by Margo Kelly
“You need to stay back,” he said.
Plug ran over to us and pulled away my fists, but the fireman kept his grip on my arm. Plug stood to the side of me and rested his hand on my shoulder.
The flames had already been extinguished, but the house continued to smolder. Firemen picked away at the darkened, charred remains of the house’s siding. A gaping hole at least four feet wide marred the second-story face of the house. Windows had been knocked out. Screens lay on the ground. And broken glass sparkled in the puddles glistening in the morning sun.
The fireman tightened his grip on my arm.
“Let go of me,” I said and stomped on his boot. I tried to pull away, but he refused to release me.
“You need to stay here,” he said.
A guy in a business shirt and slacks marched over to us.
“Hannah O’ Leary?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Detective Samuelson.” He looked me up and down, and his eyebrows creased. He plucked a handkerchief from his back pocket and covered his nose.
“Is Manny okay?” I struggled to maintain my composure. Someone needed to answer me soon, or I would explode.
The detective turned to the fireman. “You can go. I’ve got this.”
I slipped my fingers through Plug’s and squeezed. Out of habit, he started to fiddle with his lip ring, but it was gone, and he winced when his tongue touched the stitches.
“Did you set fire to the Santos’s home?” the detective asked.
“No, I would never—”
“Where were you this morning?” he asked. “I went to your house, but there was no answer at the door.”
“I was asleep,” I said.
“Where were you between ten P.M. and two A.M.?”
“At home asleep.”
“Was anyone with you?”
“My mom.” But her note said she was called into work, and I had no idea when that was.
“Did you leave the house during the night?” he asked.
“No.” But my shoes were caked with dirt, and I smelled like gasoline.
“We have a witness who called nine-one-one,” Detective Samuelson said. “She said she saw you, specifically, at the scene.”
“What witness?”
Another fireman called out to the detective and waved him over toward the damaged house. The detective locked eyes with me. “Stay put. I have more questions for you.” He jogged toward the house, and the waiting fireman held up a red gasoline can.
“I have a bad feeling,” I said to Plug.
“Understatement.”
“I don’t remember anything,” I said, “but I would never hurt them.”
The people milling about were focused on the smoldering house. No one paid any attention to Plug and me. Without discussion, we moved to the car and slipped inside.
I watched the detective at the edge of the house, and Plug started the engine. With the noise of the fire trucks running, no one noticed Plug drive away from Manny’s house.
At the first stoplight, Plug yanked his seat belt across his chest, and I gasped for air. The light changed to green, and Plug sped down the street to the next red light. He pounded the heel of his hand against the wheel.
“We have to figure this out,” I said. “I reek of gasoline. My shoes are caked with dirt. That cop smelled my stink. I saw it in his eyes. He thinks I set fire to the Santos’s—”
“You didn’t,” Plug said.
“There’s evidence.” I clutched my chest. My heart pounded faster.
Plug fished his cell from his pocket and dialed a number. “Nick? Get Kyla. Meet us at the studio. Yes, now. Park in the back.” The light switched to green, and Plug wedged his phone next to his thigh.
• • •
Plug swerved into an alley and drove to the back of the tattoo studio. He parked perpendicular to the doors and killed the engine. He hopped out and ran around to open my door. He let out a huge sigh and waited for me. I leaned my head against the dashboard and began to cry.
Plug crouched next to me. “Hang in there, Hannah.”
“We just fled the scene of a crime,” I said in between sobs. “What does that make us?”
“Determined.” He took my hand and pulled me from the car. He reached behind the seat, grabbed the laptop, and then we moved toward the doors.
I stopped midway. My skin crawled. The last time I’d been inside the warehouse, the painting pricked my finger and the lights went out. I could believe Chelsea popped the breaker, making the warehouse go dark, but it was impossible for me to believe she rigged the canvas to draw my blood, or the temperature to suddenly drop, or the bugs to buzz around our heads. I had to figure out what was going on before I completely unraveled.
Plug unlocked the door and reached inside to flick on the lights. I took a deep breath to steady myself and followed him in. We maneuvered through the crates, and I avoided glancing at any of the uncovered canvases propped against the boxes. I did not want to tempt any evil spirits or hysterical delusions to mess with me today.
We sat at the kitchenette near the office.
“Do you live here?” I wondered if his room was behind one of the closed doors.
“Yes,” Plug said.
“Does your grandma live here with you?”
“No, she lives near her store,” Plug said. “Did you start the recording program on your laptop before you went to bed yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Plug’s cell chimed. He thumbed it and read a text.
“They’re almost here,” he said.
My cell rang, and I checked the caller ID.
“Who is it?” Plug asked.
“No name. Unknown number.”
“Ignore it,” Plug said.
“But it could be important.”
The back door of the warehouse squeaked open, and a spider scampered across the floor, just like the monstrous spider from the hospital bathroom. I shrieked and dropped my phone on the concrete flooring. The case popped off, and it stopped ringing.
“It’s only Nick and Kyla,” Plug said.
I scanned around for the spider and made sure it was long gone before I reached down and grabbed my phone and its case. I snapped them back together, and Kyla rushed in.
“What’s the emergency?” She stopped and scrunched up her face. Her indigo hair swished when she flipped her head, and then she pulled the collar of her orange T-shirt over her nose. “Geez, Hannah, you reek.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“What’s going on?” Nick asked and straddled a chair.
“Someone set Manny’s house on fire,” I said.
“Were you involved?” Nick asked and pulled the knit cap off his head.
Kyla whacked his arm. “No, she was not,” Kyla said and grasped my hand.
“Someone called nine-one-one and said she saw me start the fire,” I said.
“Chelsea?” Kyla asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“We’ll find answers on here.” Plug opened my laptop.
“I have some answers, too,” Kyla said. “You’ll be stunned by what I found with my research last night.” She unclipped her bag.
“What?” I asked.
“Here we go,” Plug said. He clicked on the file dated yesterday and expanded it to full screen. We scooted closer for a better view and waited for the video to begin.
“Have you watched any of it yet?” Nick asked.
“Not this one,” Plug said.
“You watched a different one?” I asked.
“Only one,” Plug said. “We can watch them all right now, but let’s start with the one from last night.”
The video began, and my face filled the screen; I had been sitting at my desk with my laptop. I remembered. Everyone got a great view of my white bra on top of my pink shirt. My cheeks heated with humiliation as we watched the video.
I climbed onto my bed, kicked off my flip-flops, scrunched up my pillow under my head
, and closed my eyes. The drapes had been left open, and shadows danced across the walls and bed as the sun began to set.
Minutes passed. No one moved out of fear of missing something. Nick broke the silence.
“What’s with the bra over the shirt? New fashion trend?” He pointed at the laptop. I wished for instant death and double-checked to make sure my hoodie was zipped up high.
Plug kicked Nick. “Shut up.”
After ten minutes of watching me sleep, Plug fast-forwarded the image. When my mom walked into the room, he backed the image up and hit play.
Mom stepped next to the bed. “Hannah?” she said. I rolled over but didn’t respond. She touched the strap of the exposed bra. She sighed and left the room. A few minutes later, my cell rang. I stirred and switched on the bedside lamp. The phone continued to ring. I got up from the bed, walked over to the desk, and sat while I answered my cell.
“Hello?” I asked. My shoulders sagged, and my chin sank to my chest, and yet I still held the phone to my ear.
“Yes,” I said.
I ended the call, rose from the desk, and dropped the phone to the floor. I moved out of the view of the camera, which had a wide shot of my room with the bed centered.
A minute later, I re-entered the room, and a man walked in behind me. I stood next to the bed and faced him. He stepped in front of the laptop, but his head was out of the view of the lens. He turned, and with a bulky, hairy hand, he pointed at me.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked.
“To protect myself,” I said.
“From what?”
“From you.”
My stomach churned. I did not remember any of this. Where was my mom while this was happening? Was this after she’d left for work? Plug pulled at his ear and glanced at me. Kyla touched my shoulder, but I flinched away from her.
“Swallow this.” The man handed me something small. I set it on my tongue and swallowed.
“Sit on the bed.” His deep voice was familiar.
I perched on the edge of the bed and stared straight ahead. He moved toward me with a large paper sack in one hand. He set it on the floor and knelt in front of me. He spoke, but his words were inaudible.
Plug increased the volume on the laptop and rewound the playback. We leaned closer and strained to hear what the man said, but he faced the other direction and spoke too softly.
The man stroked my shoulder and then my face. I remained still, not responding to him verbally or physically. He sat back on his heels and pulled on leather gloves. Then he opened the sack and lifted out a small red gasoline can, a sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and a pair of my tennis shoes that I hadn’t seen in months.
He asked me a question.
“Yes,” I said.
He rose and glided toward the door. Shadows drifted along the wall. He kept his back to the camera, but when he neared the computer his words were clear. “Do not answer the phone if it rings. Do not answer the doorbell. After you return to your bed, remain there until someone physically wakens you. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Avoid contact with the police at all costs. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I will count backward to one. When I reach one, you will follow the instructions I’ve given you without hesitation.” He paused at the door. “Three, two, one.” He left.
I pulled the jeans over my yoga pants and slipped the sweatshirt over my head. I walked to my dresser, pulled out socks, and then tugged them onto my feet. I laced up the tennis shoes. Then I picked up the gas can and left.
Plug fast-forwarded the video. According the time marker on the video, I was gone for over an hour, between 11:15 P.M. and 12:30 A.M.
I walked to the bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in, muddy shoes and all. I reached up and switched off the bedside lamp. The room went dark.
Plug fast-forwarded again.
The sunrise brightened the room, but I hadn’t moved a millimeter the entire time I’d slept in the bed. The alarm went off, and it didn’t faze me. I continued sleeping, dead to the world. The alarm blared for five minutes before falling silent. My cell phone chimed with multiple texts, but I did not move. My cell rang, but it still resulted in no response from me.
Plug entered the room.
“Hannah.” He moved to the bed and touched my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Hannah?” No response. He grabbed my shoulder and shook me. “Hannah!”
I jolted upright in bed.
Plug clicked stop on the video.
“Why would you wake up to the phone call that came late at night from that guy, but not my phone call this morning?” Plug asked.
“Dude, she was hypnotized,” Nick said. “He told her to only wake up when someone woke her physically.” Nick tilted his chair forward, propped it on two feet, and waited for us to say something, but when no one did, he continued, “Think about it. He hypnotized you, gave you some sort of drug, and then instructed you to set fire to the Santos house. He wanted you to stay asleep up until your mom or someone else shook you awake. You most likely left the gas can at the scene with your prints all over it.”
My breathing increased. My hands trembled. And my gut clenched. I lurched forward and threw up. Most of the puke landed on the concrete floor.
“Oh!” Kyla yelled and covered her mouth.
“So. Not. Cool.” Nick popped out of his chair. Vomit had splattered his 6 OUT OF 7 DWARVES ARE NOT HAPPY T-shirt. He pulled it over his head and walked away from the kitchen.
Plug snatched a towel from the counter and handed it to me. Then he went to the sink and dampened a cloth and returned to wipe my face.
“I thought it wasn’t possible for you to smell any worse,” Plug whispered to me and winked with his good eye. He swiped the excess puke off my shoes and scooted my chair away from the mess.
Nick returned with one of Plug’s gray V-neck T-shirts halfway on. He shoved his arms into the sleeves and said, “The CIA has used mind control for decades.”
“You’re talking fiction,” Plug said. “The Bourne Identity. I saw the movie like everyone else.” Plug mopped the mess off the floor.
Nick tapped Plug’s head. “I’m serious. This crap happens. There are documented cases all over the Internet of people who’ve been inducted against their will. They’re called Monarch slaves. They’re programmed with triggers, given drugs, and then told to do things that they’d normally consider wrong.”
“You’re saying some evil government entity has recruited Hannah to set fire to Manny’s house.” Plug chucked the puke-soaked rag into the trash. Then he washed his hands in the sink.
“No.” Nick rubbed his smooth scalp and paced the room. “I’m saying it’s possible some jerk-off has manipulated Hannah against her will.”
“Not just any jerk-off.” Kyla pulled a stack of papers out of her bag. She thumbed through them, singled out one, and pointed at the names. “I researched the hypnotist from the fair. Master Gira is also known as Harry Hurricane, also known as—”
“John Harrison,” I whispered.
“And is also known as,” Kyla said without missing a beat, “Chelsea Harrison’s dad.”
“What?” Plug said.
Chills ran along my spine.
“Yes,” Kyla said, “and before that, he attended Princeton. The official report said he was expelled from the psychology program for cheating, but the chatter around campus said he was booted for experimenting with demonic rituals in the basement of the psych building.” She locked eyes with me. “Isn’t Princeton your dream school?”
I nodded.
“Strange coincidence,” Kyla said.
“Not a coincidence,” I said. “Harrison was in the same graduate program as my dad. Apparently my parents knew him. And he auditioned at the hotel yesterday when I was with my mom.”
“And you didn’t recognize him then?” Nick asked.
“My instincts have been a bit unreliable lately. Plus, his hair was d
ifferent. And so much has happened since the fair.”
Nick turned to Kyla and asked, “Does your dad know you used his computer for these searches?”
“No.”
I needed to tell Mom about Harrison, but before I could do anything, my phone rang.
“Ignore it,” Plug said.
I read the caller ID. “It’s the same number as before.”
Plug snatched the phone from me.
I tried to grab it back from him, but he was faster. He tapped the reject button and then scrolled through my phone log.
“The same number called you last night. It’s the only number in your phone log that doesn’t have a name attached to it.” He scrolled more. “He’s been calling you since Sunday.”
“I don’t know who it is,” I said.
“Seems obvious,” Kyla said. “It’s the hypnotist.”
Plug set my phone next to Nick at the laptop. Nick pulled up the Internet and typed the number into a reverse directory. “Nothing.”
“It’s probably a disposable,” Kyla said. “I have an idea.” She leaned in closer and typed the same number into her cell.
“What are you going to say?” I asked, but she shushed me.
My heart raced, and the seconds ticked by. Finally, she ended the call.
“No answer. No voice mail,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t he answer?” I asked.
“Worse yet,” Plug said, “now he can do a reverse search on your number.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Kyla said. “The phone is registered to my dad’s work. They have gazillions of cell phones. This guy will never know we had anything to do with the call.”
“Let’s see if these other videos captured anything,” Nick said.
“Wait,” I said. “I want to know what else Kyla found out. I’ve known Chelsea for a year. She would’ve said something if her dad was a freaking hypnotist—”
My cell rang.
Nick held my phone. “Same number.”
“Let me answer it.” I reached for the phone, but Nick kept it. “I’ve had enough of this. Let’s answer it.” I thrust my hand at Nick.
“Put it on speaker,” Plug said and began fiddling with my laptop.