by Stacey Kade
“I just got out of a session now to a panicked message that you left town. With Chase Henry, the actor?” Dr. Knaussen sounds alarmed.
Amanda grimaces. “It’s not what it sounds like. He’s in Wescott filming a movie, and he heard about the poster and everything.” She hesitates. “He invited me to visit the set, and I thought it might help.”
The silence on the other end of the phone speaks volumes.
“Amanda,” she says slowly. “As we’ve discussed, Chase Henry was an important coping mechanism when you needed it, but you need to understand that Mr. Henry, the real person, has no capacity to help—”
“Yes, I know,” Amanda says sharply with a quick glance at me. I stare straight ahead, not sure if she wants me hearing any of this. “It’s not about that.”
“I have to admit, I’m concerned,” the doctor says, clearly choosing her words with care. “When we agreed to try a more aggressive approach to exposure therapy, we talked intensively about the possibility of setbacks and the need for small steps. I know you’re eager for progress, but you could do more harm than good.” The scolding tone is faint, barely detectable, but still there.
Amanda sinks deeper in her seat, her shoulders curving in protectively.
I tighten my hands on the wheel, struggling to keep my mouth shut.
“I understand,” Amanda says in a weary voice. “But the small steps weren’t working. It’s been two years,” she adds with a flare of anger. “I needed to do something different.”
“Something different,” Dr. Knaussen repeats. “Amanda, there are other, far less rash options.” She sighs. “We’ve talked about you trusting your choices. You need to be able to trust your decisions again to be able to function. I believe most of your anxiety comes from your fear that you somehow brought what happened to you on yourself, that you could have done something differently and prevented it.”
I can’t help it this time; I’m staring at Amanda. How could she possibly think that she was, in any way, responsible for being taken?
But Amanda says nothing, just continues studying an invisible pattern on her pants, her finger tracing aimless lines in the fabric, which I take to mean that she does, in some way, believe that.
“My fear is that you’ve made an impulsive decision to trust someone you don’t know anything about.”
Me. Amanda’s trusting me, and she probably shouldn’t. The good doctor is right about that.
“He’s a stranger with a familiar face, and if that doesn’t work out…” The doctor pauses with another sigh.
“But how am I supposed to trust my choices if I don’t start making some?” Amanda demands, showing a bit of her earlier fire.
I could almost admire it, if I wasn’t so busy feeling sick to my stomach.
There’s a long pause where I can practically hear her therapist debating how hard to push. Maybe it’s the cynic in me, but I’m betting there’s a certain cache to being the shrink who finally “cured” Amanda Grace, even if that means sticking through some unexpected turns along the way. Just makes the book or journal article that much more interesting.
“All right,” the doctor says eventually. You can almost hear her lifting her hands in the air in surrender. “I’m just concerned. It’s about you making smart choices.”
As if anyone knows what those are until it’s way too late to change them.
“Okay,” Amanda says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She hangs up, and it’s quiet in the car again.
“Is that true?” I venture, unable to stop myself. “Do you really blame yourself for—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Amanda says, folding her hands over her phone.
I close my mouth with an audible click. She’s right. This is none of my damn business.
The rest of the journey—only about fifteen minutes, thankfully—is conducted in silence.
But that changes as soon as we pull into the Wescott Inn parking lot. Wescott is a tiny town, pretty much like Springfield in that respect, and most of the cast and crew are being put up in this, the nicest of the hotels in town. Which isn’t really saying much. Max, along with Jenna and Adam, are reportedly in a much swankier B and B, but I’m not about to complain.
Police cars are blocking the main entrance, beneath the overhang, their red and blue flashing lights turning the white facade of the hotel a faint shade of purple.
Amanda tenses next to me. “Is something wrong?”
I frown. “It’s probably nothing. Just a security issue. It happens sometimes, especially on location. It’s harder for them to keep the crazies out.” I wince at my word choice. I don’t think Amanda’s crazy, but she may take offense at the term.
Amanda just nods knowingly. “Stalkers.”
It occurs to me then that even though her experience has been completely different than mine in some very big ways, we overlap in certain areas. “Yeah. Some are just fans who go a step too far, some are … something else. This one girl, Sera Drummond, actually broke into my condo and told the cops she was my girlfriend. Then she threatened to burn down my building, and we had to get a restraining order. It was seriously fucked up.”
“I got letters. I had to have a protective detail for a while.” Amanda makes a disgusted noise. “People are sick to capitalize on someone else’s misery.”
“Agreed,” I say, navigating through the mostly empty parking lot. Then a thought dawns rather belatedly. “Is that … do they freak you out?” I ask Amanda, nodding at the police cars. “I can try to park around back, go in through a delivery entrance or something.” So far, no one in town seems all that interested in us, so I haven’t been reduced to sneaking in and out here. But I can figure it out.
She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.”
I’m not so sure about that, though. Even less so, when she climbs out of the car and looks around as if she’s been dropped off on an alien planet instead of a town practically next door to the one where she grew up.
“We’ll get inside, get you checked in, and everything’s going to be great,” I promise, even though I have absolutely no business making those kinds of promises. Especially with what I’ve done. What I’m doing.
Amanda takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, and nods.
We head toward the main entrance, in step with each other. I’m careful not to touch her, though it feels impolite not to guide her or at least let her walk ahead of me. Elise would laugh at that and point at my Texas upbringing again. Guess I never realized exactly how deeply ingrained it is in me.
It’s only as we skirt the squad cars that I realize they’re both occupied. The officers inside open their doors simultaneously and get out.
“Amanda Grace?” the closest one asks. Barks, more like. He’s older, with graying hair, and built like a barrel.
She freezes, and I’m right there with her. What the hell is this?
I pivot to face them, putting Amanda behind me. “Officers. Can I help you?” I plaster on a smile. I can feel my hands tightening into fists already. One of the small problems I’ve had in my life is that I don’t particularly respond well to authority, even when I’m in no position to resist it.
“We’re responding to a request through Officer Beckstrom in Springfield for a welfare check on you.” They are theoretically talking to Amanda, but both of them, big beefy authoritarian types, are glaring holes through me. Clearly, they’ve seen my record. Great. I’m not proud of the stupid shit I’ve done, but I am trying to get past it, if people will let me. These guys don’t seem inclined toward the whole “fresh start” idea, though.
“Your father, Miss Grace, is concerned about you,” the older cop continues, watching me as though I might lunge at him for his keys and take off on a joyride or something.
Ah, so Amanda’s dad isn’t the “chase a car down the driveway” sort of dad. He’s the “call the cops on the sleazy Hollywood type taking my daughter” kind instead.
Good to know. Wish I’d
known it a little earlier.
7
Amanda
At first, I’m not sure I heard the officer correctly. My dad? My dad, who can’t even really look at me, can barely talk to me, sent the police after me?
He doesn’t want to deal with me himself, but I guess letting me “run off” would be an equally unacceptable outcome. Better to send someone else to handle it. To handle me.
A rush of fury and hurt floods through my veins, and I can feel my face burning with it, my eyes smarting with tears.
But I’ve got a more immediate problem. Chase is in front of me, and his body language screams trouble. His shoulders are tense, his back stiff, and I can’t see the front of him, but I’d bet there’s chest puffing going on.
Crap. He’d have to be stupid to challenge armed men who are just looking for an excuse to take him down, and yet that doesn’t appear to be much of a deterrent at the moment. I seem to remember that resisting arrest might have been one of his various sins.
“Excuse me?” I step out from behind Chase. How did he do that anyway? Manage to put himself between them and me? I didn’t even notice it happening until it was done. “I’m fine. You can see that I’m fine. Thank you for checking, though.”
“Miss Grace, your father would feel more comfortable if you returned home,” the closest officer, the older of the two, says, his gaze flicking to me briefly.
“I’m sure he would,” I say. “But I’m going to stay here.” The key is to remain calm, keep my voice even and unaffected. If I shout or look like I’m about to cry, they’ll only press harder.
“I have Beckstrom’s office and cell number programmed into my phone,” I continue. Probably set to the Cops theme, if I know Mia. “If I run into trouble, she’ll be my first call.” I hold up my phone, as if to demonstrate.
This doesn’t seem to do much to convince them. I can feel the tension rising, like a string binding all four of us tighter and tighter. Someone’s going to snap and lash out, any second.
“I have a daughter not too much younger than you,” the older cop says. “I wouldn’t want her out here with a stranger.” His voice goes dark on the last word, like it’s a synonym for murderer. Or worse.
Then it clicks. He knows me, or thinks he does. He followed the Miracle Girl story, probably imagining the horrors as if they’d occurred to his own child. I can see it in his face. It’s his worst nightmare, and like most of the police I’ve encountered, they see what happened to me as some kind of failure, personal or systemic. It never should have happened. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that. I’m proof that there are gaps and inefficiencies that can destroy lives.
And he’s determined to make up for it, even if in just this small way, by delivering me back to known safety. I get that, I do, but I’m a person, not a symbol.
“I understand,” I say as patiently as I can. “But I’m twenty, and I’m here of my own free will.”
“You sure?” the second officer chimes in, his gaze fixed on Chase, who bristles at the implication.
Enough. I’m so tired of everyone second-guessing me today. I get plenty of that in my own head.
“I think I would know, don’t you?” I ask sharply. “I’ve got some experience in that area, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”
The words hang in the air like the echo of a slap. And all three of them are staring at me.
Finally the older cop gives a curt nod. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” His voice is stiff with formality. He’s pissed now because I seem like an ungrateful snot.
Great. “Thank you for following up on the call,” I say. “I appreciate it.” Even if I don’t need the help, somebody someday might, and I don’t want the memory of my reaction to slow them in responding on future welfare checks. I don’t want that on my conscience.
The older officer jerks his head at the younger one, and they retreat into their cars without another word.
I wait to make sure they’re actually leaving, then I turn and head for the sliding doors into the hotel. There are five or six curious faces turned in my direction, watching through the glass. Other hotel guests who happen to have been in the lobby or those drawn by lights and the promise of drama.
But as soon as they see me coming, they turn away, pretending to be occupied by something else. Checking in, reading a free newspaper from one of the little metal stands, or, God, staring up at the ceiling. Really?
Chase is behind me, his steps slower. “You didn’t need to do that,” he says. “I could have handled it.”
I turn and wait for him to catch up. “Really?” I ask. “I’m not sure this would have worked nearly as well if I had to visit you in jail.”
He makes a face, that generous and wide mouth twisting with displeasure. “I’m working on it, okay?”
I’m distracted momentarily, flustered. Why would I be paying any attention to his mouth? “Do you have a problem with the police?” I ask evenly, determined to keep this conversation—and rehabilitation plan—on track.
“No,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as we move deeper into the lobby.
I look at him.
“Not anymore,” he says. “They have a problem with me.” He sighs. “I did some stupid shi … stuff when I was younger.”
He’s censoring his language in front of me? I can’t decide if that’s funny or kind of insulting, like he still sees me as a child. Lots of people do. Once you’re in the victim role, it’s hard for people to treat you as anything other than someone who needs to be protected.
But I’m only four years younger than Chase, and I don’t have a whole lot of innocence left to protect, unfortunately.
“I had friends who maybe didn’t have my best interests in mind,” he continues. “Not that I’m trying to pin the blame on them,” he says quickly, in a manner that suggests he’s been accused of doing just that. “I did it. All of it. Willingly, eagerly, even.” He hesitates. “It’s just…”
“Easier to lose track of yourself when there are all these other voices shouting at you?” I offer. I know that feeling. I’ve been living with it for the last two years.
He glances at me sharply, as if seeing me for the first time. “Yeah, something like that,” he says with a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Welcome back, Mr. Dean.” The front desk girl practically leans across the polished wooden counter to beam at him as we cross the lobby.
I raise an eyebrow at Chase.
“Fake name,” he mumbles. “Not my idea.”
Yeah, that’s what I was reacting to. “James or Jimmy?” I ask instead.
It takes him a second. “The sausage guy?”
I nod.
His mouth—what is wrong with me?—quirks in a wicked smile. “Definitely the sausage guy.”
I roll my eyes. Good grief. But a part of me is pleased that he didn’t hesitate to play with the innuendo.
“Hey,” he says to the front desk girl. “Thanks. This is…” He hesitates and lowers his voice, in deference to those who are lurking around the lobby. “This is Amanda Gr—”
“Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Dean.” She—her brass-colored name tag says SHARA—smiles at him so hard it makes my cheeks ache in sympathy. “I know who she is. All the arrangements have been made, and I have the reservation information right here.”
Pulled up, no doubt, the second she saw us through the windows. Or, rather, the second she saw Chase.
At least, that’s what I think until she turns that same awestruck smile on me. “Miss Grace, we’ll be checking you in under the name Mrs. Dean to preserve your privacy, as requested, and you’ll be in the room adjoining Mr. Dean’s.” A faint pink blush rises in her cheeks.
“What?” Chase and I say at the same time. I can feel a sudden heat crawling up my neck. What exactly does she think is going on here?
Shara looks startled. “I’m sorry. Do I have that wrong? Ms. Prescott left very explicit instructions before she checked out.”
Next to me, Cha
se stiffens. “I bet,” he mutters.
“Ms. Prescott?” I murmur.
“Publicist,” he says.
Ah, Elise. The one he fired, who, from the looks of her photo on his phone, might have been more than just an employee. So, she was pissed, and this was her passive-aggressive parting gift. Nice.
I plaster a polite smile on my face. “I’m sure Shara can find another room in the hotel for me. I don’t want to intrude on Mr. Dean’s privacy.”
Her confused gaze flicks between Chase and me. “I can check,” she says to me with a nod. “I also have a note for you, Mr. Dean, from Ms. Prescott before she checked out.” Shara holds out a folded slip of paper.
Chase takes it from her, his mouth curving down in distaste. He barely glances at the message inside before crumpling it and shoving it into his pocket. Then again, it doesn’t take long to read “fuck you,” which is likely the spirit of the message, if not the exact wording.
Shara types on her computer, each loud clack of the keys echoing through the quiet lobby. It feels like a Klaxon going off, drawing even more attention to us. We’re the only ones at the desk, which helps, but I can still sense other people in the lobby. Footsteps across the floor behind us. The quiet whoosh of the automatic doors opening or closing. A cough from the club chairs arranged in front of the big stone fireplace. I don’t know if they’re people Chase knows or not.
Experience keeps me facing forward, away from prying eyes.
“I do have something on the first floor,” Shara says after a moment. “It’s not one of our luxury rooms. But it is handicapped accessible, so it’s right near the door.” She offers this last tidbit with a hopeful smile, as if that will make up for the lack of a mini-fridge or king-sized bed.
But all I hear is “right near the door”; in other words, kidnap adjacent. Easy access. Prime bad-guy territory. Just prop the door open and lurk nearby, waiting for your victim. Or break open the room window and drag her out into a van. Smash and grab.
My palms start to sweat, and I surreptitiously wipe them against my pants.