Fight Dirty

by CJ Lyons

  The crowd went wild at her pronouncement. They raised their hands over their heads, waving them in wide circles, roaring their condemnation of Morgan and her wicked ways.

  One girl leapt to her feet and ran to Morgan, putting her face mere inches away. “You’re a sinner!” Her words were accompanied by a spray of spittle. “Repent!”

  As soon as she backed away, another took her place, this time a boy, younger than Morgan. “You’re a liar and a thief,” he screamed, his breath hot against her face. “A dirty, filthy whore!”

  And so it went, one after another, the students berated Morgan, shouting and screaming and spitting, their words buffeting her from all directions. Until finally the youngest was shoved forward, the Red Shirt with him forcing him to lean down until his nose was almost touching Morgan’s. He was crying, mucus streaming down his chin, his lips quivering. The look in his eyes was anguish personified, and she couldn’t help but wonder what terrible crime such a young boy had done that his parents had exiled him here.

  Morgan surprised herself. Tried to explain it away as acting, playing the role of a sheep, but that wasn’t it. She could read this boy’s need, and she wanted to help him.

  Pulling against the broomstick that Micah held behind her, she reached her arms around the young boy and hugged him tight. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’ll be okay.”

  Deidre spun, her back to the crowd, so that only Morgan and Micah could see her face. Flushed with fury, she scowled at Morgan and yanked the boy away, thrusting him into the arms of one of the Red Shirts.

  Then she gave Micah a nod, and he twisted the broomstick.

  Stress position, that’s what Morgan’s father called it. But even he would have been impressed by these kids and their diabolical use of a simple, lightweight broomstick.

  Morgan was caught off guard as the broomstick twisted her top into a tourniquet, constricting her belly in one direction and her throat in the other. She realized Micah hadn’t torqued it as hard or fast as he could have, but she still had to turn her head to catch a breath and release the pressure of the cotton material now tight against her throat.

  Deidre knelt before her and clasped Morgan’s hands, not allowing her to grab at the bunched-up shirt. “More,” she told Micah as Morgan gasped for air.

  Morgan’s head was arched back far enough that she met Micah’s eyes. He made a show of moving his hands up and down the broomstick as if he was working to twist it but didn’t actually tighten the noose. She helped by coughing dramatically, hoping Deidre would buy her performance.

  “Please—” Morgan gasped, cutting the word short with a choked wheeze.

  Deidre didn’t move, simply tightened her grip on Morgan’s hands, her face serene. “We love you,” she cried out. The crowd echoed it back, the noise thundering at Morgan from her position on the floor.

  Morgan fluttered her eyelids and stopped fighting, sagging forward, as if fainting. Deidre let go of her hands. “Release her.”

  Micah quickly removed the broomstick, freeing Morgan. She heaved in a breath, coughed some more, enough that tears came, and opened her eyes.

  “Sit up straight, arms out,” Deidre ordered. Morgan struggled to obey, one hand going to rub her neck until Deidre slapped it away. Micah repositioned the broomstick so that it now slid through the arms of Morgan’s top and behind her, forcing her arms out at her sides like a scarecrow. Uncomfortable as hell, but at least she could breathe.

  Deidre stood, patting Morgan’s cheek like she was her new pet. “Let us begin again. Tell me about how you pimped out your little friend to, what was it, three older men? And how you whored yourself to them as well. What did you get in exchange? Booze? Drugs?”

  Morgan pretended to be confused. “No. That’s not how it happened. We didn’t know Jeremy’s older brother would be home. We just went to crash, play video games, hang out. That’s all. Nothing happened.”

  Another of those spooky smiles. A glint in Deidre’s eyes prepared Morgan, but even rolling with the slap, it still stung. Micah kept a firm hold of the broomstick, not allowing her to fall.

  “Don’t lie to us. Your only salvation lies in telling us the truth.” Deidre leaned forward. “All of it. Every. Single. Detail.”

  “Purge, purge, purge,” the crowd shouted, sounding more and more like a hungry mob. Morgan glanced past Deidre and saw the little boy in the front row being jerked around like a puppet by the guy in the red shirt behind him. He was being forced to cheer and clap and yell . . . and watch. And she thought her dad was twisted. Hell, he would love this Deidre chick.

  Deidre followed her glance and turned her smile on the boy. “Tell us everything or he’ll be next,” she said in a voice too low to carry past Morgan and Micah. “Start with all the filthy things you did with those three men. Every detail. And then you can tell us what you did to your little friend.”

  CHAPTER 33

  After her proclamation, Caren’s eyes went dead and she crumpled into the corner of the love seat. Andre had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes at her performance—she had it down pat; that was for sure.

  “So you told your husband about the affair?” Nick asked gently.

  Caren nodded. “I ended it and told Robert. That’s why I went to bring BreeAnna home. With Tyler gone from my life and Robert on the road, this house was just so empty. I needed my little girl back home.”

  Translation: Caren’s life was empty without her lover or her husband to make her the center of their universe. Only then did she think about her only child.

  “It was your idea to bring BreeAnna home, not your husband’s?” Jenna’s voice was calm and level despite or, more likely, because of Caren’s emotional roller coaster.

  Caren scoffed. “Robert thinks every decision made under his roof is his and his alone, but no, I wanted BreeAnna home. I made the call and went to pick her up on my way to get Robert at the airport.”

  “Could you walk us through that day? You were telling us that you were the one who decided to pick up BreeAnna,” Nick prompted her. “What was the procedure for that?”

  The mother responded better to factual questions rather than more open-ended ones, Andre had noted. Funny, because her husband seemed the opposite. Whenever they’d asked him any direct questions, he’d gotten evasive.

  “I don’t know if there is a procedure,” Caren answered, relaxing. “I simply called Reverend Benjamin—”

  “The Reverend, not the administrator you met when you dropped BreeAnna off?” Jenna asked.

  “I didn’t want to bother with any red tape or paperwork. Not with Robert’s flight coming in that afternoon—I wanted to surprise him with BreeAnna there at the airport to welcome him home.”

  Andre turned away again. Suddenly she was back to this all being one big happy family reunion. Maybe that was the only way she could live with herself.

  He stared out the window. The sun was setting, the lawn was brown, and the trees bordering it all barren except for a few artfully placed evergreens. It was only March, so he wasn’t expecting more, but somehow he had the feeling that BreeAnna’s view never grew any more cheerful than what he was seeing.

  If it wasn’t for BreeAnna’s mysterious visitor the night she died, he could totally understand why she’d kill herself. Living in this house with these people would be worse than solitary confinement.

  He exhaled, his breath fogging the window and the view beyond. Wished he would have known BreeAnna before her death, wished someone would have told her that in just a few more years, once she left to live her own life, everything would be so much better. Wished someone, somewhere, had cared enough to give her hope.

  “But even though the Reverend had approved everything,” Caren was saying, “that other man, Mr. Chapman, he gave me such a difficult time. To the point where I threatened to call our attorney.” Her voice grew strident, amazed that any mere a
dministrator had the audacity to stand between her and her daughter. “But once I took out my cell phone and started to dial, he went and got BreeAnna and everything was fine after that.”

  Except, obviously it wasn’t—ten hours later BreeAnna was dead.

  “So you and BreeAnna went to the airport to pick up your husband,” Nick said. “Was he pleased to see BreeAnna?”

  Caren shrugged, her robe falling open with the movement. “He’s so preoccupied with those lawsuits that honestly I don’t think he even remembered she was in ReNew. Not until I explained how much effort I’d gone to, giving him a welcome-home surprise. Then we came home. And then”—a tiny frown marred her unlined forehead—“BreeAnna worked on her music, and we went to bed.”

  She pinched her lips tight and crossed her arms, not saying anything more.

  Jenna moved from her chair to sit beside Caren, who didn’t seem to notice, staring past Nick at a family portrait hanging on the wall behind him. In it, Robert Greene stood in the center of his family. Caren clung to his arm with both hands, while Robert had his other arm wrapped possessively around BreeAnna’s shoulders. Pretty much summed up the Greenes, Andre thought.

  “I just came from your husband’s office, Mrs. Greene,” Jenna said. “He told me the truth. About where you were that night.”

  Caren stiffened. “We were here, asleep. Just like we told the police.”

  “No. You weren’t. Did you know someone came to the house while BreeAnna was here alone? Around—” She glanced at Andre.

  “Ten twenty-one,” he supplied.

  “Around ten twenty-one. Any ideas who that was? Was it someone coming to see you or your husband?”

  Caren honestly appeared shocked. She sprang up from the love seat and turned to face them. “What are you saying? Someone was here? At the house? Who?”

  “That’s what we were hoping you could tell us,” Jenna said. “Did you see any cars when you and your husband left? That would have been just a few minutes before ten, right? Maybe someone on foot?”

  Caren shook her head, at first little shakes of disbelief, then hard, violent, wide-eyed shakes. “No. There was no one.”

  “Tell us about the man you had the affair with. Could he have come here that night? Maybe to see you or confront Robert?”

  “That’s impossible. No.”

  The door opened and Robert Greene entered. Andre turned away from the window but kept his back to the wall and his hands free. He didn’t like the look on Greene’s face. Not at all.

  Superior. Smug. Satisfied. In charge.

  “Evening, sweetheart,” he said, bending over the back of the love seat to kiss Caren’s head. “Fancy meeting you all here.” Jenna moved off the love seat and took the chair beside Nick while Greene took his place. “Did I interrupt something?”

  Greene ignored everyone except Jenna. As if his question was aimed directly at her.

  “Caren was just telling us about the night BreeAnna came home from ReNew,” Jenna said. She leaned back in her chair, looked relaxed despite Greene’s challenge, but Andre knew she was faking it. Obviously something had happened between the two of them—something while they’d visited ReNew? He wished he’d a chance to confer with Jenna in private.

  “Oh, I thought you were talking about that boy of Caren’s. What was his name again?” He ruffled his fingers through Caren’s hair, but the gesture seemed more controlling than intimate.

  “Tyler,” she mumbled.

  “Right. Tyler.” He focused on Jenna once more. “But I’m not sure what he has to do with anything.”

  Nick stood, stepping between the staring match Greene was holding with Jenna. “Mr. Greene. We learned that your daughter was not alone the night she died. Someone came here, to the house, at ten twenty-one, and she spoke to them. Do you have any idea who that could be?”

  For the first time Andre saw Greene grow flustered. His eyes widened, and a crease of surprise formed between his eyebrows. “Someone was here? At the house?”

  “Yes. That’s why we’re asking about Tyler. We need to know where he was that night.”

  Greene shook his head and stood, pacing behind the love seat. Caren sat up and watched him with a wary gaze. “No. You don’t understand,” she said. “Tyler couldn’t have come here.”

  “Why not?”

  She sagged against the back of the love seat, hands twisting the belt of her robe into a knot, her eyes never leaving her husband. Greene stopped, stared at the floor for a long moment, then raised his head and nodded to her. “Go ahead, Caren. Tell them.”

  “Tyler couldn’t have come here.” She stumbled over the words, obviously uncertain. Stopped and glanced once more at Greene, seeking his approval. He jerked his chin in a nod. “He couldn’t because—” She shook her head, tears choking her, and buried her face in her hands.

  “Because that’s where we went that night,” Greene finished for her. “I made Caren take me to his place. Then I beat the crap out of him.” An eerie smile lit his face. “And then I showed him how real men make love to their women. After that Caren and I drove into the woods and celebrated my homecoming just like I told you.”

  The only sound was Caren’s sobbing. Greene marched around from behind the couch and, ignoring Nick, took a position over Jenna, too close to allow her to stand up from the chair. Andre moved forward, ready to intervene.

  “So if he didn’t kill my daughter and she didn’t kill herself, then who the hell did?” Greene thundered down at Jenna. “Answer me that!”

  CHAPTER 34

  Morgan totally understood why Deidre called it a Purge. A fitting name for Deidre’s incessant inquisition, prying into every minute detail of Morgan’s fake persona, grilling her so intensely that she made up events more and more lurid simply to satisfy Deidre’s never-ending appetite.

  Deidre was unrelenting. Whenever Morgan slowed down or backed away from confessing illicit activities, Deidre would hit her with one of the lightweight broomsticks. Morgan, caught in her kneeling scarecrow position, couldn’t duck or fight back. The blows stung but only left faint reddish welts, marks that faded long before the pain.

  When Deidre tired, the others took turns barraging Morgan with questions, popping up from their position on the floor, shouting at her, then dropping back down like a bunch of meerkats.

  “How many men have you had sex with?”

  “When’s the last time you shot heroin?”

  “How many drinks do you have a day?”

  “What’s the last thing you stole?”

  “How many three-ways have you had?”

  “Are you a lesbian?”

  Ridiculous. Morgan didn’t even bother to keep track of her answers, simply threw the first thing that came to mind out to the inquisition. Now that Deidre had the crowd back under control, Morgan quickly grew bored. She stole stories from her father’s exploits, made up the most outrageous shit imaginable. It was either play along or break free of Micah’s grip and ram that blasted broomstick down Deidre’s throat until it came out her ass.

  It was Micah who decided for her. His knees buckled against her back until she was holding him up more than he supported her. Whatever they’d been doing to him before she arrived had taken its toll. So she played the good sheep. Besides, she kept telling herself, it was the best way to get what she came for, info about Bree. After this silly initiation rite, the others should accept her as one of their own and be willing to talk. She hoped.

  She had no idea how much time had passed—there were no clocks or windows in here, but finally Deidre called for a break. The kids rushed to grab chairs, while others went through a swinging door in the rear of the room and returned with trays piled high with sandwiches and milk cartons. No plates or utensils. The way the kids grabbed the food, eating so fast Morgan was surprised they didn’t choke, Deidre obviously had been starving them.

/>   No food for her or Micah. The Red Shirts had sandwiches twice as thick as the others, swollen with cold cuts, but also no plates or utensils, while Queen Bee Deidre sat in a chair directly in front of Morgan and Micah, knees together, ankles crossed beneath her, and was served on a plastic plate with a plastic glass and plastic silverware. Which told Morgan a lot about how much power Deidre really had at ReNew—not enough to be trusted with real silverware.

  “Let’s share our rules with our newcomer,” Deidre commanded.

  A Red Shirt nudged the little guy whose name Morgan had heard whispered as Tommy. He stood, cheeks full, clutching at his food as if afraid someone would steal it, swallowed, and said, “No Names do not speak without permission.”

  A girl from the row behind him jumped up. “No Names do not eat without permission.”

  And down the row it went. “No Names do not sleep without permission.” Or bathe or pee or cross a doorway . . . yeah, yeah, she got it; Deidre ran a tight ship. Down to deciding how many pieces of toilet paper each child was allotted. The litany went on, but Morgan quickly tuned it out.

  Deidre ate slowly, savoring every bite. Never once losing her infuriating smirk. Morgan tried to lick her lips, but she’d been talking for so long that her tongue felt like a piece of corrugated cardboard.

  “Water,” she croaked. “I need water.”

  The crowd of kids glanced up from their food, aghast. Several shook their heads, and a few put their hands over their mouths in warning.

  Too late. Deidre’s smirk turned into a Cheshire grin. She finished the last of her food, patted her mouth daintily, and handed her plate to a Red Shirt. “Of course, you can have water.”

  One of the female Red Shirts brought a large plastic cup, the kind designed to hold a day’s worth of soda or convenience store slushie. Sixty-four ounces, thirty-two ounces, it didn’t matter—it only took an ounce or two to fool a body into thinking it was drowning.

  Micah’s hand slipped to the back of Morgan’s neck, hidden by her hair, and patted her reassuringly. As if she didn’t know what was coming next. If she was a Norm, she might be surprised by Deidre’s sadistic techniques, but Morgan was her father’s daughter. She knew what Deidre wanted to see, what would end this ridiculous inquisition. If she wanted to keep her cover intact, she’d just have to give it to her.