If You Dare

by Alessandra Torre

  I hold the gun with my right hand and grab a piece of duct tape, yanking it off my jeans and slapping it over his eyes. Another piece for his mouth.

  He flails in the sudden blindness, his cuffed hands reaching for me, and his shoulder hits the wall with a loud thud. That’s bad. Any minute Chelsea will be opening that door. I put the gun at his temple and lean forward, close enough to smell his scent. “Be still and go where I push you, or I will pull the trigger. Nod slowly if you understand.” He nods and I kick at the cracked-open door, shoving him in and turning right, holding the gun out and steady at the bed where I had heard Chelsea’s voice.

  Before, she was under the covers, a shadow moving in the background. Now, she is propped up on her air mattress, an Iron Maiden T-shirt on, an irritated look on her face when we crash into the room and I level the gun at her. To her credit, she doesn’t react, doesn’t scream, she just sits there, her eyebrows raised, and glances from the gun to me, to Simon—who trips over a recliner and falls—to the gun. “You look like you know how to use that.”

  “I do. And I’d really love to smear your brains across that cheap comforter, so please. Make my fucking day and try something.”

  “You know you tried to kill me already. It didn’t work.” She adjusts the neck of the T-shirt as if we are sitting in Starbucks, waiting on our Frappuccino order to be called.

  “Second time’s the charm.”

  “What are you doing here, Deanna?” She sounds tired, like this midnight meeting is inconvenient but not life threatening, and I want to shoot off a body part just so she shows me some respect. “I thought you were in jail.”

  “I was. Move to the end of the bed and kneel on the ground before me.”

  She is too sluggish, and I am half-giddy with bloodlust, half-irritated by her attitude, and half-anxious for answers, so I decide to screw plans and shoot some respect into this bitch. I grab the closest pillow, shove it down on her thigh to muffle the sound, and pull the trigger.

  “Here is the plan, Chelsea.” I nod toward the floor. “Kneel.” She kneels. “Good girl.” I listen to Simon moan something unintelligible, and smile. “I’m going to give you some zip ties, and you are going to tie your ankles together, and then your wrists. You are going to do it tightly or else I am going to shoot off whatever appendage is being lazy.”

  “Are you going to miss again?” Her voice sounds hard but I see the shake in her eyes. She’s lucky I missed, that the pillow hid the quick movement of her skinny leg and the air mattress got the bullet instead of her. It was almost better it worked out that way. The mattress deflated, she got motivated, and I finally have some freaking respect without having to worry about her bleeding to death before I am done. I smile and pull out a handful of ties from my pocket.

  She looks down at them, then up at me, her blue eyes studying me as if she could see her future in them. “The faster you move, Chelsea, the quicker I’ll be gone. Answer all of my questions and I’ll leave you two unhurt.” It was a lie but I smile as if it were true and added the one word that makes everyone calm. “Promise.”

  She rolls onto her butt, her bare feet before her, and I can see the hot pink of her underwear. Her toes are painted dark purple, a shade that is seriously going to clash with the yellow ties she picks up. I stare at her toes and try to remember the last time I painted mine. Thursday? It feels like five months ago. “Tighter.” She glares up at me, pulling on the end of the tie, her skin squishing out a little around the plastic tie. I smile. For a skinny girl, she has fat ankles, and that makes me happy. “Now your wrists.”

  “I’m not coordinated enough to do my wrists.”

  “Make the loop really big, slide your wrists in, then use your mouth to tighten it.”

  She sighs like it is an enormous task. For a woman who is still alive, she’s extremely ungrateful. I step right as she works, putting Simon fully in my vision, the skinny druggie on his back, his hands tied before him, with apparently no plans for escape or heroism. I think of him, in my apartment, his face triumphant and cocky, and my world turns a little redder, my control shifts into a lower gear, my plans take on a more fluid state. I glance back to Chelsea, her mouth on the end of the tie, her lip curling at me as she bites down on the end and tightens the plastic around her wrists. “Stop.” I pause her movement before it’s too late. “Face your palms in the same direction. Not palm to palm, one palm on the back of the other one’s hand.” She hesitates, then flips over one hand, putting her wrists in a position that is pretty much useless. She looks up at me and I nod in approval. She replaces her mouth on the tie and tugs on it, cinching her wrists together. “More,” I prod and smile when she complies. Power. I sometimes wonder if it is that, more than the blood, that I crave.

  CHAPTER 85

  Present

  THE PATROL CAR is silent yet filled with sounds. The chomp of gum in David’s jaw. The tick of the engine as she accelerates. The drag of wipers as she tries to clear fog off the windshield.

  “Think he’s protecting her?” The click of bullets as David loads his clip.

  Brenda shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “The kid seemed clean to me. Messed up, sure. A druggie, sure. A killer?” He snaps the loaded clip into his gun. “No.”

  There is a static burst of radio chatter and he grabs the mike, giving their location and ETA. When he hangs the mouthpiece back on the dash, he looks over. “You got your vest?”

  “It’s in the trunk.” Chelsea Evans will probably be there. Human Resources couldn’t, at five in the morning, confirm whether she has moved. This might be messy. They need to prepare for anything.

  I grab my bag and sit on the pleather sofa, the focal furniture piece in Simon’s apartment, the massive entertainment center its crown jewel. I set the gun on the coffee table and eye her. Pull items from the bag and set them down on the table before me, dusting off the surface with one aggressive swipe, weed flakes fluttering into the air, his rolling papers following suit. I catch a Zippo before it slides off the table and set it upright, next to my container of antifreeze. Reach down, to the bottom level of the coffee table, and steal a razor out of a glass bowl.

  Duct tape.

  Antifreeze.

  Eight remaining zip ties.

  Two plastic bags, thrown in for free by the wonderful Daniel.

  The Zippo lighter and razor, courtesy of Simon’s coffee table.

  Questioning. That’s what this would start as. Entertainment for my madness, a drink of something violent to calm my world, answers for Jeremy. I can feel the flutter of things in my world returning to normal and it will be here soon, as soon as I figure out the truth. I clap my hands in anticipation and smile at Chelsea. She sits in the same place, her wrists hanging off her knees, her eyes on the table of items before me. “Unharmed,” she repeats. “You promised.”

  “Dee-Dee!” Summer’s face scrunched into that of an old woman’s, wrinkles popping up everywhere. “The park! You promised!”

  “Oh yes, I promise,” I reassure her and smile again. My face is starting to hurt but soon I will know, soon he will have justice, soon this breakdown of my world will come to an end.

  “I’m not going to the park, Summer. It’s a thousand degrees out.”

  “But you PROMISED!” She stretched out the final word, giving it four syllables instead of two.

  I shrugged, flipping the magazine’s page. “I lied.”

  The two of them sit before me, like a matching set of salt-and-pepper shakers—Simon the Salt, Chelsea the Pepper—back-to-back because I said so and I hold the gun. They are handcuffed together with zip ties, Simon’s bare back pressed against Chelsea’s T-shirt, her long blond hair probably tickling the hell outta his vertebrae. I take the tape off Simon’s eyes at some point. He needs to see this. All of this. I stand up from the table and grab one of the trash bags and the roll of duct tape.

  “Let’s talk about Sunday night,” I instruct, and step closer. I’ll pull the bag over Chelsea�
��s head and duct-tape it tight. Let her suffocate until Simon talks. Then I stop, think of Jeremy, and walk to the kitchen. Pull open the first drawer, then the second. I glance over at the pair.

  “The police told me Jeremy was stabbed six times.”

  There is no response from my quiet charges. I pull out a paring knife and wrap my fingers around the handle, rolling my wrist a few times to get accustomed to its feel. I look over and see a tear drag quietly down Simon’s cheek. There had never been a question of who would break first, but I am pleased to see my hypothesis proved true. I walk over and crouch before him, my touch with the knife’s blade gentle as I run it from ear to ear, teasing his beautifully exposed neck.

  “Did you stab my boyfriend?” I whisper, watching his eyes, watching them jump to his sister. I would have protected Trent. I wouldn’t have let a psychotic girl handcuff him and play tic-tac-toe with his skin.

  “No,” he whispers and I smile. Push the tip of the knife gently against the heave of his ribs and lean forward, the sharp tip breaking through, pushing harder, blood appearing at the same time that his mouth opens and he screams, a beautiful, long, pained scream, the kind my orgasms are built around, the kind that make Chelsea twist her head in panic, her eyes on mine, her own mouth opening and protests spilling out.

  I jab harder, the paring knife buried to the hilt, then yank out. “That’s one, Simon. I owe you five more. Unless, that is, you have a confession to make.”

  “I didn’t stab him!” he screams, his voice high and tinny, like a child’s. “It was an accident, it was all an accident!”

  “Bullshit,” I growl, my next stab neither slow nor gentle, hitting quick and hard into his bare shoulder, his body bucking back, against Chelsea, her scream at me to stop you crazy bitch hitting dead ears and a broken soul. Jeremy was my person. You kill him and so God help your soul I will take all that you love. I leave the knife in, straightening to my feet and pull out the gun. Hold it against Chelsea’s forehead, her mouth falling silent, our eyes glued to each other. The cocky woman who tried to seduce my man is gone, and suddenly there is fear in her eyes. Respect in her silence. I don’t think, until this moment in time, that she truly realized what I am capable of.

  “Talk.” I grit out the word and I can feel the edge of my world as it is destroyed, my control slipping, this interrogation one shaky step away from being a full-blown bloodbath for no other reason than my personal enjoyment.

  Chelsea swallows hard and opens her mouth. “It was—” The door bangs open behind me, a sharp crack of sound and a series of spotlights bounce over the kitchen, zeroing in on our trio, my shadow thrown against the wall and I look huge. I stay in place and hear a series of clicks, bullets being chambered, guns cocked. It sounds like a brigade, like death in a marching band, but I ignore them all and look down at the woman with the answer to my soul.

  “Me,” she whispers, the sound so soft that Simon and I are the only ones to hear, but I have my answer and I believe the word and when Brenda Boles says my name, I break my gaze from Chelsea’s and drop the gun. I can’t go back to jail, can’t be locked back up, I tried it and it is nothing like 6E, it is boring and long and will only drive me even more insane. This is not what I wanted, this is not how it should end, and I lift my hands in surrender, my eyes dancing over the nasty fridge, the bare countertop, and then I see my answer and run, my arms pumping, legs quick, and

  jump my feet lift up together, my hands on my head, elbows creating a protective frame around my face, the coordinated bulk of me crashing into and through Simon’s sixth-floor window.

  I loved him. No matter if it was twisted and deceitful and false, I loved him. Without him, it’s all broken.

  It’s stupid, it’s dumb. I know what that fall can do. I know the chances of my walking away are nil. But as I fall through the air, my arms flailing out, I only feel free. I will not be harnessed, I will not be kept; I am freedom, and my name is Deanna.

  The ground comes much, much sooner than I expect, and when I hit it, I feel death.

  CHAPTER 86

  Present

  EXCRUCIATING PAIN, WORSE than any I could ever imagine, from every piece of me that I didn’t even know existed. I lie there, on my back, and break, my eyes struggling to open, the sky lighter now, pink and pretty, and it is a view I haven’t seen in a very, very long time. Through the pain, through the ragged gasp of my breath, every other sound mutes, my effort to live competing with the hammering of my heart that—at least—tells me I am still alive… I hear her steps. I flick my eyes right and see, upside down, the sprint of Brenda Boles. She skids to a stop, bending before me, her face a blur as it moves in dizzying swirls above me.

  “Madden!” An unnecessary yell as I am right here.

  I cough.

  Yes, I am alive. No, I will not let you take me. I will shrug off this stitch and stand. Run. Faster than you. Get in FtypeBaby and drive to heaven, where I will spend my millions. Alone. I have learned one thing, and that is that I am dangerous. I am my mother, and I hurt those that I love. I will not hurt him anymore.

  I will get up and leave Brenda behind because I am young and she is old and there is

  Everything goes dark.

  CHAPTER 87

  Present

  THE NEXT TIME I make a dramatic exit through a window, I should look through it first. I’d looked out my own apartment’s window a hundred times, enough to know that my side of the building, which faces the street, is a straight shot down, a plummeting fall that, if you’re lucky, lands you on grass. It turns out that Simon’s side of the building has an extra lip of one-bedroom units; they stick out and run up to the third floor. So my leap took me only three stories down. Good for my life. Bad for my theatrics.

  When I fully gain my faculties, I am in the hospital. The blanket over me is pink, the television before me is on. There is a sitcom on, a trio of strangers laughing on its screen. I test my neck, turning my head, and see the tray next to my bed. A cup with water, a bent straw perched in its icy depths. I lick my lips, and they are cracked and dry. There is also red Jell-O there and a bag of chips, opened. I stare at the chips for a long moment.

  The door opens and a woman walks in, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, her white tank top tucked into designer jeans. This must be the bitch who ate my chips. I watch her casual entrance, her toss of the phone onto a chair, her gaze sweeping over me and then stopping.

  “You’re awake.”

  I nod.

  “Let me get the nurse.” She holds up a hand as if she’s worried I’ll scamper away. “Just a second—”

  “Wait.” My voice croaks when it comes, and I swallow, a hard and painful process. “Wait a minute.”

  She steps closer, her hands smoothing at my blanket, tucking the edges into the bed, and that must be why they are so freaking neat. I don’t like neat blankets. I like mess and disorder and killing people. I go to link my hands and find out I can’t move one of them. “What’s wrong with my arm?”

  “It’s broken.” She perches on the edge of the bed.

  “What else?”

  “You’re banged up a bit, you’ve got some sprains and a pretty nasty cut on one knee, but that’s it. You landed on a weak section of the roof. I think it had some give.”

  That’s it? On one hand, I feel super-tough. On the other hand, those injuries don’t sound bad enough that I couldn’t have hobbled away. “But I passed out?”

  “A bone broke the skin.” She picks up the bag of chips and peers into it, pulling one out and chomping on it. “They said it was shock.”

  A bone broke the skin. Well good. That sounds alarming enough to faint for. I want to reach for the bag of chips but it’s on my bad arm’s side and I don’t want to reach across and come up short. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “Oh.” She sets down the bag of chips and brushes her greasy hand off on her jeans. “I’m Lily, Jeremy’s sister. We spoke on the phone.”

  Oh. I shake her hand numbly. And… she�
�s really here. Sitting in my hospital room. Eating my chips. “Where’s Jeremy?” Half of me doesn’t want to know the answer. The other half wants to rip it from her throat.

  “He’s on the fourth floor; you’re on the second. Want to visit him?”

  “Is he awake?” My heart seizes in a dozen different ways.

  She swallows and puts down the bag. “No. Not yet.” She picks at the inseam of her jeans. “But he will be, the doctors are really confident. He’s on a ventilator now.” She peeks up at me and it is our first moment of full eye contact. She looks like J; I see it now. Same eyes. A few minor tweaks of the face I would never have picked up on unless given the link. “Did they tell you he woke up?”

  I lean forward and feel a pull of pain in my back. “No.” I wonder how long I have been out. I wonder if, right now, there is a chorus of police outside this room. I wonder if, if she pulled back this blanket, I’d see my ankles shackled.

  “Yeah. Last night.” She pulled at her ponytail to retighten it. “That’s how the cops knew.” She looked back up. “That you were innocent.”

  “What?” I need a hundred details, and this woman is feeding them to me through a freakin’ cocktail straw.

  “He told me it was Simon.” She reaches out and grips my casted hand and it feels like a violation. “I’m sorry.” She stares at me as if her eye contact alone does something. “I’m sorry that I thought, for a minute…”

  “That I did it.” No worries, Lily. I was right there with you on that thought process.

  “Yes.”