If You Dare

by A. R. Torre

  CHAPTER 74

  Present

  I SIT ON the edge of the bed, my hands fisting at the plastic mattress beneath me, Dr. Derek back in his Range Rover and out of this place. We have a gentleman’s agreement: he won’t declare me incompetent and we’ll meet tomorrow before the arraignment.

  I stare at the wall across from me, a slow rage rising through my chest, spreading down my limbs, festering in the pores of my skin. Simon. I’ve been torturing myself, literally imprisoning myself, and Simon was the cause of it all. Him and his damn pills. Him and his damn sister. Had she helped? Had she lifted part of Jeremy’s weight when they’d moved it down the dark streets to the Dumpster? Had she been the one to think of using my knife, that cheery fucking yellow handle a giant blinking ARREST DEANNA sign? Simon. Chelsea. Simon. Chelsea. Punishment. Punishment. Now.

  I am in here because of them. Or him. Or them. I’ll get to Simon first. He’ll squeal if she was involved. But of course she was. I couldn’t open my door without seeing her face, then she’d vanished.

  I am in here because of them. They let me lie on the apartment floor. They let me wake up with no idea of what had happened. They caused me to miss out on going to the hospital. Holding his hand. Looking into his sister’s face. They caused me to doubt myself, to paint a giant-ass mural in my head of all the horrific things I’d done. They let me lock myself into a place where I can’t kill them both. And that, after you shift through all the other bullshit, is my biggest issue right now.

  I stand, walk to the door, and start to scream.

  It takes five minutes of screams to get a guard to my cell. My throat is exhausted when he opens the window, my lungs spent, breath short. I take in a deep breath and squeak out my request. “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”

  My request doesn’t impress the man. He eyes me for a long minute, his jaw moving in a slow chomp of gum, then picks at a spot on his face. “Okay,” he finally says. “But shut the hell up. I’ll call a PD for you.”

  “Thank you.” I step back before he thinks about restraining me. Turn and walk to my bed like a good little girl. Sit on the edge and put my palms between my knees. He eyes me through the open window for one long final stretch, as if I am planning something, as if an extra minute of observation will change anything. Then he shuts the slider, and I hear his steps as they move down the hall.

  A lawyer. I have the right to an attorney. They will get me out of this. I have to get out of this, to find my own answers and right Jeremy’s wrong. And if I don’t like their court-appointed attorney, I’ll get my own. Use some of my millions to get Gloria Allred on Nancy Grace, screaming my innocence. But for right now, in this moment, I just need a face. Someone to spit my innocence to who can tell me the process and how soon I can leave this hell. I don’t need a prison, I don’t need safeguards. I was not the one who did that.

  I roll my neck and think about my steps. I’ll visit Jeremy first, then go to the apartment. Collect myself and get showered, dressed in clean clothes. Then I’ll rain hell in Jeremy’s name. I grin in the empty cell and can feel the walls smile back.

  It doesn’t take long for my attorney. Less than an hour later, my cell door opens and I am escorted back out to the visiting room. There, I’m pleasantly surprised to see the attorney waiting, her navy suit patient in the corner of the room while I am secured.

  “Ms. Madden, I am Dana Romansky, the public defender assigned to your case.” She nods at the guard, who leaves us, gently shutting the door behind him.

  “Nice to meet you.” It was nice to meet her. A woman. I’m ashamed to say I’m surprised. I’d had visions of my court-appointed attorney, and he’d been short and male and stressed. She was tall and put together and calm.

  “You requested me. Is there something you need?

  To the point. Good. “Yes. I gave a confession because I didn’t remember what happened. Now that I remember, I want to change my statement.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “So… you’re innocent.”

  “Yes. Have you reviewed the case?” Please say yes.

  “It’s nine o’clock at night. I left a date to come here. You’re lucky I know your last name.”

  Figures. The rosy cloud around her dims slightly. “What is the next step?”

  “The next step is your arraignment, which is scheduled for tomorrow at two. At the arraignment we can have you plead innocent. A trial will be scheduled, and the time between now and then is when we, or whatever attorney you decide upon, can build your case. It will be difficult to overcome a confession, but it’s not impossible.”

  “So… when would I get out?”

  She smiles and I do not like her smile. It is smug and intelligent and carries a you dumb little thing in its smirk. “You won’t get out unless you are found innocent at trial. Which is a very long way away.”

  “What about bail?”

  “You’ve assaulted two people in the forty-eight hours you’ve been here. They tied you up just to talk to me.”

  “So… no bail?”

  “Most likely not.”

  There is a long moment in which I digest the information. Stare down at the table and refamiliarize myself with the scratches in its surface. Line up the players in this game into a formation that I understand. “So… tomorrow afternoon, I go to the arraignment, where I’ll plead innocent and be taken to jail.”

  “Yes.”

  “It doesn’t matter if I plead innocent or guilty, I’m going to jail.”

  “Yes. Unless the judge, by some miracle, decides to set a bail.”

  “What are my chances of that?”

  “Less than a percent. It’s not gonna happen.”

  Well this sucks. “Can I talk to the detectives? Maybe if I convince them that—”

  “You don’t understand.” She interrupts. “Once you are charged, it is put into the judicial system’s hands. If you hadn’t confessed, there is a chance that they wouldn’t have had the evidence to hold you for more than twenty-four hours. But once you confessed, you changed everything. And that’s not just something you can get a do-over on.”

  I let out a breath of air, and it comes out a lot harder and angrier than I had intended. She flinches and I lift my head to find her watching me warily.

  “I’m sorry,” she says carefully. “I wish I could do more.”

  I don’t want her sympathy. I want freedom. I break eye contact and look down at the table. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’d like to go back to my cell now.”

  This time, when they open that door and lead me out, I notice everything. The height of the knobs, the construction strength of the locks. The bars, the doors, the exits, the lighting. How many people we pass in the hall, how many guards look up when we walk, how many steps it takes, windows are present, keys jingle from belts. I notice it all. If I learned anything during that meeting, it was that I’ll have to take my own freedom back.

  CHAPTER 75

  Present

  IF I MADE a list of difficult tasks, breaking out of a prison would top the list. Thankfully, I’m not in prison. At the moment, I’m in booking, which… best I can determine, is fairly loose in its security practices.

  But still, I’ll need help. Mike, definitely. There is really no one else. I need to call him, plant a few code words that will somehow communicate to him my need to get out. But phone calls aren’t permitted after lights-out. The big woman told me that, right after she said if I tried my foot-kicking-door routine again she’d put me in the straitjacket. I believed her. I’ll keep my stomping to myself. Any minute the lights will go out and my opportunity to call Mike will end. I stand at my door and pray for a guard. The lights above me flicker, then go out. There goes my phone call.

  I stay in place, hunched beside the door, and think. Mike knows I am here. Mike knew about NascarGuy44. Mike knew what I said in my statement. Mike probably has a finger on every single thing happening right now in this building. Mike, his level of prep far more advanced than my own, has probably
been working his sexy little fingers to the bone since the moment I was arrested. Mike is probably just waiting to push “LAUNCH.” I mentally cross my fingers and hope that I am right.

  I step through the dark, my hands outstretched, eyes not yet adjusted to the change. Move cautiously, my hands patting at air, then walls, then surfaces. Running over anything and everything in search of one thing: a sharp edge. I am almost finished with the room, my chest tightening, worry peaking, when I find it, the underside of the left front foot of my bed, the corner of it sharp and unfinished. Jackpot. I lie on my back and shimmy under the bed, supporting the front end with my legs, both knees brought to my chest, feet lifting up the dinky metal frame. I dig the sharp metal point into my right index finger, then birdie finger, then ring finger, each prick hard and painful enough to draw blood. Then I do the thumb and pinkie, holding my bloody hand away when I finish. I scoot right, using my undamaged hand to support the frame, my feet moving, my body rolling out of the way as I drop the bed down, the sound loud against the finished concrete floor. Too loud. I pause, on my belly on the dirty floor, and wait a breath, then crawl to my feet, moving to the wall and raising my hand, softly dragging my first red finger over the white paint.

  In the dark shadows, my letters slowly appear. Halfway through the third word, I run out of ink, squeezing of the pads not bringing any fresh blood to the surface. I roll back underneath the bed. Repeat the equation, subbing out my left hand for my right, a new series of pained hisses whistling through my teeth. Back on my feet, I complete the project. Then, I stand before the bloody wall and wait.

  Almost an hour later, I hear the slide of my door, a face cutting into the bright white of the opening. Rounds. There is a moment of pause, then the light in my room bursts on, too bright, too white, too perfect. “What the fuck?” a woman utters. Oh. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor. Too bad. I’d hoped to spare her of this. She swings open my door and stands in the opening, feet spread, her eyes wide, darting from me, to the wall, to me. “You got some issues, you know that?”

  My feet stay in place, twin roots into cement. The side of my face itches, probably due to the lines of blood, the sticky liquid drying into place. I must look mad, standing next to the words, their formation messy and crooked, the letters as large as I could make them. I lick my lips and taste copper. “You should probably file a report,” I say softly.

  She stays still, her head tilting. “We don’t have a nurse here, if this is some big plan to get medical attention.”

  A drop of blood drips from my left index finger and hits the floor with a quiet smack. I wonder if she heard it. “No.” I shake my head in case she didn’t hear the quiet word. “I don’t need a nurse.”

  Her eyebrows raise and show a hint of pink eye shadow. “Oh… kay.” She steps back, shutting the door and locking it, her mouth moving to the open window. “You know you’re going to be cleaning that up, right? So don’t start smearing shit next.”

  Shit. I look down at my bloody and shredded fingertips. Shit would have been easier. Messier, but easier. I shrug and step back to my bed, pushing the edge of it until it was moved back into place. Then I sit on its edge and lean forward, my elbows on my knees, my fists underneath my chin. “Okay, Mike,” I whisper. “Do your thing.”

  Before me, in all its bloody glory, my message dried.

  GET ME OUT

  CHAPTER 76

  Present

  MIKE’S FINGERS FLY, a blur of dexterity, the computer screens before him changing in rapid succession. He is sidetracked, shifting through a guard’s financials, when a new file uploads to the Tulsa Pod 23’s database. Fifteen minutes later, when he shifts back, he sees the report, double-clicking on it as he reaches for a fresh soda. The door to his mini fridge stays open, his act forgotten when he sees the name on the top of the form. Deanna Madden. He skims the report quickly, the short text making the job easy.

  Female was seen standing beside the cell’s back wall, facing forward. I turned on the light and saw graffiti painted on the wall in the inmate’s own blood, the words “Get me out.” The inmate does not need medical assistance and has not been questioned at this time. Incident will be reported to shift supervisor Markus Kumna. Inmate has had a number of issues while held, and her arraignment is scheduled for 14:00 tomorrow. ~ Dimarka Trible, 23:36 p.m.

  Adrenaline surges. A message for him. And he is ahead of the game. This will be child’s play. He wanted the go-ahead, and here it is. Clicking on windows, he minimizes all but the two he needs, Kavut Security’s internal interface and Ned Millstone. Hunching forward, the strain in his back burning red, he goes to work.

  Ned Millstone was born to Frank and Beth Millstone in 1971. He graduated from high school in 1989, attended a technical college in Ohio for two semesters, then dropped out. He worked in the restaurant business for seven years, then enrolled in the police academy, after which he was placed into corrections. Ned Millstone is now an eight-year employee of the city and a four-year frequenter of the Sapphire Rose Gentleman’s Club. He has a twenty-three-year-old girlfriend who, five months ago, was a patient of the Hillcrest Medical Center’s maternity ward. His new baby is something his wife, Barbara Millstone, born Barbara French, sole heir to the French’s electronics conglomerate, knows nothing about. Barbara is, according to her father’s medical records, within months of inheriting a billion-dollar empire. A hundred pieces falling perfectly into place to make it one helluva bad time for his love child to come to the attention of his wife. Mike digs the last piece of the puzzle out, Ned Millstone’s cell phone number. Then he leans back in his chair and types in the number, dialing via Skype, on a line that can serve an unlimited number of purposes and still never be traced.

  “This is Ned.” The voice sounds out of breath and irritated.

  “Ned.” Mike smiles. “You don’t know me, but for the next few hours, we are going to be very good friends.”

  CHAPTER 77

  Present

  I SIT ON my bed, my back against the wall, and stare at the clock. Occasionally, my eyes drop. Two or three times, my head snaps down and I catch it, bringing my chin back up. Some minutes disappear but for the most part, I am vigilant. Mike will come through. Mike will help. Mike can do anything and everything.

  If he could protect Deanna Madden and make her untraceable, he can get me out of here.

  If he could track down a guy from his IP address and send me a digital copy of the guy’s hard drive, he can get me out of here.

  If he could steal a million bucks from me, give it away, then steal it back, he can get me out of here.

  If he really cares for me despite knowing all that he does, he will get me out of here.

  I hear the slow pat of the next round, a guard approaching, steps moving closer, then a slight pause at my door, one that has me leaning forward, my back leaving the wall, and through the dark I see movement along my floor. I am off the bed in a breath and on my knees on the floor, my hands catching the index card as it slides along the floor into my space.

  It’s a layout of the building, printed on paper and taped onto the card. The map looks to be from an outside source, the handwriting across its surface Mike’s. On the left side, in tiny writing, a list of instructions. I start with the first instruction and examine the lines and arrows drawn on the map, corresponding times in clear print next to each X on the map.

  I finish my initial read, then glance at the clock. Forty-two minutes. I read the instructions again. And again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. I read the list until I can close my eyes and see the building’s layout. I read the list until I have mentally walked through every piece, every pause, every step. Three minutes. I fold the paper into a tiny square and stuff it into my pocket. If I have to, if this plan fails and I am again arrested, I’ll eat the damn thing.

  I stand before the door and take a deep breath.

  One minute.

  Step 1: Your door will open. Head to #2. 6 mins left.

  The door pops open with a qu
iet click and I step outside, not pausing as I turn right and walk through the dim hall, the red lights in the hall bathing the entire area in blood. The third door I pass, I see the man, out of the corner of my eye, standing in the dark, behind the open door, like a boogeyman of my childhood dreams. He is shirtless and I stop, looking into his cell, his face in the shadows, and it takes a full heartbeat for my mind to catch up and to realize that my cell is not the only that Mike has opened. This will be interesting. I continue forward, seconds counting down, the map in my head, the steps on the list, pushing me on.

  Forward, then left, then down, then right. I stop at a door, a lit office to my left, its chair empty and turning slowly, the crawl of movement creepy. I don’t touch the door’s handle, I wait. Behind me, like the foul odor of an exhaust, a presence. I turn and see the bare-chested man, his face pale red from the lights, his eyes on me. “Hey,” he says.

  “You fuck with me or fuck this up, I will kill you.”

  He smiles and there is a black hole where a front tooth belongs. “I’m getting out tomorrow anyway,” he says. “Just along for the ride.”

  I hear his sentence but all it says to me is that he is stupid. It doesn’t matter. Stupid is easier to control.

  Step 2: The lock will turn green. Move through it and the next door, then hurry to #3.

  Like a maze. A simple maze. Except now I step through the door and I’m in the booking area. I move quickly, my new toy following behind, and see three officers in the open room, two at their desks, one at a Coca-Cola machine to my right. The soda buyer—my large and friendly Ms. KeepYourHeadDownAndColor, glances up, then down at the machine, then her head jerks back up, her feet in motion as her mouth opens wide, a scream of hell-raisin’ bellowing out. And here I thought we’d become friends. I jerk forward, hearing the screech of chairs against linoleum, a man two desks over falling as he lunges for my shirt. But I am quick, I am ready, I came prepared, and they are off guard and all I have to do is get across this room and into the next, all I have to do is shut that door behind me and Mike will lock its mechanisms, and these three will be locked in, captives. It’s humorous, really. I dart around a seating area and shove on the door, its keypad already green, and I glance up at a security cam as I slam my back against the door and lock all of them, including my new toothless friend, behind me.