The Last Confession of Autumn Casterly

by Meredith Tate

  I’m alive.

  Tears of joy fill my eyes. I survived. My heart’s still beating. My body’s still working—barely, but working. I’m so overwhelmed that I barely feel the pain in my ribs. I’m here. I’m alive. I still have time.

  Something soft fills my mouth—a towel? They gagged me.

  I can barely make out the light glinting off a metal chain, wrapped through the wooden door, presumably leading to a padlock outside.

  Agony weighing down on me like a two-ton barbell, I force my body to roll toward the door. Pain splinters through me when my left side hits the wooden floor beneath me. I pry my hand off the cold ground and stretch my mangled fingers, my arms screaming, but the rope holds me in place. My eyes cloud with water.

  How long can I survive like this?

  I close my eyes.

  I open my eyes.

  I’m back in my kitchen with Dad, Kathy, and Pumpernickel—back in this uninjured body no one can see or hear.

  “I’m alive,” I whisper. They don’t move. I fist my hands into my short hair.

  I’m barely alive.

  Those guys abandoned me there.

  “You have to find me.” I get right in my dad’s face. “You have to go to the warehouse and save me.”

  Kathy takes a seat at the table and lights a cig. Dad glances at her from the corner of his eye, as if contemplating telling her off. Instead, he gets to his feet and leaves the room without another word.

  “Dad. Please!” I call after him. He doesn’t stop or turn around. “Kathy. Listen to me.” Kathy browses the news on her phone. “Fuck!”

  I’m going to die. And no one will even know.

  I race upstairs and into my bedroom. Phone. I need to find my phone.

  I grasp at my dresser handle to rip open the drawer, but my fingers close around nothing. I bury my face in my hands— it doesn’t matter anyway, because I left the phone in my car, back at the terrible warehouse. I never should have gone there. Why? Why did I respond to that text? I knew something was off.

  My mind races, running through everyone who could’ve done this. Where do I even begin? Liam. It had to be Liam. But he didn’t do it alone; there were at least five people in the warehouse. He has so many shady friends, I don’t even know where to start.

  I hold my fist to my mouth as my body convulses with sobs. This is the end. No one’s coming to help me. I’m powerless. A shell.

  I think back to our bio lesson about dehydration freshman year. People can last three days without water. That’s all I’ve got.

  In three days, I’ll be dead.

  A fresh sob chokes in my throat.

  My shell of a body is broken. I probably won’t even last that long.

  What the hell am I? I’m a ghost. A spirit. A . . . something.

  Why am I even here?

  “Ivy, sweetie, you up?” A few knocks echo down the hall. Dad stands outside my sister’s door with his jacket on.

  “Five more minutes,” her sleepy voice replies. “It’s Saturday.”

  “I’m going to run downtown to the farmers market before my shift starts. I get out at six tonight. Kathy’s here if you need anything.” He clomps back down the stairs.

  Ivy.

  “Ivy!” I barrel down the hall and try to stop when I see her closed bedroom door, but my body plows straight through it like it’s air. I catch my breath, swallowing back the fear. This is so screwed up.

  “Ivy! Ivy. Please wake up.” I pound my fist against the doorframe even though it doesn’t make a sound. “Ivy! Come on!”

  Her sleeping figure stirs under her yellow comforter. She rolls over, her back facing me.

  “Ivy.” I stand at the foot of her bed. “Ivy. Please. You’re my last hope. Ivy. Ivy.” Desperation claws at my voice. “Ivy!” I kick her bedpost. “Ivy!”

  Ivy shoots up, her eyes wide and frantic. “Autumn?”

  IVY

  I sit up in bed and catch my breath, glancing around my empty room.

  That was trippy. Of all the nightmares I’ve had about Autumn, most entail her screaming at me; this time, she was screaming for help.

  I yawn, still blinking off that weird dream, and check my phone. Twenty-two texts. Jeez, what could be so important at ten on a Saturday morning?

  Aha. They were actually sent at 2:00 a.m. Much more understandable.

  Jason: okay, I finally caved and started watching Game of Thrones—you completed your mission to convert me, congratulations

  Jason: no spoilers or you’re dead to me

  Jason: omg if these wolves die I’m shutting it off

  Jason: this Joffrey kid is a prick.

  I laugh reading through all his ridiculous reactions and predictions. At 3:55 a.m., I have one final message.

  Jason: Okay I have to work in, like, five hours, so I’m going to bed. Text when you wake up—I need to know the deal with these dragon eggs.

  I smirk, typing back.

  Me: You’re, like, five years too late for the no-spoilers request.

  Me: If you want any hope of staying pure, avoid all the show hashtags—Twitter, Tumblr, Insta, EVERYWHERE!

  Me: Better yet, just avoid social media altogether. It’s really your only hope.

  Me: Oh, and now I have some leverage. If you piss me off, I’m telling you who dies next. You’re welcome.

  I’m searching Giphy for an appropriately sassy GIF to send him when a chill skirts down my arms.

  I remember this episode of 20/20 about twins who swore they could communicate telepathically. One sister would think of a color, and in another room, the other sister would pick the right color on a card. Autumn and I aren’t twins, and we don’t even communicate the normal way, but I can’t fight the feeling something’s wrong with her.

  Which is stupid. She’s fine.

  A general sense of unease washes over me. Dammit.

  I throw my sheets off and climb out of bed, annoyed with myself. “Autumn?” I step into the hall, bracing myself to get screamed at for waking her up. “You okay?”

  This is ridiculous. There’s something seriously wrong with me.

  I raise my hand to knock on her door. Autumn’s never actually hit me; she shoves me out of the way sometimes, but that’s it. Still, I don’t doubt for a second she would if I woke her up and came into her room—double whammy.

  Preemptively cringing, I knock. No answer. I press my ear to her door, straining to hear. Silence.

  Against my better judgment, I push it open, cringing again when the hinges squeak. My sister’s mattress lies empty on the floor, a nest of sheets hanging off the end.

  I relax a little.

  I guess it’s not so unusual.

  The worried feeling settles deep in my core, like it’s slowly turning all my organs to stone.

  Why can’t I let this go? I’m being paranoid for no reason.

  I’m too lazy to put my contacts in, so I grab my glasses and trudge downstairs. “Kathy?” I call as my feet hit the bottom step. “Have you seen Autumn?”

  My stepmom glances up at me from the living room couch, pointing to the phone glued to her ear. “Yes, honey. All right. I’m gonna stream the game—I’ll be rooting for you!” Three versions of Chris’s face beam at me from the bookshelf: a two-year-old with a face covered in frosting; a teen in his graduation cap; and finally, a college freshman wearing a Michigan State football jersey. “I miss you, too.” The grad picture makes him look like a brown-haired Justin Bieber. “Autumn, Ivy, and Steve send their love. Bye, baby.” She hangs up and sets her phone on the coffee table. “Sorry about that, honey, your brother called. What’s wrong?”

  I realize I’m unintentionally glaring at her. I definitely don’t send Chris my love. Why does she have to say that? And for the eight bajillionth time, he’s not my brother.

  “Ha
ve you seen Autumn?”

  Kathy’s smile droops. “Not today, honey, no. I don’t think she came home last night.”

  “I’m a little worried about her.”

  “I know. I worry about her, too.” She purses her lips and pats the cushion beside her. I reluctantly take a seat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I . . . I’m getting a weird feeling. Like something deep down is telling me she’s in trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much. Autumn’s been doing this for years now. Sometimes I think she just does it because she hates me.” Kathy looks away.

  She’s probably hoping I’ll reassure her that Autumn doesn’t really hate her, but I have no poker face, and that’s a lie. I’ve always wondered why Autumn hates Kathy so much. I mean, yeah, for a while it was weird seeing Dad with another woman. But I like knowing he has someone. I wish Autumn felt that way, too.

  “Don’t worry.” Kathy presses a hand to my cheek. Her wedding band is cold against my skin. “She always turns up.”

  “But what if she doesn’t this time?”

  “She will, honey. I promise.”

  “I think we should look for her.” The words sound silly as I say them—if I had a nickel for every time Autumn vanished overnight, we could’ve afforded to stay in our old house—but I can’t stop myself. “Something’s wrong.”

  “If she’s not home by tonight, we’ll call the police. Okay?” Her tone is patronizing as hell. She’s not taking me seriously. I’m not even sure I’m taking myself seriously.

  “Okay.”

  The feeling intensifies as I stand—it wants me to keep pressing, keep insisting. But I fight it off. I’m overreacting because I had a ridiculous dream. That’s it.

  “Hey, Ivy?” Kathy pushes to her feet. “I was thinking about our discussion a couple nights ago.”

  I blink at her. “Oh yeah?”

  “You asked if Chris would be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas.” She smiles, a hopeful look in her eyes. “I think it would be great to invite him.”

  I kind of stare at her for a minute. That wasn’t what I had in mind. And technically, I only asked about Thanksgiving.

  “We’ve barely seen him since he started college,” Kathy continues. “It would be nice to have the whole family together. Don’t you agree?”

  No. He’s not my family. “I guess.”

  When Dad and Kathy first got married, we used to go to Kathy’s sister’s house for Christmas Eve. They did the classic Italian thing with all the fish. I loved it. We haven’t seen them in a few years. Kathy’s never mentioned why, but I think there was some sort of disagreement about their parents’ money. But that’s the only part I miss about those holidays. Not Chris.

  “He would probably feel more . . . welcome . . . if the invite came from your father. You know? Since it’s his house?”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  “Do you think you could talk to your dad about it?”

  “Can’t you talk to him?”

  Kathy sighs. “I don’t know. Things have been . . . tense . . . between Chris and Autumn for a few years now . . .”

  I suppress a gag. “Yeah, I know all about it.”

  “You do?” Her eyebrows shoot up.

  I mean, the whole town does. “Yeah. These things get around.” My mind races to come up with a subject-changer, but Kathy is too quick.

  “It was a long time ago,” she says, “but I think your father is still . . . uncomfortable . . . knowing what happened. I know—I know—it wasn’t the best decision for either of them. You can’t just sleep with your stepsibling and not expect fallout.”

  I’m literally forcing myself not to vomit. I wish Kathy would save this talk for her therapist or something, because I’m really grossed out right now.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “But it’s been three years, and I don’t think it’s fair that Chris can’t come home once in a while. People make mistakes under the influence of alcohol,” she continues. “That’s why you shouldn’t drink until you’re twenty-one.”

  I’m not sure why she’s telling me this. It’s like she feels the need to mother me or something. Meanwhile, there’s one Casterly child who probably needs the alcohol lecture, and she’s not here. “Yep. I know.”

  “But you’re Steve’s little girl, and he’d do anything for you. I think if you ask him about Chris, he’ll let him come. We can have another family Christmas, like we used to.”

  I scratch the back of my neck, wondering if Kathy can smell a lie. “All right. I’ll talk to him.” I’m out of the living room before she can say anything else.

  I kinda hoped I’d never be subjected to another one of Kathy’s fake “look how happy we are together” family portraits in front of the tree. Smiling in a photo doesn’t make happiness real, even if we’re wearing matching pajamas and slippers. Christmas pj’s were always a Casterly family tradition. I’m not going to lie, the Christmas after Dad and Kathy’s wedding, it kinda stung seeing my stepmom and Chris unwrap their own pj’s and slippers from Dad, just in time for the annual family portrait. It was like Kathy was literally trying to step into Mom’s shoes. I didn’t say anything, though, because Dad was super excited about it.

  Autumn took it worse. She disappeared and didn’t even open her gifts. She came back that night, having dodged our Christmas afternoon tradition of watching Prancer and drinking cocoa.

  Autumn.

  “Stop it,” I whisper to myself. “Autumn’s fine.”

  I go into the kitchen for some breakfast—okay, breakfast is a generous term when it’s closer to lunchtime—and fire up the Keurig. Dad bought the French vanilla K-cups from Dunkin’ that I love—score.

  I rest my hand on my hip.

  It’s funny, I’ve seen the same photos, cards, and announcements on our fridge for years and still read them every time. I glance over the Spartans Football calendar, the postcard Kathy’s nephew sent us from Puerto Rico last summer, a Save-the-Date for a second cousin’s wedding that was clearly a grab for a gift.

  My eyes stop on a photo of Autumn and me in our soccer uniforms when we were little kids. Autumn’s got her arm wrapped around my shoulders. We both have the biggest grins—hers with braces and mine with a terrible overbite they thankfully fixed.

  I sucked at soccer but made my parents sign me up anyway, because apparently my desire to humiliate myself started at a young age. I always got scared when someone kicked the ball at me; I’d freeze in the middle of the field and hide my face. Unsurprisingly, Autumn was super aggressive on the field and scored half the goals for her team every season. Everyone assumed she’d end up on varsity, but she quit playing her freshman year.

  I pull out my phone and dial Autumn’s number, holding it to my ear with my shoulder as I prep the coffeemaker. It rings, and rings, and rings, and . . .

  “Hey. It’s Autumn. Leave a message and I might call back. If you’ve got a craving, don’t tell me here. Ciao.” I hang up at the long beep, then stare at my phone.

  What the hell is wrong with me? When Autumn comes home tonight, I’m going to feel so stupid.

  I start humming an Ariana Grande song to change my mind when my phone buzzes—Jason.

  You expect me to stay off Facebook while I watch ALL EIGHT SEASONS?!

  I type back, Better watch quickly, punk. I offer my services as a watching buddy if you want to laugh at me for covering my eyes during the bloody parts (so, basically, every scene).

  Good, he says. You can warn me when those parts are coming.

  I grin. There’s something satisfying about watching something you love with someone who’s never seen it before. Especially Jason, since his reactions are always perfect. When I made him watch Serenity, he screamed the F-word so loudly at the leaf-on-the-wind scene that his mom came running out of the shower in her towel to check on us. Clas
sic.

  I grab my Tolkien mug out of the dishwasher, waiting for the water to heat up.

  Me: I could use a distraction today. What are you up to?

  Work, Jason responds, with a crying emoji. Stop by if you want a free bagel!

  Free bagels are tempting, especially since Jase gives me extra cream cheese even without my asking. That’s one thing I love about having him for a best friend—he knows literally everything about me. Well, except for all those awful poems in my pink notebook. If he found those, I would probably die.

  I’m about to respond, when a message from Patrick pops up.

  Hey, Ivy! How’s it going? Want to get lunch later? He sends a second text with a bunch of food emojis. My heart jumps. I’m half excited, half curious if he knows the double meaning behind the eggplant emoji he just peppered across my screen.

  Wait.

  A jumpy, happy feeling skitters inside me.

  Did he just ask me out?

  No guy has ever asked me out before. I mean, Jase and I get food and see movies and stuff a lot, but they’re not, like, dates.

  But wait. Is this a date? Or is Patrick just being nice?

  Play it cool. Don’t even think the D-word—any D-word.

  Yeah sure! I type. Where did you have in mind?

  This is awesome. I’ll put my contacts in, take a shower, and maybe break out that Sephora eye shadow palette Alexa got me for my birthday last year. I mentally go through all the hangers in my closet; I must have something cute somewhere.

  I’m so distracted when I grab my drink, hot coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug and splashes all over the counter. Crap. My Tolkien mug is quickly becoming more of a bad luck charm than the One Ring itself. I rush to soak up the mess with a paper towel just as Patrick texts back.

  Sorry, never mind. Mom’s dragging me to Marshalls to get pants. She says hi btw.

  I can’t help it—I groan. It’s like he pricked my balloon and disappointment came flooding out instead of air.