"Can you pause the game for a second?"
I shoot off the head of a zombie dog, pause the game, and turn to him. "What's up?"
"One of your classmates…she was killed tonight. Or, rather, she was killed earlier this afternoon," he says.
I raise my eyebrows. "How?"
"…She was shot," he says. "Don't you want to know who it is first?"
"I haven't really memorized anybody's names, yet," I say. "So, I'm not sure a name would help."
"This one might," he says. "Since you know Sarah Latham. It was Brianna Cull."
"Brianna?" I vaguely knew her. She was beautiful—sexy might be a more appropriate term—but nothing in comparison to Sarah.
"Yes," Aaron says. "Are you okay? Did you know her at all?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I saw her a few times at The Charcoal Grill, but I didn't know her outside of that."
He nods. "So, you're okay? It's okay if you have…strong feelings about it. She was your age and you still knew her."
"Yeah…" I say, restraining my need to roll my eyes. "So, did you catch who did it?"
"I questioned Junior, her uncle," he says. "But there's not enough evidence for me to arrest anyone. Don't worry. We'll find whoever it is, but until then you should be careful. Don't go wandering alone anywhere, especially in a place that doesn't have a lot of people in the area."
"Right. You know what?" I stand up. "I think I'm done playing for a while. I'm gonna go to bed. It's been a long day."
I leave him in the living room, trying to act as if I'm in denial about my "strong feelings."
I slip into the bedroom that Aaron gave me—I think he used to have his workout equipment here, but now it has everything a foster kid dreams of: my own bed, my own dresser, even my own desk with a locking drawer. I don't use the drawer though or even lock it because I have a feeling that Aaron has his own key. Or maybe he doesn't and I'm just paranoid.
I reach under the bed and pull out a puzzle box. It's one of the few possessions I took from my last foster home. When the puzzle is put together, it forms a photo of my last foster family. Our foster parents gave it to each of us on Christmas. I flip open the box. There's a cell phone snuggled inside the puzzle pieces. I pick it up and begin texting.
Me: So, not sure if you heard yet from your dad, but Brianna was killed.
I crawl into my bed and pull the covers over me in case Aaron comes around to check on me. His obsessive watch over me almost makes me glad that my parents didn't use normal parenting tactics.
Sarah: Did they catch whoever it was?
Me: Junior was taken in for questioning, but Aaron said there wasn't enough evidence to arrest anybody.
I wait for her to text back, staring at her words. Nothing happens. I text her again.
Me: Do you think he did it? At least if he was arrested, he wouldn't bother you anymore.
Sarah: I'm sure he did. Where is Junior now?
Me: I guess he's home.
Sarah: You didn't tell Aaron that Junior was a big creep and should be locked up?
Me: No. I didn't. I wanted to, but I can't, Sarah. I'd have to tell him about how you've been collecting all this evidence about Junior, and I don't want to out you until you're ready.
Sarah: Thank you for looking out for me
Sarah: I'm tired.
Sarah: Going to sleep now. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
Me: Good night, love.
She doesn't answer.
Chapter Seventeen
Sarah, 2015 (Late Monday night)
SINCE MY KIDNAPPING, I now have to say good night to each of my parents when I get home from work. They both stay up as late as possible to make sure I'm home and not kidnapped again. I would reassure them that I won't ever get kidnapped again, because I keep a bowie knife with a five inch blade with me almost all the time, but I'm rather hoping their concern will age them faster.
But tonight, I find my mother is already snoring in bed. She takes a sedative because she's had nightmares since I returned. I know I shouldn't have such harsh feelings for my mother—she's had a complicated life full of men who are hell-bent on controlling her—but I can't help but resent her for marrying Dad. She had a choice. I didn't.
I search for Dad, wandering through our massive house, which feels like a maze, though I've lived here my whole life. I finally find him dozing off in his chair in his study. I stare at him. His slicked back hair has been gray as long as I can remember. His square-shaped head reminds me of when I was a child and he would pretend to be a princess-in-training with me by balancing books on his head.
Now, I want to take his head in my hands and twist so hard that his neck breaks.
Of course, I'm not that strong, but it creates some nice imagery in my head.
I could always bash his head in with one of the gavel statuettes he has on his desk.
I walk over to one of the statuettes. My fingers wrap around the handle. As I pick it up, I'm amazed by its heaviness. Debbie sits in Dad's chair, silent for a change.
I turn to face Dad.
He must have sensed the sudden movement. His eyes shoot open and he looks straight at me.
"Hey," I say.
Debbie groans.
I lower the gavel back onto his desk. "I was just remembering when you first got these and I nearly dropped one on my toe."
"I remember that," he mumbles. "I put them up high on my bookshelves, so you would never be able to reach them. I just put them back on my desk a couple months ago."
I give him a quiet smile and kiss the top of his head. "You should go to sleep. It's late."
"I was waiting to make sure you got home." He stumbles onto his feet. "Do you have any homework?"
"I finished it," I tell him. Or rather, Nick did it for me during lunch.
Dad doesn't ask me any questions about it, because I've never lied to him before, so why would I begin now?
Because before I was afraid of the consequences of lying to him and now I almost want him to become enraged. I want to find a reason to use my bowie knife.
But now he's just a tired old bear, who is soon going to be a dead old bear with a ruined reputation.
As he shuffles to his and Mom's bedroom, I head upstairs to my own bed.
Since the kidnapping, my room feels like it doesn't belong to me. It's too neat, too clean, too pink, and the posters with positive affirmations on it make me feel like I was trying too hard to be happy and to think that I could accomplish something worthwhile. Whom was I fooling?
One of my walls used to be covered with photographs of my friends and me, but I took all of them down and burned them. It represents a life of a girl who was faking every move she made. It represents a girl who was afraid of her own damn shadow. I'm not that girl anymore.
I get on top of my bed and reach up to the ceiling light with a large stained glass dome. I put my hand inside the dome and take out the oxycodone pills I've hidden there. I swallow the last two without water then shove the baggie inside my nightstands drawer. I'll have to sneak a few more out of my mother's stash in a couple days.
I lie down on my bed and take my burner phone out of my pocket. There's one message.
Nick: So, not sure if you heard yet from your dad, but Brianna was killed.
Good. The police found her. I smile as I type my reply.
Me: Did they catch whoever it was?
Nick: Junior was taken in for questioning, but Aaron said there wasn't enough evidence to arrest anybody.
Junior isn't in jail for being a suspect? Come on. That was a gift for the police—he found the body and I'm sure he was a mess. I had at least expected him to break down and confess to being involved with the Zoë LaPonte murder. He should be locked up right now.
Nick: Do you think he did it? At least if he was arrested, he wouldn't bother you anymore.
Me: I'm sure he did. Where is Junior now?
Nick: I guess he's home.
I continue to text him, gritting my teeth the
whole time, until I convince him that I'm going to sleep. I sit down on my bed. I need a different plan for Junior.
"No, you don't," Debbie says, sitting down, leaning against my dresser. "You should stick with Plan B. Blackmail Junior with the evidence so that he'll confess that Zoë LaPonte was murdered and the judge helped cover it up."
"How are we even sure that would work?" I ask. "The only waitress who might have testified in support of my recordings might have been Brianna, and now she's dead. I could go kill him at his house. I haven't dumped my gear from Brianna's kill yet, so I could use it on him, and that would instantly link the crimes. The police would assume they have a serial killer on their hands. They'll probably look for someone connected to the family, so I won't be on their radar."
"That sounds like an absolutely, two hundred percent horrible idea," Debbie says. "You know I fully support killing Junior, but you haven't planned this at all. It's an impulse action. Being impulsive is what got Mason locked up, remember?"
"No, you should totally kill him," a woman's voice says.
Debbie and I both turn at the same time. A blonde teenager is standing in the doorway, which links my bedroom to my bathroom.
Debbie appears behind me and smacks me on the arm. "I told you that bitch saw you." She hisses. "And now she's going to haunt us both. Good job. You should have hid your face."
"Yeah, well, thanks for killing me, Sarah." Brianna walks closer toward me. She's wearing her Saint Anne's uniform and there isn't a single trace of blood on her. "If I had known this was part of our plan to frame Junior, I would've passed."
"Shut up, bitch," Debbie snaps.
I groan, leaning back until I'm lying on my bed. "Could both of you shut up?"
"Who are you?" Brianna asks Debbie.
"I'm the sole occupant of Sarah's mind, so you can leave."
"None of you are real," I mutter, massaging my temple.
"Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, Sarah." Debbie chimes in.
"Or the eight hundredth sign," Brianna adds.
I shake my head and get my pajamas from my dresser. I try to ignore them as I undress. Once I'm in my pajamas, I turn around and realize both of them are gone. I don't know what happened. Maybe when I concentrate on not thinking, they disappear.
I curl up in my bed, throwing the sheets over my body.
I wait, counting the seconds as they pass by.
First, I hear the telltale sign of a creaking floorboard.
The door opens slowly, the light pouring in like water. If only light could drown me.
His footsteps approach the bed, heavy and clumsy, no matter how hard he tries to be quiet.
His hand settles onto my shoulder.
It wanders down my arm. I keep my breathing steady, pretending to be asleep. If he knew I was awake, he would have to face his own shame…and I'll be the one punished for his shame.
"You know, he did the same thing to me," Debbie mutters. Her voice sounds like it's coming from the opposite side of the bed that Dad's on. "He rationalized it was okay, that over the clothes was just fatherly concern, not pedophilia. I mean, it's no wonder Mason's fucked up. It's genetic. The fact Mason isn't a pedophile—even taking into consideration he killed multiple people—is a step-up for him. Then again, maybe he is a pedophile. We don't know what kind of secrets he has."
After ten or fifteen minutes, Dad retreats from the room. My skin feels raw, though he never physically touched it. I open my eyes to look at Debbie, who is sitting against the wall. She turns to look at me.
"If I were alive," she says. "I would make him suffer. I wouldn't give him a quick death like Brianna. I would take every single thing away from him, ruin every part of his life, and then grant him the mercy of death."
"Why would you grant him mercy?" I whisper.
"Killing him wouldn't be mercy for him," she says. "It would be mercy for me because every time I see him, I want to tear off my skin."
I turn my head and stare straight up at the ceiling. I won't sleep tonight. Even predators have to be wary they don't become prey.
Chapter Eighteen
Aaron, 2015 (Tuesday morning)
I'M CERTAIN THAT I've met Brianna's parents before—at some point when Lisa was still alive and I still attended school functions—but I'm still surprised to see that they look nothing like what I expected. Rick Cull has curly brown hair, he's wearing a sweater vest, and large, round glasses. Elizabeth Cull has long blond hair, which reaches the small of her back. She's wearing a silk, light pink blouse, and her makeup looks as if a professional artist did it.
"I'm so, so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Cull," I say.
Elizabeth sits straight and poised, though her hands are trembling, but Rick is constantly wiping a tear or two from his eyes.
"There's nothing worse than losing a child."
Elizabeth nods. "Did it ever get better for you?"
I swallow, remembering I had forgotten Lisa's birthday. "I wouldn't say it gets better. Maybe it gets a little easier, but not better."
She tilts her head, trying to understand what I'm telling her, but I know the grief is too thick for anything to be understood other than the fact her daughter is dead and she'll never hear her voice again.
"So, we're trying to find out who killed her," I say. "And I was hoping I could look in her room? I understand that it's difficult to look at her things and you'll want everything to remain the way it was when she left it, but there could be clues on her laptop or a diary…anything. We tried to get information off her phone, but one of the bullets hit it, so we're having some difficulties. We're trying to get ahold of her phone company, but…I wouldn't hold my breath for them."
"Of course." Elizabeth stands up. "I'll take you to it."
She leads me down the hallway to the left of the living room. Their house, a beautiful log cabin, is clean, but disorganized. There aren't muddy footprints or dirty dishes anywhere, but there are stacks of papers on the coffee table and the dining room table, and their house is filled with snow globes. Every flat surface has at least two snow globes on it and they range from a winter scene in a village to one that makes it look like a cat is trying to scratch its way out of the globe. It makes the house feel cluttered.
We stop at the last door on the right. Her hand lingers on the doorknob for a few seconds. She takes a deep breath and opens the door.
I expected the room to be pink with boy band posters, but it's mostly white and lacks any decoration. It almost reminds me of Teresa's apartment except Brianna's room has small items that make it personal—a photo album on her bookshelf, a novel left on her bed, and her waitress uniform folded on top of her dresser.
I turn to give my condolences to Elizabeth, knowing how hard this must be for her, but she has already disappeared. I step into the room and walk over to Brianna's bookshelf. I pick up the photo album and flip it open. It's mostly of her cheerleading squad and other school functions. I can't imagine any of these teenage girls wielding a rifle, but it wouldn't surprise me if any of them knew how to—parents want their children prepared in Alaska in case they run into a dangerous animal.
I glance at her waitress uniform. So, she definitely didn't have time to get into the house and change, which means the killer likely knew her schedule or waited around for her. But who has motive to kill a teenage girl? What could she have possibly done that somebody thought she deserved to die?
Nothing.
I sit down on her bed, exhaustion suddenly taking me hostage. When I glance at the book beside me, Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie, I notice an order sheet peeking out from between the pages. I flip open the book—the inside of the pages have been cut out. Hidden inside the book is a flash drive. The order sheet isn't blank either. Written on it is a number—357-8224. It's the police department's phone number.
I get Brianna's laptop and turn it on. It requires a password. Of course.
I walk back to the living room, where Elizabeth is rubbing Rick's back
and murmuring reassurances to him.
"Hey," I say. "Do either of you have a laptop I could use?"
"Why?" Elizabeth asks.
"I found this," I say, showing her the flash drive, "and it looks like Brianna was trying to hide it. It's probably nothing, but I figure it's worth checking out."
"Sure," Elizabeth says, standing up. "I'm sure it's just a school project or something, though. Brianna always has…had…four or five flash drives."
She walks over to a laptop in the corner of the living room. She types in a password, and then gestures for me to use it. I put the flash drive in it, wait for the icon, and double click it.
A screen pops up with various icons on it—documents, images, and videos. They're only labeled with dates—Sept. 12, Sept. 21, Oct. 3. I click on a video labeled Oct. 20—the latest one.
An image appears of Junior. He's sitting in an office—likely the one in The Charcoal Grill—talking to whoever is behind the camera. Behind him, his laptop screen has a naked man humping a naked woman.
"I don't really care what Birdie wants," he states. "If she wants to keep her job, she needs to work the double shift."
"She says that her little brother has a big soccer game tonight," the voice behind the camera says.
"That's Brianna," Elizabeth murmurs behind me.
"I. Don't. Care," Junior states.
"Is it because you want to get her alone tonight?" Brianna asks. "Reenact that porn with her?"
"That's none of your business." He snarls.
"Aren't you worried that she'll go to the police?"
"No," he says. "Because then she'll have to find a job somewhere else and God knows she can't afford to go a day without a job."
The video ends. I turn to Elizabeth. Her face is still impassive, but it's paled.
"Do you know why she was recording this?" I ask.
She glances at me. "Were you listening to the same thing I was listening to? You should be arresting Junior. Clearly, he's been…coercing his workers to do things."
"Do you know anything about that?"
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