I’m sick through and through, mind, body and soul. I retch in the sink again but nothing comes out but a trickle of champagne-smelling liquid. I cough and choke. I need to get out of here—now—so I can find my purse and call the police and tell them Kirby is the real killer. Where is my purse? Did I leave it in the car? On the dance floor? With Jason? My mind whirls nonsensically, grasping at obscure details, blurring the edges. My hand moves in slow motion as it turns on the faucet. The cold water rushes out, then is splashed on my face. How did it get there? I stare at the sink, wondering why the water sounds so far away.
Kirby is the murderer.
Fingers of fear zip through my veins like ice water, clearing my head for a moment. Urine starts to trickle down my leg again. My damn bladder. I wobble into the stall, grabbing the side panels for support. A gush of liquid is pouring into the toilet when I hear the door open. A blast of music comes in, and then the door closes again. Did I just hear the door lock? It’s quiet. Too quiet. No footsteps to the stall, no running water at the sink.
I flash on Annika, sitting on the toilet just like I am right now. Is this all a nightmare? Or have I become Annika?
I stand up, shakily pull my dress down. Grab the side of the metal wall to steady myself.
“Who’s there?” I say, fear distorting my words.
Silence.
Someone is waiting for me.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my dress. Maybe it’s just Darcy, ready to do me some damage. I can take care of her. I’ve got on four-inch heels. I could stick one through her eye. Or pop a boob.
I reach to open the door, but the handle, slick with my sweat, slides out of my grasp. I grab it again, gripping the cold metal in my shaking hand. I pull the door open.
I am looking into the soulless, murdering eyes of Kirby Cahill.
He smiles wickedly at me. I stagger backward. My feet slip out from under me. Kirby grabs my arm and yanks me out of the stall.
“You’ve fucked with me enough, bitch.” He grabs my hair and presses himself against me. I recoil, the fuzz momentarily clearing from my brain. I tell myself to remain calm. I’ve got to get out of this somehow.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” I say. “You know, about Annika. It was a joke.” My voice trembles, despite trying with all my might to sound composed.
“I didn’t kill her. Let’s get that straight,” Kirby snaps.
Yeah, right. The underwear in your box tells a different story. So will the silver-toothed janitor.
I need to do something. I can’t end up with the same fate as Annika. I muster up my courage and move close to him. I stroke his thick neck, hoping to calm him down. Maybe I can buy enough time to make my escape.
“You smell sexy,” I say, trying to ignore the shuddering tremors in my heart. “I’ve always had a crush on you.”
He relaxes slightly, some of the coiled up rage dissipating from his expression. He stares blankly into my eyes for a moment. “Lay down.” He pushes me onto the dirty tile floor. I struggle to get away but he shoves me down again. He yanks up my dress up, hard.
I need to think fast. My brain is like oily sludge, though, slipping slowly through my fingers. A sob catches in my throat. I’m a virgin and I want my first experience to be with Jason, not raped by this sadistic monster.
“Wait,” I say, my voice quavering. “I have something to tell you.” The roof bends above me, crawling closer as though carried by ants. It looks as though it could cave in on us. Kirby’s face looms close to mine, blurry and twisted out of shape.
“Shut up,” he says. He forces my legs apart. He’s staring down at me, breathing heavily. His eyes are black as night, his lip curled. The scruff on his face gives him a wild look, like a pirate.
“You’re the perfect homecoming king,” I say, stumbling over the words, grasping at straws. For some reason, this works. He stops for a moment, puffing up.
“All the girls want me,” he says, loosening his hold. “The crown’s a chick magnet.”
“Shiz,” I assure him. Shiz? My mind is sluggish with terror, thick like pea soup. I hear my heart racing in the distance—pump-pump, pump-pump—spurting adrenaline through my body. My brain clears for a moment, and I fumble for my dress. I grasp the velvet fabric and yank it back down over my legs. I pull myself up so I’m sitting. I run a shaking hand through my hair, attempting a smile at Kirby. I need to figure a way out of this. I don’t want to die on the floor of a bathroom like Annika.
As if reading my thoughts, Kirby sneers in a cruel way. His lips pull back to reveal his large capped teeth. He looks like a shark. Then swiftly, with one deliberate movement, he pushes me back down. His eyes never leave mine. He smirks. I struggle up again but Kirby shoves me hard, so violently that my head hits the tile with a hard, sickening crack. Everything blurs for a moment, goes dark, then slowly fades back in.
“Fucking bitch,” I hear him mutter. His hands are on my throat. Things are closing in on me again, getting fuzzy. I claw at him, trying to push him away. A hand leaves my throat and I feel him slap me, hard, across the face. Then his fingers are probing, pulling at my underwear. Somewhere in the distance, I hear my beautiful purple dress rip up the front. From the far recesses of my mind, I realize that I’m half-naked, shaking and cold with Kirby’s body weight pressing the breath out of me.
I’ve never felt more alone or vulnerable.
It can’t end like this. I can’t die here on the floor of this dirty bathroom in my beautiful shredded purple dress without ever seeing my mom or Miranda or Jason again. Suddenly, I hear a scream—a loud, animalistic sound that echoes through the bathroom. A death cry, I think, from somewhere far away. My own.
Jason. His face appears in my mind, his handsome kind face wisping in and out as if in a far-off dream. Then Mom’s, her eyes large and sad.
I can’t leave them. A burst of energy comes over me. I push and fight with everything I have, with all of my will. I hit and grab at Kirby’s hair and scratch at his face. His rough hands tighten around my throat. I struggle and fight. I struggle, to no avail. Just like Annika.
Blackness surrounds me, takes over.
Nothing.
24
When I open my eyes, Jason’s face is hovering over mine with a look of deep concern in his brown eyes. Am I dreaming? Or in Heaven? I have never seen anything more beautiful in all my life. Mom is here, and Miranda, too. Victor stands in the background. He flashes a toothy smile, a sympathetic eagerness in his expression. The familiarity of these people brings tears to my eyes.
“You’re here,” I say, my voice croaking. “You’re real.”
Jason looks into my eyes and puts a finger gently to my lips. It’s all there, his concern and affection, there in his warm brown eyes. It never left.
Stifling a sob, I try to sit up. All I want is Jason to hug me. But something is holding on to my arm. For a terrified, delusional minute, I think it’s Kirby still gripping me. But then I realize it’s a blood pressure monitor, my heartbeat being measured by a nurse. I’m in a hospital room, stark and white. A police woman stands nearby, writing something. Red. I would recognize her popping eyes and severe bun anywhere.
A doctor enters the room and strides over to me. He checks a few machines next to the bed with an authoritative manner, consults with the nurse, then turns to my mother. “She should be fine now.”
My mother exhales as if she’s been holding her breath this whole time. “Thank God. Thank God.”
“Just a slight concussion,” the doctor continues. “You’ll need to monitor her over the next few days. She should be fine except for a minor headache.”
Easy for him to say. My head throbs as though someone is prying my skull open with a screwdriver.
Miranda’s pixie-face roves anxiously over my neck and face. “What about the bruises?”
How bad is it? I’m afraid to even know. The memory of Kirby’s merciless hands sends my mind into a tailspin.
“Where . . . where’s Kirby?” I croa
k.
The doctor gives me a sympathetic look. “Get your rest, young lady. Let the police do their job.” He hands my mother a prescription for something and leaves the room.
Mom offers me a cup of water, which I accept gratefully. My mouth feels stuffed with cotton. A jackhammer pounds away in my head.
“Could we have a moment?” Mom asks the cop.
Red rises. “Fine. But make it quick.” She leaves the room.
“What happened?” I ask, looking around at Mom, Jason, Miranda, and Victor. “I don’t remember anything after Kirby strangled me.”
“Don’t worry, he was arrested,” says Jason, placing his hand on mine.
“But how . . . ?”
Jason squeezes my hand. “I broke down the door. Kirby had his hands around your throat. You were purple. You’re lucky you didn’t die.” An expression of guilt and sadness floods his eyes. He looks close to crying. “The cops said you must’ve put up a pretty good fight before I got there, though. Kirby’s face was pretty messed up.”
“Worse than yours,” Miranda chimes in. “But you should see your neck. It’s like Jason gave you a bunch of hickeys.”
I throw her a wry glance, then turn my gaze back to Jason. “How did you know I was in there? I thought you hated me for dancing with him and left.”
“I did. I was out in the parking lot, ready to drive away. But then I remembered Kirby’s expression on the dance floor, and something about it made my blood run cold. I knew I had to get back in there fast. Something felt very wrong. I feel like an idiot for ever leaving you, for letting the old Stumblemeyer insecurities take hold.”
Miranda jumps up. “Jason kicked Kirby’s ass. You should’ve seen the dude. After Jason finished what you started, that jockass was messed up.” She grins triumphantly.
Jason meets my eyes. “I heard you scream and broke down the door. When I saw you there on the floor like that . . . ” His voice catches.
“He saw red,” Victor says.
“That’s putting it lightly,” says Miranda, giggling. “He went crazy!”
“Thank God Jason was there,” murmurs Mom, stroking the hair back from my face. Her face is puffy from crying.
I swallow hard. It’s hard to see Mom like this. It seems I’ve been the cause of so much of her pain lately. “I don’t remember anything after Kirby . . . oh.” I stop. Did he rape me? My heart pounds. “He didn’t . . . you know . . . ?” My voice sounds tight, scared.
“No,” Jason says quickly. “He didn’t.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least Kirby didn’t take that from me.
“Are we correct in assuming he’s the killer?” Jason asks.
I nod, somberness overtaking me. What a horrible way to find out who killed Annika. The things I saw in Kirby’s twisted brain will haunt me forever.
“You’ll need to tell the cops what you know,” says Jason. “Do you have tangible evidence to get him arrested for Annika’s murder? Right now they’re just holding him for assault. And Valerie Dannerson is still behind bars.”
“I have enough evidence to get him locked up for good,” I say. I meet Mom’s eyes. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She grabs my hand.
“Oh honey, I was so worried. When they called me, I thought the worst. I’m so glad you’re . . . alive . . . ” She bursts out sobbing.
I pull her thin frame close for a hug. “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s all okay. I had to solve Annika’s murder. It was worth it.”
She looks at me with red-rimmed eyes. “But why? How?”
“I’ll explain it to you later. It’s something you’ll need to hear sitting down. And it’ll take a long time to process, trust me.”
Miranda and Jason nod, agreeing. We all exchange a glance. It’s still hard to believe I have this power. Who knew something as simple as kissing could lead to . . . all this?
Mom sighs. “Okay, sweetie. But promise me you won’t put yourself in danger like this again. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. You’re my everything.”
“I know, Mom. I know.”
And I do.
I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of Annika’s parents and what they must be feeling. I picture Annika’s sweet face with her huge, soulful eyes. I did this for you, sweet friend. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be a good enough friend to you in life, but I hope I’ve made it up to you a bit now. I’m sorry. I wish you were here. You deserved to live a long and happy life.
Tears squeeze out of my closed eyes and roll down my cheeks. I feel someone’s lips on me, light as a feather, and then Jason is in my mind. He envelopes me in purple again, a deep violet color that carries me away to a land of beauty and peace. “You promised me a dance,” he says in my mind. Then we are alone in his thoughts, his arms around me, my head on his shoulder, slow dancing on a cloud to the music in our hearts.
The door bangs opens, interrupting our moment. Red enters the room, her cuffs and keys jangling on her hip. “Miss, it’s time to get your statement.”
I nod, pulling myself up. It’s time to tell the cops everything. Well, almost. Where do I even start?
Jason refills my water and goes to sit with Mom and the others.
Red pulls up a chair beside my bed, a notepad clenched in her bony hand. She fixes me with a pop-eyed stare. “According to witnesses, you were persistently pursuing Kirby Cahill at the dance, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend in attendance, is that correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“Miss, just yes-no questions, please. I’ll give you a chance to speak in detail after my questioning, all right?”
I nod, gripping my cup. How am I going to be able to explain everything in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m either lying or crazy?
Red checks her notes. “Did you repeatedly follow Kirby Cahill onto the dance floor and accuse him of murdering Annika Sorens, despite his assertions to the contrary and the objections of his girlfriend?”
“No, that’s not how it happened—!”
“No, you did not follow him onto the dance floor?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Either yes or no, Miss Reynolds! Which is it?”
“Yes, I danced with Kirby but only to find out if he killed Annika.”
“So you did accuse him of murdering her?” Red stares at me, her pen poised mid-air.
I stare back, defiance flooding through me. “Yes. Because he did.”
“His girlfriend, Darcy Latimer, has stated that you were deliberately trying to provoke both of them, which led to numerous altercations throughout the night. Witnesses back up these statements.”
Miranda leans forward, her hands on her hips. “Kirby Cahill tried to kill Winter, too!” she shouts. “He almost raped her! He did the same thing to Annika. What more evidence do you need?”
Red puts her hand up. “Miss, when I need your statement, I will ask for it,” she says in a sharp tone. She turns her focus back to me. “You do understand that we have arrested Mr. Cahill for his actions against you? The doctor’s report is pending, but suffice it to say that the assault charges will likely stand.”
“Good, but he needs to be charged with Annika’s murder, too,” I say.
Red rubs her face in irritation. “According to Mr. Cahill’s best friend, Damen Ratliff, you attacked him as well.”
“Attacked?”
“Yes, Miss Reynolds. Even kissing someone is considered assault if it is against their will. Sexual assault can take many forms. Billy Timmons has stated that you sexually assaulted him also, a few months back. There seems to be a pattern here.”
“Sexual assault?”
Jason jumps up. “What is this?”
Red puts her hand up again. “Sit down, sir.”
My hand trembles and water sloshes out of my cup and onto the crisp white sheet. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I force myself to remain calm, although it takes everything I have not to scream the truth from the rafters, that damnit, I saw Kirby Cahill murder Annika Sorens i
n cold blood! I’m a witness but am forced to be mute on this point.
“Kirby Cahill murdered Annika Sorens,” I say as calmly as I can muster.
“And what evidence backs up such assertions?” asks Red.
The door bangs open and Handlebar enters. He gruffly acknowledges Red with a nod, then approaches Miranda. “May I have a word with you, please?”
Miranda scurries out the door after him.
Red scratches at her bun. “Where were we?”
“Evidence,” interjects Jason. “Yes, I’m sure Winter has enough evidence to file murder charges against Kirby Cahill.” He nods at me encouragingly.
I take a deep breath. “You need to test the A-monogrammed underwear that Darcy Latimer wore to the dance. They’re Annika’s.”
A collective stunned gasp goes around the room. Jason stares at me openmouthed. “Darcy killed Annika, too?”
I nod. “He had an accomplice.”
Red shakes her head in exasperation. “Not this again. We understand there are underpants similar in style to those of the deceased, sold by a local retail store. We are aware that Darcy Latimer, by her own admission, was wearing such a pair, purchased by Mr. Cahill. Granted, they had an A on them which is unusual, but their statements and evidence in the form of a receipt have checked out. Now, I’m going to have to ask everyone but Miss Reynolds to leave the room if these interruptions continue.” She casts a glare at Jason and Miranda, then turns her attention back to me. “I will repeat myself. Do you or do you not have concrete evidence against Mr. Cahill or Miss Latimer besides mass-produced monogram underwear sold by a chain store?”
My heart pounds wildly beneath my breastbone. If I can’t convince the cops, then Kirby is going to get a slap on the wrist for assault, then be free again in no time! Free to come after me. Free to kill again . . .
“There was a Spanish-speaking janitor at the track meet the day Annika was killed,” I blurt out, sputtering over my words. I sound crazy, I know, but I press on. “He saw Kirby come out of the bathroom.”
“Everyone at the track that day was interviewed,” says Red. “No Spanish-speaking janitor.”
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