Deceived

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Without another word, he pulled me to his shoulder and squeezed.

  “What’s this?” Nicholas’s voice broke up our exchange.

  “Oh, I just love coffee.” I blinked back the emotions that threatened my composure.

  “What’s the new look?” Mr. Austin cleared his throat.

  “How about a tribute to Pixie?” Nicholas hitched up one side of his mouth and winked.

  “You wouldn’t!” I nearly pulled the covers over my head.

  “Who’s Pixie? Isn’t that one of those bands from the game your brothers play?”

  “You’re thinking of the Pixies.”

  Mr. Austin looked incredulous, and it broke the tension. Surely that was what Nicholas was going for, breaking the tension. He couldn’t be serious. I had something else in mind, like a dark wig and glasses á la Clark Kent. The point being, it’d be easy to remove.

  Nicholas held out an enormous bag full of things from a preferred goth store at one of the larger malls. I held my breath. Sara entered the room behind him with a large makeup case and bottle of black hair dye. Crap. They weren’t kidding. I gulped down the coffee and pretended it was another Priscilla-style makeover.

  Two-and-a-half hours later, the transformation felt a lot like an overdone Halloween to me. I had no idea how to recreate the effect despite the fact that Sara explained it to me slowly, twice. I cringed as she dyed my hair black, cut it to an inch above my shoulders, and straightened it with a straightening iron. She painted my face white and added a few faux piercings to my basically unrecognizable face. Even my fake eyelashes had rhinestones at the tips.

  “That’s hot,” Andrew stated on his way past. Jacob lounged behind him. They stared at me for a moment, then exchanged a quick glance and moved on. Neither of them said another word.

  “What do you think?” Sara asked me.

  “I think the skirt is too short, the heels are too high, and the piercings are scary.” Those were my top three complaints. I had more.

  “I like the skirt.” Nicholas strode into the room, taking my breath away. His expression grew sober.

  “You said it yourself, Elle. The Reaper wouldn’t look twice at someone like Pixie. I believe you’re right. I think he’ll look right past this person in a crowd.” He pointed to my reflection in the mirror.

  “There’s no crowd here. I stick out like a sore thumb.” Complaining fit the ensemble. “So, where are we going this time?”

  “D.C. There are a number of federal safe locations there. Sometimes a large metropolis is better than a small town. You follow?”

  “Gotcha.”

  He was hiding me in plain sight. They said it all the time on television. I remembered the crowd at The Pier. Emotion lodged in my throat. Moving back to the town from which we’d fled brought emotion. I’d lived there with my mom. Mom had lived there.

  Back to where it all started. Wow.

  “Here, you’ll need these.” Nicholas handed me an envelope like the one he’d given Pixie. Money and some documents lay inside. I thumbed over a birth certificate, social security number, and a metro pass.

  “Sloan McQuewick?” I raised a freshly plucked brow. “I sound like a real-estate agent.”

  “Making up girl names isn’t my strongest job skill.” He smiled.

  I frowned. “Sloan?” I shook my head.

  He pulled me to him, smiling. “I’m not great at names. I can still call you Elle. You don’t have to get used to answering to Sloan or anything.”

  “Unless I talk to anyone else.”

  “Right.”

  Fine. I had no intention of speaking to anyone. For all I knew, I’d chat up the Reaper. “What’s with all the documentation? Why bother?” Overkill, especially if he believed they were on the verge of catching the Reaper. I’d be back to Francine Frances after winter break.

  He avoided eye contact. “Due diligence.” He pretended to pack up my new wardrobe. “You might decide to come back when you graduate. A metro pass is good to have.”

  I couldn’t speak. Two things hit me. First, the idea that this could be over soon. Second, did he want me to move out here? Live near him for college? I let myself get excited. There was an amazing pre-law program in D.C., less than an hour from the Austins. I would finally live in a thriving metropolis. A place filled with people, smog, and crime. I’d be close to my new family. My ultimate collegiate goal. Nicholas had made it feel possible.

  Tears threatened to ruin my new makeup.

  “You have to keep up with your studies while you’re away. Your school understands there are extenuating circumstances, but you can’t quit working toward graduation. You’ve worked your whole life to have options like law school, and you can probably have your pick. You have plenty of essays to write and applications to fill out. Even if this drags on, stay on top of your studies. Have you seen your grades and test scores? Crazy good. The amount of volunteer work you’ve done? Incredible. A little mind-boggling, to be honest.”

  “We never stayed in one place long enough for me to join a team or school club, but every town needs volunteers. I made do.”

  “Six months till graduation.”

  “Yep.”

  “And I can do the work from D.C.?”

  “Yes.” He smiled a dashing “you’re welcome” smile.

  I stared at him, utterly speechless. Then I kissed him. I threw myself at him. I didn’t care if his family stood nearby. I breathed in his cologne and cherry ChapStick, memorizing the feeling of him holding me. His lips were soft and full. His hands were warm against my back. He didn’t push me away as I expected. He pulled me closer, held me tight, and kissed me back.

  The sensation of two magnets pulled together overcame me once more. It was the kind of feeling I wished wouldn’t end. My heart pounded for a new reason. My head fell away from his too soon. I held my eyes shut tight. His family was gone when I opened them.

  “Sorry,” I breathed, half afraid I’d crossed a line. My lips were full and tingly from the kiss, hot and sweet like his ChapStick.

  He smiled a very cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, seemingly unaffected by my attack. “I feel the need to remind you. You’re a witness in my care, and also a minor.” The last word intentionally broken in half.

  I crossed my arms behind my back to assure him I’d control myself. I didn’t deserve this man, but I wouldn’t let that stop me from reveling in my good fortune.

  We spent the next day choosing a safe location in the city. Nicholas managed to get a place two blocks from the Marshals’ offices. We went to get acclimated after dinner. The city was busier than I’d remembered. The highways seemed to morph into one surging entity as they merged and converged in every direction. A far cry from small-town America.

  Keeping in line with the new me, Nicholas wore camouflaged cargo pants and a black hooded sweatshirt with army boots. He still managed to look hot. Together he and Sloan were quite a sight. We spent the day like any normal goth tourists. In our case, Nicholas also served as tour guide. The crowd was thick and diverse. I had no problem melding into the mix.

  The setting sun backlit lit the monuments. My heart swelled. The architecture was amazing. All these years later, I saw it with new, grown-up eyes and appreciated what the city represented.

  After dinner, we went to the safe house. It was a two-story townhome in an old stone building on the corner of Fifth and Bechtel. Inside, the refrigerator brimmed, and the bed looked inviting. Someone had beaten us there and set up everything I’d need.

  I stood before the bay window, trying to count the number of times I’d moved since I first lived in D.C., or even since May.

  Nicholas’s phone rang.

  My heart stopped mid-beat. Thoughts of my dad shoved their way in. I twisted the curtains around my fingers. Creases and wrinkles raced up the length of the fabric. The call sounded bad. Nicholas no longer smiled. I worked my fingers free from the crinkled fabric and listened for some clue as to what had happened. This wasn’t news about a lea
d.

  “Mr. Wade’s not talking.” He placed the phone inside his back pocket. “They’re interviewing others from Miles’s past, but his dad’s refusing to get involved.”

  “You think he’s afraid of his son?” I frowned.

  “From what we know, I assume his dad wants to keep his family name out of the paper. He’s a staple in the community. This could ruin what he’s worked so hard to ignore all these years. I’m sure Miles has heard about the press conference by now. We named him. With any luck, he’s not thinking clearly. He’s not scheming and plotting anymore. He’ll lose control. If so, that’s good news for us. So long as we keep you hidden.”

  Without thinking, I wound my arms around his waist. I was safe, but what would the Reaper do to my father if he got the opportunity? Small tremors began in my hands and spread over my limbs. I let them have me. Tears fell. I didn’t feel guilty. Nicholas pulled me in tighter. I rubbed my hands together behind his back. Pulling my hands back in, I tried to wipe my tears away. A mess of wet makeup stained his sweatshirt. “I hate this guy.”

  Nicholas handed me a wad of tissues. “Me, too.” He kept an eye on me. If I kept clinging to him, I risked rejection. He risked a ruined shirt. I sat on the couch and flipped on the television. Deep breath. I didn’t understand why things like this happened. Why did people like the Reaper exist?

  Nicholas flipped through the channels. I hoped he’d find a nice game show to take my mind off reality. He scooted onto the floor and sat against the couch by my legs. I started to move them, but he pulled my feet onto his lap. He tugged off my boots and rubbed my feet. He handed me the remote.

  I stopped flipping at the first channel I recognized. The news seemed like a good enough choice. All the bad things in the world would help put my issues in perspective. It worked for a few minutes.

  Right after the weather, the station featured a clip from my father’s press conference. I was drawn in like a moth to a light. I hadn’t seen Dad’s face since the morning after Thanksgiving in Texas, and I missed him. I scooted closer to the edge of the couch to listen. I wanted to absorb every word, but all I saw was the photograph.

  In the top-left corner of the screen was a photo of Miles Thomas Wade, the Reaper. Someone gasped. Maybe me. I pulled my feet onto the sofa, jerking them out of Nicholas’s hands. It was the face in my dream. I’d never seen it until now. In my dreams it wasn’t a face, it was a feeling, a fear. Seeing it on the television, my life snapped into place. My dream was as real as if it were a premonition or a memory. I’d written that in a dozen journals a hundred times.

  It was a memory.

  “Elle?” Nicholas sounded frightened.

  I didn’t know how I looked to him, but my mind pulsed with a decade of thoughts and tears and sleepless nights. This man looking back from the television was the thing in my dream that wanted to kill me. I’d been running from him my entire life.

  “Elle, can you hear me?” Nicholas’s voice persisted, but I couldn’t see him.

  “Open your eyes, Elle. Tell me what you saw. What’s happening?” Panic edged his voice.

  I tried to pull my eyes open. I couldn’t. He might be there with us. What if we weren’t alone?

  My trembling lips refused to move for an eternity. When my brain found a way to explain what my heart had known all along, I whimpered, “I was there,” wanting it not to be true.

  In the next instant, I was falling. Nicholas had me in his lap before I’d even finished my revelation.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Sobs came again, shaking my frame until my teeth chattered. Shock settled into my system. Coldness covered me. I felt raw and exposed. With every scrap of power I could find, I pried my body out of Nicholas’s grip and went to hide.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Hysterics took over. Leaning into the door, I slid down to meet the rug. I cried until my body hurt from shaking. My head pounded. My eyes burned. Eventually, I had nothing left. The tears ran dry. Numbness replaced the cold. My body was a shell, and everything inside had oozed out. I faced the mirror, not quite ready to assess the damage. Thankfully, Nicholas had missed my grand finale.

  I had to clean up before I faced him. Hopefully he was far enough away to have missed the wailing.

  We were in for the night. It was safe to wash the remnants of makeup off my face. I pulled the fake piercings from my nose and lip. I looked like the Joker. I needed more water than the sink could give.

  With barely enough energy to stand, I turned the shower knob and climbed in. When I stepped out, I was never so happy to put on pajamas. I left my new black ensemble in the hamper against the wall. The dark garb suddenly seemed much more appropriate than I wanted to accept. I opened the door.

  Nicholas sat on the floor outside. He hopped to his feet, probably wondering if I should be admitted somewhere for insanity. I wanted to care, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure where I was going, so I stood there.

  The Reaper killed my mother, and I was there.

  Nicholas took me to my room and sat me on the bed. “Here.” He handed me a series of thick accordion folders. They each said “Smith” along the flap. Then, he left to stand guard outside the door. Who knew what he thought I might do. The truth was I couldn’t do anything.

  I stared at the files for a long time before I reached for them. Eventually, curiosity won me over. Opening the first file, I held my breath. Time to unlock my actual life, the one derailed and abandoned long ago.

  The details were horrifying.

  Chapter Thirty

  According to the files, the Reaper had eluded officials for close to fourteen years. He had stalked girls at schools exactly like Francine Frances. A decade ago, my father, Special Agent Smith, came close to naming him. Close enough to hold a press conference. The images of the Reaper’s shorn head and smirking face haunted me. The memory was overlaid with haze, whether from how young I was when I saw him, the terror of that day, or my mind trying to protect itself, I wasn’t sure.

  Almost two dozen girls had been taken, tortured, and murdered at the Reaper’s hands. Their pictures and reports were in the files. I cried over ever name, every photo, every death. The Reaper wasn’t happy to end his run. A few days after the press conference, the Reaper met my family as we left a downtown restaurant and were walking to our car. The folder shook in my hands. Papers rattled. I laid the folder on the bed, unsure of how much more I could read.

  Dad protected me, but we lost Mom. Back then I’d answered to Stella. I let it sit for a minute. Stella. Named after a grandmother I didn’t remember. Her name was burned in my memory. It had appeared on cards sent to the hospital when I was born. Dad had kept a few with Mom’s things. Tears blurred my vision. I had a grandmother.

  How many other family members thought I died all those years ago? I pulled the folder back to my face and blinked the tears loose. One report stated that Mom pulled me from the Reaper’s reach and passed me off to Dad. I pictured the horrible scene. Or did I remember it? I growled. The monster forced Dad to choose between us, the two people who meant the world to him. He couldn’t leave me, and he couldn’t protect my mom if he didn’t.

  According to Dad’s statement, when he shoved me behind him, I fell. He lunged for Mom and managed to separate her from the Reaper. It only lasted a moment before the Reaper hit Dad with a stun gun. He fell to the ground, completely immobile but thoroughly awake.

  I wiped my nose and mouth with one sleeve, forcing myself to read on.

  Dad was face to face on the ground beside me. He wrote, “She was terrified, confused, and crying. I couldn’t move to defend her or my wife.” I rubbed my heart. What began as a fissure had cracked open wide. If it was possible to die of a broken heart, I’d be gone. Dad hadn’t been able to protect us. I pulled in a deep breath and finished his statement.

  “I begged her, ‘Run, Stella, please, for Daddy. Stella, run.’”

  I shook my head hard against the memory fighting to resurface. “Oh no.�
�� I threw a hand over my mouth and tried not to vomit. I remembered.

  I remembered scooting on my backside a few feet, pleading for Dad to get up, begging the Reaper to let Mom go. I remembered my eyes making the circuit between the three of them until Dad’s words penetrated my tiny heart. Even at six, I knew, and I fled. Turning over until my knees scraped against concrete, I ran into the darkness. Away from the killer. Away from my parents.

  Sobs racked my body again, and it hurt. When Nicholas appeared beside my bed, I stood and fell into him. He held me until sleep took me away.

  The next day, I planned to ignore the folders. I couldn’t. I read about how the Reaper held Mom by her hair. How he taunted Dad for his weakness, for the way his love disabled him. Dad had written in his barely legible script all the details I didn’t want to see but needed to know. He watched the Reaper shake Mom and whisper horrific things into her ear before pulling her to a waiting car. Electric shocks ravaged Dad’s body as he watched the Reaper open the door, stuff Mom inside, and pull away. Dad forced his limbs to cooperate, freed his sidearm, and fired at the car. The single wild shot hit a tire, and the car rolled to a stop.

  Dad hoped the shot would get attention. His head hit the pavement, his will no longer enough to hold it upright. Then he heard a second shot. I imagined silent tears rolling from the corners of his eyes as he lay there lost in despair, listening for the sirens in the distance. He woke in the ambulance to news of his wife’s death and his daughter’s disappearance. The Reaper was gone.

  For three days, he lived believing the Reaper had found me, imagined what he’d done to me. Blamed himself for all that had transpired. The search for me ended on the morning of my mother’s funeral. No wonder I didn’t remember being there. We missed her funeral. Reports said Dad received news of my location hours before Mom’s service. For the second time that week, he was forced to choose. My throat constricted. I retched into the small plastic can at my bedside.

  From the stacks of newspaper clippings and internal memorandums, I gathered the rest of the details. After Dad’s statement, the paperwork on us grew thin. The focus shifted to Dad’s work in naming the Reaper. Local media announced the loss of our family to the public. A funeral was fabricated in our memory. Three caskets were buried. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects. Just like that, my life ended.