.”

  Priya shoots me a deadpan glance.

  “So,” says Logan. “Should we . . . wait outside?”

  Priya looks past him through the open door, and the gun falls from her hands, shooting a loud blank that makes me jump up with a shriek. My heart pounds as I follow Priya’s stare.

  On the street, a man is hurrying out of his car, his dark eyes set on Priya. My pulse skyrockets. It’s him. The “family friend.” I rush to close the door, but Priya stops me.