What She Did

by Veronica Larsen

  "How'd you get that photograph into Sebastian's car?"

  He bites out a laugh, a huge grin on his lips. "I never thought you'd see that photo. Was it the one I left last night? In his glove box? I didn't expect him to find it for a few days, but you must've gone snooping around. God, I couldn't have planned it better if I tried. I was going to leave this one..." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded-up square, shaking it open to reveal a photo printed on a sheet of paper. The photograph I lost. "But I'm fond of this one. It's my favorite."

  "Where'd you get that?"

  He taps the side of his head, smiling. "You don't see things, Amelia."

  The answer comes to me in a flash. The night I left work in a panic after the printer room incident, I hurried to the front doors of the building with my phone clutched to my ear, calling a cab to pick me up. I tripped over my own two feet, dropping my purse in my haste, and Dale had come out of nowhere to scoop it up for me. He asked me what was wrong, but my head was spinning too fast to answer him.

  He re-folds the paper and sticks it back into his pocket. "But to answer your question, getting into cars is easy. I've been doing it since I was seventeen. I'll admit, it's so much easier in this uniform. It's strange how some things are so loud, draw so much attention, that people purposely ignore them. This uniform renders me invisible. No one questions me. It's power in its stealthiest form."

  "You were supposed to be working the night of my attack."

  "Supposed to be? I was. That night...Kathleen walked by the desk without realizing I wasn't behind it. No one ever questions where I go when I'm not at my desk. Good thing I managed to reach it by the time she came running back inside to tell me what had happened to you. And there was my alibi. I was at work. Hiding in plain sight." He taps the handle of his knife to the side of his head, indicating his brain. "See? No one realizes how smart I am."

  This seems to remind him of something and he looks to the window, as though contemplating walking over to it again. I rush to occupy his attention.

  "Kathleen...why did you mess with her brakes?"

  "Me? I didn't touch her brakes. But I heard she got into that accident." He slaps a hand on his knee, gleeful. "God, it's so perfect. I was angry you got away that night, but don't you see? Don't you see how everything lined up for me? It was all meant to be. You, finding the picture in the cop's car tonight and coming back here--I wasn't sure you would. I only came here to look around. I like it here, sometimes I just walk through...touch your things..." My eyes widen and the disgust must register on my face because his expression swings from nostalgic to enraged in an instant. "Don't look at me like that," he snaps, nostrils flaring.

  He shuts his eyes and takes a breath.

  It's clear this man has serious anger issues, if he's trying hard to keep his anger in check...if he's afraid of his own temper...then I should be utterly terrified of it. He's too smart to believe I'm going to cooperate out of some change of heart. That tactic will just end up getting me killed.

  He might not be stupid, but he's not all the way reasonable, either. The media was bound to turn their lenses onto his family. It's what happens, every time. My story didn't trigger this, but it seems a moot point to try to convince him of this. And even though he might have targeted me out of some ill-conceived vendetta, it's clear when he talks about our interactions that the way I've treated him has twisted the dagger of his anger even further. Dale likes me. Some part of him developed feelings toward me, however convoluted. That's the part of him I need to reach.

  "Okay," I say. "Okay, you're right about everything. I didn't see you. I didn't bother. You were just someone I passed in the lobby on my way to and from work. To and from my life. I never stopped to give you a second thought. You're right and I'm sorry."

  He watches me speak, traces of anger pulling his face tight, but he keeps it there, something about his features seems satisfied at my admission. I'm confirming his insecurities, validating his concerns.

  "It's too late now," he says.

  "I know." I lay my cheek down against the floor, releasing the tension from my neck at keeping my head up. "What now?"

  "Now, I do what I set out to do from the beginning. You're coming with me. To my place."

  And with those words, a certainty rises in my mind. If I let him take me out of here, he's taking me to my death.

  It's hard to keep my voice even, but I have to try. "Good luck with that. It's going to be hard to carry me down a flight of stairs, down the hall, and into the parking lot without anyone noticing."

  I'm risking inciting his anger with my statement. But, to my surprise, he simply nods his agreement, looking in the direction of the window. I can see his thoughts play out on his face, it's getting later into the night. He will try to move me in the dead of night. It's his best bet.

  "There's a way."

  His gaze swings to me, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Go on."

  "There's a door down in the basement," I lie. "It leads to the back of the house."

  I see something in his eyes snap. He grabs me by the hair and drags me across the floor to the doorway of my room. Sharp pain shoots through my scalp where he nearly rips my hair from it.

  Kneeling down, he brings his face close to mine, but he points into my room with his knife.

  "You see that hill?"

  Just visible from between the parted blinds of my bedroom window is the parking lot of an apartment complex a few streets over. It sits higher than my own street, towering atop a hill a few hundred yards away.

  "I've watched this building from that hill and I've never once seen anyone exit through the back. Don't lie to me."

  "No one uses it, but there's a door."

  His nostrils flare again as he glares at me, the calculation in his eyes almost tangible.

  "But you don't have to carry me all the way down, Dale. I will walk out of here with you."

  "And why the hell would you do that?"

  "Because I don't want you to hurt--"

  "Hurt who? That cop guy?"

  I speak quickly to avoid letting my reaction show on my face.

  "It's not him I'm worried about."

  He frowns at this. "Then who? Tell me now."

  My pulse picks up as I prepare the lie. "My sister."

  "Your sister?" His gaze darts around the floor, an obvious panic at the reveal of new information.

  Could he know for sure I don't have a sister? Just because he hasn't seen one, doesn't negate her existence.

  "She lives in New York," I say, thinking of Sebastian's sister. "She's been talking about coming to visit this week. I haven't heard from her today, but if she decides to just show up..." I trail off pointedly.

  Strangely, the thought of this imaginary sister turning up at my door and Dale sinking his knife into her to keep her quiet arises real panic in me.

  Then I think of Emily.

  Could she show up unannounced tonight? It isn't something she tends to do. But I haven't been super responsive to her over the last few days and I wouldn't put it past her to drop by just to make sure I'm all right. I would do the same for her.

  Dale might see the worry in my eyes. He really might believe me.

  "You're lying to me."

  "I'm not."

  "You better not be lying to me."

  His voice is calm and low, and that much more threatening. I'm careful not to blink, but as I stare into his eyes, I catch the spark of doubt I've ignited.

  Two hostages? That might be more than he can handle. While he clearly has the means of overtaking another person by catching them off guard, he must not like the unforeseen complication because he gets to his feet and begins pacing in front of me.

  He glances at his watch. I look at the decorative clock over the doorway leading to my bedroom. It's only seven. It will be hours before the streets quiet down enough to use night as a cover to move me out of the back of this building without Sebastian seeing from wherever he's parked.

 
Dale will risk a lot moving me and I'm not sure why it's so important that he does. I try not to think about what he's prepared for me there.

  He doesn't know this, he could have no way of fully grasping it, but just the fact that he's considering what I've said as truth is nudging control closer to my direction. Maybe he does know. Maybe that's why he's resisting even while it's clear there's a part of him that believes me, or at the very least sees the importance of giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  I move my wrists against their restraints, ignoring the pain as I gain fractions of millimeters of movement for every few minutes of struggling. I'm careful to be subtle, to keep my arms still, my body still. The tension in my muscles from doing this is wearing me out even as I lie here on the floor. I don't dare try to fight the restraints on my feet. He would see that, clearly. I want him to think I'm resigned to my position.

  He's not looking at me, though. He's still pacing, his footsteps eerily silent on the hardwood floors.

  "Damn it," he hisses.

  It's clear he's weighing his options as he taps the knife blade on an open palm. I'm sure he realizes it's only a matter of time before Sebastian comes searching for me again. If he gets worried enough, would Sebastian break down the door?

  In Dale's growing worry, I see an opportunity arise. I have no doubt that my life depends on how the next few minutes play out.

  "Please," I say. "I'll go with you wherever you want. Just don't hurt anyone else. I couldn't live with that."

  Truth rings in my voice, in my tone. It really is how I feel. The chance that someone else can become collateral damage is very real.

  "Shut up," he snaps. "I'm trying to think."

  "Untie my legs--"

  "I said, shut up!"

  "You can leave my hands tied. Put a jacket over me and no one will know. I'll walk right out of here with you. I promise."

  He goes still, watching me very carefully. I stare back at him, trying hard to keep my true intentions from showing on my face. If he glimpses them, for even a second, I'm dead. I have no intention on letting him take me anywhere willingly. He will have to drag my dead body out of here.

  All I need is a fighting chance.

  He checks his watch again and whispers, "Don't you fucking dare try anything." I'm not sure if he's talking to me or to himself, until his eyes snap in my direction, angry and accusatory. He marches over and cuts the binds on my legs. "Get up!"

  Hooking a hand under my armpit, he pulls on me, fingers digging into my skin through my shirt. All the while, his other hand keeps a steady grasp on the knife. I struggle to my feet, my hands behind my back making the movement awkward.

  The moment I'm on my feet, he takes careful steps away from me. Though he's not a large man, he still towers over my small frame. I shrink my shoulders inward, slightly hunching my posture. My intent is to accentuate his advantage, make him feel confident that he has the complete upper hand. But his eyes grow momentarily uncoordinated as they dart wildly across my body. His tongue peeks out between his mouth as he wets his bottom lip. The sight of his yearning makes my stomach turn. Jesus, this man is sick.

  "Where's your jacket?" he asks.

  I nod to the small closet off of the entrance.

  He pulls out a dark blue jacket and approaches me. As he walks, he tries to open the jacket with one hand while maintaining the hold of the knife in the other, and the clumsiness of the move seems to frustrate him.

  "Turn around," he says.

  I do as he says, then stand as still as I can manage. I'm surprised by how slow the rise and fall of my chest is, by how razor sharp my focus has become.

  I sense his movements behind me. I sense how close he is to me. How his legs are just behind my own. From my peripheral, I catch sight of fabric on both my right and left sides. He's holding the jacket open with both hands, blade of the knife glinting off to the side of my head.

  I'm no longer angry.

  I'm no longer scared.

  I'm no longer human.

  I'm just a series of rapid-fire thoughts.

  I turn on my heel and in one swift motion, kick him hard in the shin. My foot meets something hard, the knives he stores there, and his earsplitting scream tells me at least one of the blades cut into his leg. He stumbles backward and I do the same, keeping my balance strong and my legs in the stance.

  "You bitch," he growls. He reaches a hand down to his pant leg, where a red stain grows on the fabric.

  While he's distracted with his own injuries, I rush to squeeze my wrists out of the binds, my nerve endings protesting at the pain. It doesn't matter how much it hurts, I need to get my hands free.

  A groan of pain leaves me, and Dale's eyes narrow as he realizes what I'm doing. He lunges to stop me. But before he can reach me, I dart out of his path, bumping up against a wall and managing, somehow, to get my left hand out of the bind.

  Dale halts mid-sprint at my abrupt change but ends up shuffling on his feet to keep his balance. Hands now free, I raise my clenched fists in front of my face in a defensive posture. My right wrist still has the binds wrapped around it, but I have no time to remove them. One or both of my wrists are bleeding. I know this only because of the moisture that trickles down my arms.

  "You don't want to go down like this," he says. It's clear he thinks he's got the advantage in this fight. He's armed. I'm not. But he's injured and I'm not. And I've got something else he doesn't.

  Speeding through my veins there's a poisonous impulse that casts my fears to the wayside. The only thing that's keeping me upright is the surging instinct to live at all costs.

  He lunges once again, but this time, I'm ready for him. A move I've practiced hundreds of times, I sidestep his lunge, hold his knife-yielding arm away from my body, and jab an elbow into his back. The knife falls to the ground before he does. He reacts immediately by kicking me hard in the shin, bringing me down with him. As soon as I hit the ground, he's on top of me, hands finding their way around my neck.

  He squeezes hard and I struggle to breathe. One of my hands grabs hold of a thumb and pulls as hard as I can away from my body. With my other hand, I try beating my fists against whatever part of his throat and face I can reach. My movements cause him to loosen his hold and the moment I can catch my breath, I'm able to jam the base of my fist into the base of his nose with a dull crack of cartilage. I kick and thrash wildly until he falls sideways. I turn on the floor and, spotting the knife, start to half-crawl to it as I attempt to get back on my feet.

  His foot swipes out, connecting with my ribs and bringing me flat on my stomach again. I spin onto my back and try, once again, to put as much distance between us by thrashing around, my limbs connecting with whatever parts of him I can reach. All the while, I inch closer to the knife.

  But the knife is suddenly in Dale's hand and a flash of hopelessness hits me. Until I realize he's pulled out a new one. My own hand feels along the floor and closes around the handle of the blade. I swing it upward, but my arm is blocked by Dale's as he positions himself over me again. I've lost the advantage. I'm now pinned to my back.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  "Amelia?" Mrs. Lowery's timid voice makes panic solidify in my veins, bringing time to a screeching halt.

  Dale's attention snaps up, his hold going lax for the briefest of moments. Just long enough for me to take a firm hold on his knife-wielding hand with both of mine. He strikes my face with his other hand and tries to break free from my grip, but I hold on for dear life, trying to keep the knife from going any closer to me. He hits my face again. And again. And in a moment of weakness, my grasp slips. And to the tune of another, more desperate knock on the door, Dale wraps a hand over my mouth and sinks the knife somewhere into my torso.

  Pain. Searing hot pain shoots through me, and my body tenses. I'm suddenly more aware of his body than of my own. He pulls back. My fingers find something hard to hold onto and wrap around it. In a flash of instinct, I hurl my arm upward and connect with the side of h
is neck, where the blade I didn't know I was holding sinks into his skin.

  Dale groans and I manage to push him off of me.

  "Amelia!" Mrs. Lowery cries out, panic stricken and banging louder against the door.

  Her terror grips my heart and drags me into my own. I breathe so fast my lungs burn. Beside me, Dale has both of his hands clutching the gushing wound on the side of his throat. His eyes are wide. Blood pools around his head as he struggles to breathe.

  My vision goes in and out of focus. I grasp around clumsily, gripping the sliced portion of my shirt just over my belly button. Blood oozes out, drowning my hands, my thoughts, my consciousness.

  My eyes spring open at the sound of a second voice blaring from the other side of the door.

  "Amelia!"

  Sebastian.

  The shout is followed by the deafening crash of wood being reduced to splinters, Mrs. Lowery's screams, footsteps rushing inside.

  But he's too late. And as I lie on my floor bleeding to death, all I can think is:

  Don't let Mrs. Lowery come in.

  Please don't let her come in. She doesn't need to see this.

  CHAPTER 43

  Amelia

  LIGHTS. LIGHTS FLASH AGAINST THE back of my eyelids. I can see them even before I open my eyes. That's the first sign of awareness that claims me. The second is the sound of voices somewhere over my head. The third...

  Pain. Pain shoots through me in aching stabs. Multiple hands grab around my body, pulling my clothes around. Lifting my head. Holding my arms in place.

  I open my eyes fast and wide. The sight before me registers like an earsplitting scream at my ears. Blood. I see blood everywhere. My hands. On the hands of whoever is reaching for me. One, two, three people. I can't see their faces, they move in and out of view.

  I struggle against hands that try pushing me down.

  I scream. Someone screams back.

  No, they don't scream. The voice is firm but not threatening, urging me to lie back down.

  Strangers. There are so many strangers, their faces coming in and out of focus as my surroundings are a blur of motion around me. I'm floating. No, I'm lying on something. A gurney. They're wheeling me toward the lights.