by Hannah Jayne
“Nina?” I said, my voice picking up a tinny, whiny twinge, which I didn’t like. “Are you here?”
I did a double knock on her bedroom door and then poked my head in. Her clothes seemed to buzz with a nervous energy and I felt my blood pressure rise.
“Nina?”
I looked down into ChaCha’s brown marble eyes and she cocked her head at me; then reached up on her hind legs and lapped my chin.
I gave her an extra treat from the kitchen counter, and when I reached for the paper towels (this dog is a slobber hound), I saw Nina’s note stuck to the cabinet.
Soph—
Out with H. Love this man!!!
Think about what color you’d like to wear in our wedding... .
XOXO,
N
I crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash, then scoured the kitchen for breakfast food. I was halfway through a peanut butter–smeared waffle when my cell phone chirped its “you’ve got messages!” chirp. I shoved the waffle in my mouth and held the phone to my ear.
“You have six new messages,” the unnervingly polite cell phone voice told me.
Alex had called three times; each message getting progressively shorter and stabbing me with shards of guilt. Then there was the obligatory “this is not a sales call” message, and the last two were from Roland.
There was a pause before the message started and I could hear Roland’s nervous breath in the background. I could imagine him mopping his sweaty head with that yellowed handkerchief.
“Hello, Sophie.” His recorded voice sounded as weasely as his date voice. “This is Roland Townsend—Harley’s agent? From the restaurant.” As if he needed any more introduction. “Um, I’m calling to see if you know where your roommate is. I think she’s with Harley and ...” Roland sucked in a slightly shaky breath, which told more than his words did. “Can you just call me as soon as you get this message?” He went on to awkwardly read off his phone number.
I erased his message and his second one started immediately.
“Sophie? Roland again. Roland Townsend. Can you call me, please? Right away. I”—Roland sucked in another tentative breath—“I’m worried about your roommate. I think ... I don’t think Harley has the best intentions—the best intentions toward your friend. I think Nina might be in danger.”
I sat up straight, Roland’s final words slicing down my spine like a frozen blade. My stomach turned over; my peanut butter waffle felt like a hunk of raw dough rising in my gut, pressing against my chest.
I dialed Roland and he answered on the first ring.
“Aw, geez, Sophie.” Roland’s voice was strangled with a strange mix of tension and relief. “I’m glad you got my messages. And my calls.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw the frowny-faced readout: eleven missed calls.
My saliva immediately tasted bitter and my eyes started to sting. “Where’s Nina?”
“She’s not with you?” He breathed out a long, uncomfortable sigh. “She must be with Harley, then.”
“Why do you think Harley’s dangerous?”
“I don’t think Harley’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
My heart was in my throat when I hung up with Roland. I looked down at the Post-it notes where I had scrawled the address he gave me and I barely recognized the shaky chicken scratch writing as my own. I flew into a pair of yoga pants and sneakers. On my way out the door, I glanced over my shoulder at the freezer. There, stashed in a box of Skinny Cow mint dippers, was the gun that Alex had given me a year ago; a handful of bullets rolled around in our junk drawer.
I licked my paper-dry lips and heard Roland’s voice reverberating in my head. “I don’t think Harley’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is.”
I grabbed my gun, the bullets, and went thundering out the door.
“Whoa! What’s this about?” Will’s eyes were big, his cheeks pushed up in a semi-surprised grin. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
It took me a second to process what he was saying, a niggle of heat washing over my cheeks. “I need to find Harley,” I croaked out finally.
Will’s eyes raked over me, over the gun in my hand. “I’m going with you. And you better put that away, love, or we’ll never get out the door.”
I looked blankly down at the gun in my hand, its muzzle trained on the horrible industrial-grade hallway carpet. “Oh.”
Will locked the door behind him and I shifted from foot to foot, worrying my bottom lip as the elevator sank down into our basement garage.
“It’s going to be fine,” Will said, squeezing my shoulder gently. “You’ll see.”
I let him lead me through the dimly lit lot, the space between us minuscule as my heart thumped solidly against my rib cage.
“Get in.”
I was rolling locks of hair around my index finger—my number one nervous tic—until the tip of my finger turned cold and white while Will sped through the intersection, occasionally glancing over at the Post-it note balanced on my thigh.
“You’re sure this Roland bloke is reliable?”
I nodded, unable to open my mouth lest my heart leap out onto the dashboard.
He poked at the address with an index finger. “And you’re sure this is right?”
I nodded again. “I guess. This is what Roland gave me. He said Harley likes to go here.”
“And you believe him?”
I shook my head, terror closing my throat. “Not exactly. But it’s the only lead we have.”
My eyes were locked on the road disappearing under our wheels. My hand was feeling the outline of the gun in my purse—the gun that I might have to use to kill Harley.
My heart leapt painfully again, throwing itself against my rib cage.
I had run out of the house with this gun before. I had been willing to aim it, to shoot it at unknown attackers, or attackers who were on their second, evil life. But I had never considered shooting—killing—a flesh-and-blood human being, a human being with a name and a face and a family and a life.
“I don’t think he’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is.” Roland’s words played over and over again in my mind like an ominous, horrible record. “I know he is.”
I gulped, trying to blink back the tears, trying to swallow back the terrified lump that clawed at my throat.
“Do you know this area?”
I snapped to the here-and-now, to Will in the car, to the ominous-looking brick buildings jutting up all around us. They were squat and industrial, lined with cracked sidewalks; little bits of weedy grass poking through the concrete. They had been trampled mercilessly.
“You’re sure this is right?” Will asked again, skepticism deep in his voice.
“This is what he said,” I repeated. “Besides, I suppose if”—I couldn’t say his name, couldn’t given him an actual human moniker—“he wanted to get Nina alone, this would be the place to do it. There!”
A bubble burst in my chest when I saw Roland, himself looking as squat as the buildings, waving his stubby arms in front of what looked like had once been a bakery.
Will slowed down, scanning the street. “Well, there’s no place to park around here—”
“Let me out,” I said, hands on the door. eyes held firmly on Roland, on the sweat lining his brow, on the terrified way his button eyes flashed.
“No, love—”
But I already had the door open. “Just park and come around. We’ll wait for you before we go in.”
Before the car even came to a complete stop, I had jumped out and was tearing across the street. My breath burned in my throat as my legs pumped.
“Oh, Sophie, thank goodness you came,” Roland sputtered.
“Where’s Nina?”
Roland was looking at his shoes, wringing his hands, shifting his weight. “I should have known. I should have known the way he clung to her.” He looked up at me, his eyes apologetic. “I knew he had these tendencies. I knew. That’s why I t
ravel with him. Usually when I’m around, I can talk him down—”
“Where are they?”
Roland’s terrier eyes rolled to the side, to the glass door of the building, the lock on it yawning open. I pushed through the door. “Nina? Nina, where are you?”
Roland was behind me. I could hear his nervous shuffle, the ragged way he sucked in those long, deep breaths.
“Oh shit,” he muttered, sighing. “I hope it’s not too late.”
I whirled around and stared at him, feeling my eyebrows dropping into a hard V. But I was looking at Roland’s back as he fumbled with the door. I heard the lock jiggle, shake, and finally tumble into place.
My throat was dry.
“What are you doing?”
Roland looked at me, all innocence and unnecessary sweat. “I didn’t want him to run out the front door.”
I tried to swallow, my hand sliding down to the gun in my shoulder bag. “O ... kay.” I drew out the word as my hand snaked down past my hip to my thigh.
My purse.
My gun.
Forgotten.
Snuggled in Will’s car’s pink interior.
I looked up just in time to see Roland’s button eyes glistening, lips pushed out into a rodent’s smile, his small yellowed teeth bared. His fat fingers hugged a crude hunk of wood, which cracked against my skull. I felt myself wobble while I worked to focus my eyes. There was Roland. There were two Rolands. There was a sweet-looking, cupcake-shaped light fixture and graffiti on the ceiling.
My eyes were open—though they felt somehow rolled back, locked, staring at my own eyebrows. Roland started to gather me up, awkwardly, roughly, pushing me to my feet. I stumbled but stood, feeling heavy and weary. I let him gather up my hands and push them behind me before I realized what that meant. I started to fumble, to pull away, when I heard the sound of tape being ripped, when I felt the tightening as he wound it around my wrist.
“What are you doing?” I asked, the sting of my head blooming into a full-blown throb.
“I’m surprised a girl like you didn’t already catch on. Guess all that time on earth didn’t teach you a damn thing, did it?”
I stumbled as Roland pushed me forward. “What are you talking about? Where are you taking me?”
“Look, it’s really nothing personal. We had a nice date.”
“This is what that’s about? The date?”
Roland snorted and continued shoving me forward. I hesitated, trying to buy some time, when I felt a swift kick to my heel and heard an exasperated groan.
“Christ. Would you walk already?”
I shuffled along, wincing, gritting my teeth against my tears, trying to listen for Will.
He knows where I am, I told myself. He’ll be here any minute.
I heard keys jiggling in a lock and I was shoved forward again. I counted my steps—forty-one, in case that mattered—until I was spun around. I heard the click of something metal; I felt the freeing slice of a blade and suddenly my hands were free. Before I could do anything about it, I was shoved backward, and a narrow door streaked with dirt and chipping paint was slammed in my face.
“What are you doing? Why are you locking me in here?” I grabbed the doorknob and shook it, yanked it. “What are you doing?”
“I’m making it easy for you, Sophie dear. In a couple of hours the sun will pour right through that window there, and poof. End of story for all of us.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I know the legends. I know the rules,” Roland said, his voice creeping through the crack in the door. “One little burst of sunlight ...” He chuckled—an eerie, grimacing laugh—and I heard his heavy footsteps as he shuffled away from the door, whistling.
The panic didn’t start to set in—didn’t start to creep up my neck, to reach out and strangle me—until I yanked on the surprisingly secure doorknob; then I whirled around and took in my cramped surroundings as they started to close in on me. I was in a dingy bathroom—tiny, about the size of my closet—and, apparently, untouched since the Reagan administration. The tin box spitting out paper towels was dented and rusted. The walls were filthy and laced with scrawled profanities and detailed suggestions of what I should do to myself. There was a small, high window on the back wall. It was covered with a pane of dingy glass and looked like it could be pushed open rather easily—if the whole thing hadn’t been secured with a horizontal set of metal bars.
I started to feel the blood pounding in my temples. I felt beads of sweat prick out above my upper lip and at my hairline. I’m not particularly crazy about public bathrooms to begin with, so to be locked in one in the middle of... Oh God, where the hell was I?
I turned around and started beating the door, kicking and punching and screaming until the heels of my hands were raw and my throat felt sandpaper-achy. I gave one last wallop, one last howl.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Roland! I’m not a vampire. Let me out of here! Let me out of here and I’ll prove it!”
When there was no response, I gave the door a final swift kick; then I looked for a place to slump down and cry. But being in a public restroom, I knew that seating was limited.
That made me cry harder.
Roland was trying to kill me.
Roland thought I was a vampire, so he was going to kill me.
I stopped.
Roland. Thought I was a vampire. And was going to kill me.
The idea seemed so absurd, so laughable—until I thought of Mrs. Henderson. The centaur from the dock. Bettina, and Kale.
He was going to kill me.
And I was going to die in here, and someone would find my shriveled body in a mess of single-ply toilet paper and misspelled profanities. I sniffed. There was no way I was going to let that happen, no way I would let my tombstone bear the inglorious statement: SOPHIE LAWSON: SHE DIED IN THE JOHN.
I raked the heel of my hand across my wet cheeks and wound a loop of toilet paper to blow my nose. Being locked in a public restroom did have some perks, I guess. I went to the cracked and wobbly mirror, steadying myself against the sink. I gave the mirror frame a gentle knock.
“Grandma?”
Though my grandmother was dead, she did have the uncanny ability to pop into shiny surfaces and offer help when I needed her most. I couldn’t think of any other time seeing my dead grandmother’s face would be more helpful. The mirror continued to reflect back my own face, extra pale in the single-bulb light. My cheeks were tear streaked and mottled red; my hair a tangled mass of ponytail and little bits of fiber left over from my sojourn on the floor.
“Grandma?” I tried again.
Again there was no answer; the wobbling glass remained smoky and plain. I felt the gurgling choke of another waft of tears. I crossed my arms in front of my chest, holding myself tightly, leaning gently against the cleanest wall I could find—which, ironically, was tagged with funky purple lettering that spelled out O.G.s don’t quit. I’d never fancied myself an original gangster, but I considered the purple scrawl as a shiny beacon of hope—an homage to strength and Snoop Dogg, and I would follow suit.
Little redheaded girls don’t quit, either.
I took several slow, deep breaths—gulping air through my mouth, trying not to imagine the multitude of bathroom-butt germs clinging to my teeth—and commanded myself to come up with a plan. I thought. I paced. I stopped.
“I’ve got toilet paper”—I kicked the side of the surprisingly clean toilet—“a toilet seat, which could possibly be used as a weapon. Paper towels, sink.” I gave the latter a good yank, just in case it should suddenly fall away and reveal a secret passageway to the outdoors or the Four Seasons. “Um, mirror. Okay.”
I nodded, slapped my thighs, and took another spin.
“Okay. Nothing overtly weapon-like or break-down-the-door–like. But that’s okay. I’m a resourceful girl. I just have to think—what would MacGyver do?”
And then I realized, with a sinking heart, that I ha
d never seen a MacGyver episode full through, and I could kick myself for it.
“Not a problem,” I said, bringing myself to the brink of tears but talking them back. I watched a significant amount of television; and if anything was going to spark a memory, it would be now. I didn’t watch MacGyver, but I had my own list of television heroes, escape artists, and resourceful individuals. Right?
If only I hadn’t spent an inordinate amount of time watching the Food Network.
“Okay,” I said again. “Well. What would Paula Deen do?”
I felt the panic begin to stir again.
What would Paula Deen do?
She would add a stick of butter. Or a heap of pork fat. Or something slippery and slimy and ... I looked at the small barred window on the back wall.
Then I looked at the plastic bottle filled with bubblegum pink hand soap bolted above the sink.
That’s what Paula Deen would do.
I squirmed out of my sweatshirt and yanked my yoga pants over my sneakers—there was no way I was letting my skin touch public bathroom floor. I glanced up at the window again. I sighed, then slipped my T-shirt over my head, too, and stood in the glaring light of that stupid naked lightbulb, mostly naked.
I gently tugged on the ancient faucet and a meager trickle of water began to fill the chipped basin. I loaded my dampened palm with soap, and began sudsing myself up. I chanced a glance at myself in the wobbly mirror—white soap foaming up around my neck, my arms glistening with water and tiny bubbles.
If this doesn’t work, I thought, then I hope I die.
Once my body and underclothes were sufficiently sudsed—or greased, in Paula speak—I stood up on the toilet seat and angled an arm toward the window, giving the ancient jam a shove. To my immense relief, it opened easily and the air felt good as it washed over my damp skin.
“Here goes nothing,” I said to the paper towels.
Chapter Twenty-Six