Lock & Mori

by Heather W. Petty

  “But not without you getting his money.”

  Dad lurched at me, and I was barely able to jerk the knife back before he impaled himself. I think he realized what he’d almost done, because he seemed to sober a bit. “And why shouldn’t I have it? I didn’t know where your mum hid hers, and we couldn’t pay for your fancy schools without it.”

  “So you lured him to the park. Made him show you where he’d hidden the money?”

  “They all stashed their last score in that park. Some kind of pact. All that money, buried away, when it could have saved her!”

  “So you took it. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to track down the next one and the next one.”

  “Cons, thieves, criminals—”

  “No!” My shout stopped him talking, or maybe it was that I’d managed to make another small cut in his neck. His collar had gone red with blood. “Sadie Mae Jackson wasn’t a criminal. She was just a girl standing up for three innocent boys you’d beaten so badly, their little faces were deformed!” I was gripping the knife so hard, my wrist started to ache. I felt like my whole body was trembling with what was left of my restraint. “Nothing you say changes that. Nothing! You terrorized those boys and me, and then you killed my one real friend. And you don’t get to talk your way out of that. You give your life for hers. That is how this ends! And then you burn in the hell of your own putrid nothing of an ever after and that’s still not long enough to atone for what you’ve—”

  I hit the floor hard and felt my hand being slammed against the bed frame until the knife fell to the carpet. Before I even knew what was happening, I was completely immobilized and my dad was sitting on my chest and kneeling on my hands, leering down at me, the knife in his hand. I jerked and kicked, but I couldn’t get out from under him. I couldn’t do anything but wait and watch as he turned the knife on me.

  But he didn’t point it at me. He rested the edge against his own cheek and then, with a jerk of his arm, left a big gash in his own face. He hissed in pain as he slashed across his chest and then smudged his hand around the hilt and threw the knife across the room. I jerked my head away as drips of his blood sprinkled down on my face. And he was smiling again.

  “Two can play this little game of yours, sweetheart.” He leaned down so that his face was right above mine, and I turned away so I didn’t have to look at him. He pressed his lips to my ear. “And now I’ll kill you in self-defense, so I’ll no longer have to look at such a disgusting cow wearing her beautiful face.”

  I thought I’d heard it all from my dad, that nothing he said could ever hurt me again. I was so very wrong. Still, it seemed the very look of me was my only remaining weapon, so I used it. I turned my head to stare him down, but before our eyes could meet, he stuffed a pillow over my face. It was one of the pillows I’d split open in my tantrum, but he managed to pile enough of it over my nose and mouth to stifle any air that might have come through. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t move. All I could do was lie there, desperate to take a full, fresh breath, and listen to him explain how everything I’d done would just as easily protect him from being charged with my murder as it would’ve protected me.

  But I knew one thing he didn’t. I knew that Sherlock Holmes would avenge me. It wouldn’t take my dad from the world, but it would lock him up for the rest of his life.

  At least my brothers would be safe.

  That was my last thought as I gasped against the pillow uselessly one last time.

  Chapter 22

  My mind dimmed only briefly before the coughing started. One moment I hadn’t been able to get enough real air, and the next there was too much and I was inhaling feathers in an attempt to get more. I was pushed over on my side and someone was lightly smacking at my back.

  “That’s it, child. Nice and slow. Not too deep yet.” He yelled something about a medic, and then my brain seemed to kick back into gear.

  “Mallory,” I wheezed out.

  He attempted a smile, despite the grim expression on his face, and then pushed me back down when I tried to sit up. “Not yet, now. Stay down until the medics come.”

  I looked around wildly and saw my dad’s head pressed into the rug of the hallway as they cuffed his arms behind his back. I saw a shamefaced DS Day glance up at me and then look away as he hauled my dad up with the help of another officer and started for the door, the other officer reciting cautionary rights, as if DS Moriarty wouldn’t know them by heart.

  “We might not have made it in time, you know, if it weren’t for . . .”

  “Sherlock.” I saw him before Mallory could finish, but it took me another second to put it together. He’d gone to the police. Despite what I’d said, he’d called them. And his expression was a mix of relief and guilt and pain. I’d never seen him emote like that. I idly wondered if anyone ever had.

  In the next moment I was barraged by medics and an oxygen mask, which I tried valiantly to wave off. “I don’t need it.”

  My voice must have been too muffled, because the medic closest to me acted like I didn’t say anything.

  “Just lie down, and we’ll get you out of here shortly. Do you have any allergies?”

  I shook my head and pulled the mask off my face. “This isn’t necess—”

  He pushed it back down. “There now, breathe nice and deep for me.”

  I tried to sit up again, but before I could, I was lifted up and placed on a gurney. They draped me in a blanket and strapped me down before I could think to get up, everything but my arms. And then I was unceremoniously tilted up. Not one of the policemen or techs buzzing around my house would look at me as they wheeled me out of the house and down the front steps. Then, even the second medic toddled off toward one of the police cars, while mine pulled me backward through all the official people standing around.

  I got another brief glimpse of Sherlock and tried shouting for him. He might have heard me, because he looked back at the house, obviously thinking I hadn’t been brought out yet, and between my infernal mask and the distance, I couldn’t correct that thinking. I didn’t see him again until I was jerked up into the back of the ambulance. He was talking to a very interested Mallory, staring at the doorway to my house while answering questions, his face once more the blank I knew best.

  The medic climbed up and got in my way again, only to start flipping on various machines, pinching my finger with a sensor, and prepping an IV bag.

  “Honestly,” I said, pulling the mask from my face again. “This is all extremely unnecessary, and”—his hand started coming toward the mask—“I swear to you, if you mash this plastic monster back onto my face one more time, I will shove it down your throat.”

  He stopped short, then gave in to a half grin. “Well, you’ll be feeling better then.”

  “Quite better. If you could just unstrap me, thank you.”

  “Sorry, miss. Orders of the inspector. We’re to take you to hospital to be looked over.” I sighed, which didn’t faze him in the least. “Now, if I could just see your arm.”

  He lifted a needle into the air, and I might have moved onto my next threat, which involved that needle and his arse, but the radio in the front of the truck went off, and he swore under his breath.

  “Be right back.”

  The whole ambulance rocked back and forth as he trudged up to the front, giving me a clear view of the outside once more. I couldn’t find Sherlock—couldn’t have found anyone, really. The street was a barely controlled chaos, all of it centering around the police car where my dad sat, a medic inside, tending to his superficial wounds while DS Day looked on. Thankfully, no one thought I needed any attention just then.

  In fact, no one was looking my way at all. It was my one chance. I freed myself of the gurney buckles, slid the oxygen mask all the way off my head, and with one more look around me, I ran from the ambulance down Baker Street, toward the only place I knew where I could be
alone. I just needed to be alone with my thoughts. I needed a new plan. I needed something.

  x x x

  I heard him coming. I probably could have disappeared into the park if I wanted, but I was so tired. I couldn’t be bothered to move.

  He sat down next to me in the shadow of the bandstand, but not close enough that he was touching me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to touch me or not. I was very sure I didn’t feel like talking. He seemed to know it, though his jerky movements and his trouble sitting still told me he couldn’t keep silent for long. He tried lighting a cigarette, but I coughed before he would do more than make the tip glow, and he put it away. Finally, I reached over and laid my hand over his. We both sighed and stilled for a few seconds.

  The wind and the trees and the insects made this odd humming, brushing sound that lulled me into a heavenly place where I could let go of every thought—just for a while—live in that blissful emptiness that I almost never could indulge. Even now, it wasn’t meant to last for long. The constable in charge of guarding the crime scene at the willow tree cleared his throat. I didn’t think he could see me, hidden as I was against the far side of the bandstand, but I could see glimpses of his ginger head and the yellow police tape creating an imperfect circle to surround the place where Sadie had died. The bandstand would never be an escape for me again. My sanctuary had been invaded.

  Sherlock slid his fingers between mine and scooted closer, though he wouldn’t look at me, not even when he finally spoke.

  “I called the police.”

  My voice was a weak croaky thing from all the coughing. “I noticed.”

  His face was directed toward me, but his gaze shifted down. He still would not see me. “I tried to let you go, tried to trust in your plan.”

  He paused, as if I was supposed to respond, but there was nothing to say, really.

  “You looked so alone walking down Baker Street, and I didn’t want you to be alone with him. Not after what happened last time.” Sherlock looked directly into my eyes before speaking again, and there was no disgust there—no pity, only pleading. “When I saw him go into the house, I called the police.”

  He wanted me to tell him it was okay, that it was for the best. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t look at him.

  “I would ask you to forgive me, but I find that I am not sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I could not give you up. And I knew, were I not to intervene, tonight would end in one of three ways. Either he would kill you, and . . . I . . .” He cleared his throat again. “Or you would go with him in some deal to leave your brothers behind and out of his reach. But what scared me most of all was that I knew you were clever enough to see what I saw from the moment you showed up on my doorstep today.”

  He was so quiet, the sounds of the evening insects drowned out even his breathing. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t. And still, I asked the question that hung in the air above our heads. I didn’t even have to think the words, just open my mouth.

  “What did you see?”

  His eyes found mine again, looking more like mine than they ever had. They were so calculating, I felt a shiver trip down my spine.

  “That your father should die.”

  “Die.” I whispered my echo. He knew. Impossibly, he knew. I opened my mouth again. “Why? Why did you stop me? Why bring the police?”

  His gaze shifted down again, and I could see him wrestle with his words in the pained expressions that cycled across his face. “If you did this thing. If you . . . You would not be you anymore.” He took a breath, but I could not. “And I . . . Mori, I—I cannot give you up. Not now. And I cannot even be sorry about it.”

  Hot tears trickled unchecked from my eyes. My Lock. The one man who could not even take credit for saving a life if his motives were known to him to be selfish. I should’ve thanked him, but even then, watching the pained furrow of his brow, I couldn’t help but think through all the ways this night could have ended better if only he hadn’t gone to the police. If he’d come to me with what he knew, we could’ve worked together to end my father. If he had just even come alone, he could have stopped my father from killing me long enough for me to find the knife and finish him. If Sherlock hadn’t done the one thing I told him not to do, Dad would be gone, and I would be free. If only I could have stopped him myself.

  “He was stronger than I had anticipated,” I whispered.

  “Don’t.”

  “There was a moment when I knew I could get away, but I also knew—”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Well, you will know!” I shouted, then glanced over to the crime scene. The ginger head didn’t seem to have noticed my outburst. I turned back and stared directly at Sherlock, forcing him to look back at me, but as soon as he did, all my anger fled, leaving only exhaustion behind. “You will know how you ruined—”

  “Mori.” His fingers traced down the side of my face, along my jaw to my chin. He pulled me close so that he could rest his forehead against mine. “Tell me if you’d like, but it changes nothing.”

  A sob escaped my lips and I felt one of us tremble. “He hurt me.”

  His thumb swept across my eyelid and down under my eye, where I knew the skin was probably purple. “The bruises will heal.”

  “He hurt me.” I laughed softly, which only seemed to release more tears. “Even now I hear his voice. I will always hear his voice. . . .”

  His hands surrounded my face, and his cheek slid down to rest against mine. “He can’t hurt you again.”

  “It was all so perfect, my plan. And you know what stopped me? My own frailty. I went into that house to prove he couldn’t beat me, but he did. Because I was helpless. Weak. And now I’ll only ever be that.” Because of you.

  I felt Lock release a breath against my cheek, felt the cool trails of both our tears. He didn’t speak for a long time, and when he did, he said, “You are the strongest of all of us.”

  x x x

  Flashes went off all around us, even before we stepped out into the open, and I watched as the looming light of a news camera swooped toward me with an almost supernatural speed. Sherlock’s arms surrounded me, pulling my face to his chest as the shouting began.

  They shouted my name.

  They knew my name.

  “It’s too late,” I yelled against Lock’s chest. “They know. Everyone knows.”

  Lock ducked his head against mine and spoke softly, but miraculously I could hear. “They will never know it all. No one will ever know. I will make sure of that.”

  I felt a stirring in my chest as he held me tighter, pulling us through the fray with a strength and daring I thought he would never show to anyone but me. My most feared predictions played out in front of us, and most of me wanted to push him away, to scream at him for doing this to my brothers and me, for bringing the police and attracting the press. But then we were through the throng, and still he shielded me with his body just long enough to look down and meet my eyes before we walked across the open space between the police tape and my front door.

  “Say the word and we’ll be eating Mrs. Hudson’s sandwiches on our way to Venice.” He quirked a smile and stole a quick kiss when I lifted the side of my mouth as well—the closest I could get to any kind of smile on that night.

  And there it was, like a light—like the flash as a candlewick takes a flame. I saw the path of my life stretch out before me. Past the humiliation, past the chaos I would endure, past all of that, Sherlock Holmes was still at my side. And there, sheltered in his arms, I made two startling realizations. I knew that I would probably love this boy for the rest of my life. I knew also that I would never, ever forgive him.

  Acknowledgments

  First, thank you so much to my agent, Laurie McLean, who managed to do in mere days what no one else could do in years. You are the ultimate rock star, and I feel lucky to have you as my partner, advoc
ate, and friend.

  Thank you to my super-genius editor, Christian Trimmer, who believed in my fledgling manuscript enough to help me turn it into an actual book. I am so very proud to be a member of #TeamTrimmer. And special thanks to all the brilliant people at Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, who championed my book and helped release it into the world.

  An extra-special, Red Hots–flavored THANK-YOU to my Writeapalooza Girls: Julie Dillard, Tracy Clark, Temoca Dixon, Dawn Callahan, and Kim Harnes, who have spent countless hours listening to me whine and plot and worry, who have fed me ginger­bread, Swedish fish, and Nutella, with plenty of All Business gin on the side, and who never once doubted me. I would be nowhere without you.

  Thank you to all the readers who so generously gave their time and insights to this book when it was in its roughest state: Kristen Crowley Held, Chris Woody, Jenny MacKay, Charlene Ellen, Heather Mims, and Lia Keyes. And to the Mentish Group, who let me write with them in haunted hospitals, hotel rooms in Winnemucca, and over Skype when I was too wimpy to face the snow: Craig Lew, Sarah McGuire, Hazel Mitchell, Amy Allgeyer Cook, Jacqueline Garlick, and Nathalie Mvondo (with special guest George the Ghost).

  I have also been lucky enough to be surrounded by amazing author mentor/friends to advise and prod me. To Terri Farley, thank you for your A with a hundred pluses and for being the first person to tell me I was a writer. To Susan Palwick, thank you for finding scraps of potential in my writing and going above and beyond to make me pursue it. To Cynthia Cotten, thank you for reading my silly camp journals and helping me to find my voice in YA. To Ellen Hopkins, thank you for advice and wine and friendship and being an amazing example of what it means to be true to yourself and to your art.

  And finally, to my family. Thank you just doesn’t seem adequate to cover all that you’ve done for me. But for years of understanding and giving me the time and space to do my work, and for believing in me, even when things got hard and complicated, THANK YOU. To my husband, Tyson, for all your lumberjack calm in the face of my storms. To Gwenyn, for letting me work, even when your more trickstery fairy powers tempted you into my office. To my dad, for countless hours of babysitting and for raising me to believe in the arts. To Norma, my amazing mother-in-law, for listening and tirelessly helping me control the chaos at home. And to my mom: I’m sorry I couldn’t make this happen in time for you to hold an actual book in your hands. I love you and miss you every day.