Deceived

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  The urge to vomit hit like someone pulling my stomach out though my belly button. The Reaper. That was the name of the man who’d killed all those women a decade back. I’d read about him at the library. Nicholas knew it. I swallowed bile and cracked the window for air. My face burned. My neck and cheeks stung. The Reaper had been in my apartment. He had watched us, followed us, and was close enough to Pixie to take her bag. He was right outside my bedroom door. I let my head fall back against the headrest and allowed the night air to wash over me. Gone went the previous images of a dorky peeping Tom on campus. My eyes sought Pixie’s in the mirror.

  Her pale white face looked even whiter in the dim interior glow. “You said I’m going home?”

  “Back to L.A.”

  “You’re from L.A.?” My head popped up and then fell back, sick, against the headrest. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t have told me something like that. She knew how badly I wanted to go somewhere exactly like L.A. I could’ve asked her a thousand questions these past months.

  Her lids grew heavy. “Yeah. It was great.” She groaned.

  I forgot.

  She hated her previous life.

  “Here. This will help.” Nicholas tossed her an envelope from the driver’s-side door.

  “Ahhh!” Her squeal pierced my head.

  I covered my ears against the assault. Jeez. Were hound dogs howling in the distance?

  “Are you kidding?” She bounced all over the backseat and then attempted to hug him around his neck, while he drove, at night. I grabbed the wheel. He peeled her arms away.

  “I’m in. When? How?”

  “I applied for you this summer. I sent recommendations from your teachers at Francine Frances and samples of your work from the portfolio you keep on campus. They loved your work and offered early acceptance. It’s an open invitation. You can begin immediately. Campus housing is set aside. The academy will send your transcripts and diploma in a few weeks. You must know you’ve had enough credits to graduate for a year.”

  My mouth hung open. Did I know anything about this girl? About Nicholas? “How long have you been watching us? How long before we met?”

  “A while.” The answer came without thought. An automated response. Our eyes met, and he cleared his throat. “You never left the apartment. I started with Pixie.”

  “Wait. So, you’re not a student? What are you again?” Finally, she tried to catch up.

  “I’m truly sorry for the deception. I mean that, but it was necessary. I’m here to monitor a threat, but it seems Elle’s the only one who’s actually seen him. I’m failing.” He drummed his thumbs against the wheel. My heart clenched. He blamed himself for her upheaval. He should’ve been proud of himself for keeping her safe.

  “You’ve seen him?” Her voice hiked a few decibels.

  I rolled my head to the side and nodded her way. “He was in our apartment when I got out of the shower.”

  She swallowed.

  “You said I might be safe in L.A.? Does that mean I might also be in danger there, all the way across the country? What kind of threat are we talking about here?”

  “The worst kind.” Nicholas stole a glance in the rearview and then looked at me. “And, I didn’t say ‘might.’ I said there’s a solid chance you’ll be safe. That constitutes a big difference in my world.”

  “Oh, sure.” Her tone turned to disbelief. “Why exactly would I be in danger all the way across the country? Why am I in danger here? How do the two correlate?” Her questions gained momentum.

  “I’m sorry. That’s classified.”

  I twisted in my seat to say something but couldn’t find any words. She sat back and pulled her giant bag onto her lap and wrapped her arms around it like a teddy bear. “Did I do something?”

  I felt another “that’s classified” coming on, so I spoke up. “This person, he’s barely that. He’s a monster. He’s crazy and evil and he tortures women. I read about him in the papers when I was doing our Sociology paper.”

  I glared at Nicholas.

  He’d failed to point out it was the same man who hunted on our campus. That little tidbit would’ve been nice to know. “According to the paper, the killer was in his early thirties when I lived in D.C. Reports speculated he’s an educated white male, of average build, average looking. The articles said he was probably wealthy, or grew up around money, which allowed him to not seem out of place when he approached his victims. The girls he took always came from upscale areas. He picked young, smart, good girls. He found them at prep schools, country clubs, and sports events where they competed in lacrosse, golf, tennis, and equine events. Of course, everything was based on speculation. The police hadn’t caught him, but one FBI agent in D.C. claimed to be close to identifying him.

  “The media nicknamed him the Reaper for the way he treated his victims, and warned women to avoid men who fit the description. The FBI promised to apprehend him. They were close, but they never got him. Instead, the agent in charge and his family were killed in a car accident. The case fell apart without him. It was something made for the big screen, one of those things that don’t really happen. Except they do.” I shook my head. Classified. A serial killer on campus, and they told no one. Yeah. There would’ve been a mass exodus. Possibly a couple hundred lawsuits.

  I hadn’t realized how often I’d thought of the Reaper since I read the articles. Details and facts from the stories flooded back to me.

  “You’ll be in witness protection until we can determine that the threat is minimal or resolved.” He took a short breath. “This requires a great amount of restraint on your part. Can you understand? Your life might depend upon it.”

  I considered the tone in his voice, assured but soft. He seemed to hate to say the words.

  When I turned again, Pixie locked eyes with me and nodded. “So, do people do this a lot?”

  “You mean, are you alone? No. Absolutely not. Some people do this with no provocation. It might make it easier to think of it that way, as if it was your choice to start fresh.”

  I twisted my head and struggled to see her better in the dark. She lifted a finger in my direction. “Processing.”

  I understood. Until recently, I’d spent a large portion of my days processing. Lately, I’d dropped it cold turkey. I replaced the bulk of my obsessive thoughts of failure and remorse with ones of Nicholas. Hopeful thoughts. Now this.

  The Jeep slowed and he hit the blinker. We waited for a logging truck to pass then made a left onto a small asphalt road. A metal chainlink fence stood on either side of the road leading to a small lot. Lights illuminated the white-lined asphalt and revealed the nature of our location. We were at a small airport I didn’t know existed. The lot was tiny, reminding me of a flight school more than a functioning airport.

  “This plane will take you to Hopkins International where you’ll be briefed on anything else you need to know.” He pointed out the window at an aircraft the size of a shoebox. Then he reached across me to open the glove box. He handed her an envelope filled with money and some other documents I couldn’t make out.

  With one hand on the wheel, he angled the Jeep into a space near the building and shifted into park. Nicholas stepped out of the car and made an arm circle. A minute later a man approached. He wore a suit and nodded to Nicholas, who looked like any jock at my old high school.

  “Take your time,” he said. The two men moved out of earshot.

  I opened my door and walked on wobbly knees to the back of the Jeep. Nothing made sense anymore.

  “I can’t believe this,” Pixie whispered, closing her door and joining me behind the Jeep.

  “I know what you mean. I would’ve liked to stay with you this year. You’re the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in years, probably the best friend I’ll ever have.” I laughed nervously as a tear spilled over one lid. She threw her tiny arms around me and pulled me close.

  “You’re the best friend anyone ever had. I’ll write you the minute they say I can. Promise.�
� She sniffled in my ear. “You can visit. You’d love L.A. It’s amazing and warm and noisy, all your favorite things.” Pixie wiped her eyes and vibrated in place.

  “I promise. I’ll come the minute I’m allowed.” I blinked back tears.

  Her whole existence evaporated from under her.

  What would I do? In the past half-hour she’d learned a murderer had stalked her, stolen her bag, and let himself into our apartment. Something like that had to require therapy. At the drop of a hat, boom, off to start a new life, possibly without telling her parents. It was more than I could process. Too fast. This man, the Reaper, had followed me looking for her. Good thing I hadn’t spent more time with her outside of school. It might’ve been what kept her safe for so long.

  “I’m going to UCLA.” Shock flashed under the awe. “I’m going to college, like now, right now!” She started to bounce again. I let her go. She had no attachment to her family. Art was her life. She hated the Midwest. Now, she’d live her dream. A fresh start. No parents. I guess there was an upside, for her. Plus, she loved the drama, the change. She embraced things that scared everyone else. I hoped she’d find an anchor in L.A.

  Nicholas stood a few feet away, waiting. She released me and moved to him. A moment later, Pixie boarded the plane. The guard drew the stairs in behind them. I waved goodbye to a tiny oval window behind the pilot and hoped she saw me. Just like that, she was gone.

  Nicholas’s arm wound through mine. He pulled me to him and we watched the plane disappear across the sky. I turned instinctively and buried my face against his broad chest. The gun beneath his jacket bulged.

  He patted my hair softly and brushed it away from my eyes. “Elle, I’ll protect you.” The sincerity in his voice stung my eyes.

  The confusion in my heart killed me. I believed, now, that he wasn’t the one stalking our school. His signals left a lot to be desired, though.

  We walked back to his Jeep. He took everything out of it before heading toward the building. I followed silently. I had no words, so I went through the motions. I’d catch on when things became evident. No more investigating for me.

  Inside, he traded in the Jeep keys for others. We walked back into the lot, and he loaded everything into a small SUV while I followed along in a vegetative state. “Are you wondering what happens now?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll finish your senior year as planned. You’ll go along with the story about the fire. Tell people you’re staying with a relative off campus.”

  “What?” I gasped. “No witness protection for me?” My joke flopped.

  He froze, and it reminded me of another question. One that had come to mind earlier, when I had been too nauseated to speak.

  “Do all Marshals relocate people? You already had a new life ready for her, just in case?” It didn’t make sense. Did he have a new life ready for every girl at our school? Impossible. I reasoned the danger was specific to Pixie and probably classified.

  The look he gave me sent chills over my skin. I couldn’t fathom what it meant, but I knew it was bad. My eyes darted away from his face, from the look. There was a long silence.

  “You’ll be protected by me. Unless … ” He puffed his cheeks out. “Are you morally opposed to cohabitation?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a better plan.”

  Driving away from the airport made it official. I’d never see Pixie again.

  “What?” A tear slipped from my eye. I wanted to stamp my foot. What would Pixie’s parents think when they called to check in on her and found her in California? I tried to remember her taking a call from her mom and couldn’t. I knew, without a doubt, my father would blow a gasket.

  “You have to stay with me until I can make better arrangements. I’m sorry about that. My team’s working on it. It won’t be forever. They know … ”

  Wait. My brain reversed through his words. What did he say? The alarm on his face frightened me. I breathed on the cool glass window inside the vehicle and watched it blush in response. Aimlessly, I doodled swirls and patterns in the steam. My mind wanted to reject the entire evening, from start to finish. It simply wasn’t real. I didn’t want to look at him.

  “I know it’s nothing like home, but since you don’t sleep anyway.”

  “I miss my mom.”

  Silence.

  “She was in some kind of accident on her way home from work one night. Dad’s never been willing to give me any details. He pretty much forbade me to ask years ago.” I was unable to stop. “It never sat right with me. All this craziness with the Reaper and a stalker and you has me dwelling on things I don’t understand. I get these feelings I can’t explain. Like déjà vu but obviously not.” I blinked out a tear and scrubbed it off my cheek.

  Something about the anxiety of the night, and losing Pixie, made me feel raw, exposed. A geyser built in my heart. “It was probably a good thing I didn’t have more ammunition.” I stroked my fingertips again through the steam on the window. “I know myself well enough to know I’d have used every detail to punish myself. I’d try to picture it, her death, if I had details. I’m a master at self-imposed torture.”

  Something tugged at me. A tear slid down my cheek. I rubbed it off with my sleeve.

  We pulled into his driveway sometime after midnight. He went ahead of me, into the house, turning on lights and securing the area. He had a large black duffle over his shoulder. One he’d moved from the back of his Jeep at the airport. Inside, he took me from room to room, showing me the details, the light switches, where to find the land line, and then instructed me never to use the land line. He gave me a new cell phone and disassembled mine. I went to the kitchen to make coffee. When I got back, he was hauling blankets and pillows from the bedroom.

  I followed after him to thank him for doing that for me. When I got to his room, the bed was still made. I did a double take. My pillow was on top of the bed. My toiletries were on the nightstand and a duffle of my things sat on the dresser.

  “Are you making coffee?” The scent made its way through the house.

  My hands trembled. I needed it. Shame heated my cheeks. I’d helped myself. Faced with the decision, I’d rather be a rude coffee snatcher than have him know how much I needed it. Plus, the absence had given him time to make up his room for me.

  “Yeah, but you can go to bed. I won’t keep you up. I just … I don’t sleep well.”

  “Why is that? You’ve never said.” The look on his face was so full of concern that I folded. Even with a serial killer on the loose, he wasn’t on his laptop working. He was worried about my rest.

  “Um, I have nightmares. Well, one nightmare, every night, or most nights.” I looked up to see how he’d react.

  He sat on the bed.

  I sat, too.

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid. Whatever is happening isn’t totally clear. I know I’m in danger or someone I love is in danger. The panic’s there, but the reasoning isn’t. It’s like in a scary movie when the maniacal music begins, but you don’t see the danger yet. You just know something’s wrong, and you’re afraid for the girl. In my dream, I’m the girl.”

  Without saying a word, he reached out for me and pulled me sideways under his arm. He held me without speaking, and I was at ease. After too short a time, he released me. “Come on, let’s get some coffee.”

  He led me back to the living room. “Keep talking.”

  I took one very deep breath and blew it out slowly. This was it. “I can’t really say when the dream started. It feels like it’s always been a part of life for me, but I know that’s not true. I lost my mom when I was young. That’s what triggered the dream, I think. A child really isn’t equipped to deal with that sort of loss, you know?”

  I looked up. Nicholas retrieved some mugs from the cupboards in the kitchen. I snuggled into the soft cushions of the couch.

  “It’s the most tragic kind, I think, losing your mother. I was
too small to really understand.”

  Nicholas had his back to me.

  “That’s actually just a theory of mine. The argument I have against my theory is I’m no longer a child. I’m more than able to understand the loss, but it doesn’t stop the dream.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  “Well, I’ve adjusted.”

  He chuckled.

  “No amount of therapy seemed to be effective in remedying the problem, and I’ve had my fair share of therapy. So, I took a new approach.”

  His eyes widened.

  “I decided if I couldn’t exorcise the thing, then I’d have to live with it. In about ninth grade, I started to treat the dream like a disease, a treatable illness. Dreams can’t kill me, so I chose to endure. I accepted the fact I’ll never get the recommended eight hours of rest. My nerves will forever be on edge from caffeine and sleep deprivation. I ditched counseling and picked up an expensive coffee habit.”

  “Cheers.” He handed me a large green mug.

  “I think if I knew what has me running for my life every night, maybe I could confront it.” I shrugged, sipping the coffee. “I’m not a confrontational person, but I’m willing to do anything for a little sleep. The dream is my nemesis. Other people my age sleep.” I made a face.

  Nicholas smiled. The effort didn’t make it to his eyes.

  “My phone. My dad,” I gasped. The light bulb in my head must’ve been on a delay switch.

  “All calls to your old number will ring on this phone. I added a few dozen songs, so you have some to start with. Add anything you like.” He twisted my new phone in his hands. He’d anticipated my reaction before it hit me. “My number’s in there.” He set the phone on the coffee table. That nugget helped sell me on the phone a little more than the first explanation.

  “Oh.”