Miranda shook her head and took another sip. “I think Michael wins this one,” she said. “There’s definitely a hint of nutmeg in here.”
I shrugged. “I’ve never been much of a cook. That was my brother.”
“I see,” Miranda said. I expected her to punctuate her words with another sip, but she left her mug on the table. “You wanted to talk about your brother tonight, right?”
“Ryan,” I said. It felt weird to hear her refer to him as my brother. That was how I thought of him. “Yeah. I…I know he did horrible things, and he deserves to be locked away, but still…I…”
“You care about him,” Miranda said.
I stared at the table. My mug had left a sticky brown ring on the surface. “Yeah.”
“And you feel guilty for it.” Her voice was gentle. “You shouldn’t. He’s still your brother.”
I shook my head. “It’s so weird,” I said. “I feel relieved because he’s scary, and I’m happy that he can’t hurt me or the people I love anymore, but I also miss him, and I feel guilty about missing him. I’m so confused.”
She laid her hand on the table, like she wanted to reach out and grab mine. I almost wished she would. “That’s normal,” she said.
“There are enough people in my situation for you to say what normal is?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said. “I just meant that…you know…” She took a slurp of her hot chocolate in what I could only guess was a stalling tactic, draining her mug down to the bottom. “That was so good.”
I leapt up. “Let me get you another one.”
“No, no.” Miranda went to stand, but I grabbed her mug. “Julia, I—”
“You came out here at ten at night to listen to me talk about my feelings,” I said. I was already walking backward toward the counter, moving much more deftly than I had the last time I was in this room. “The least I can do is buy you a hot chocolate.”
I paid for her refill, then walked slowly back to our table, cupping my hand over the top to keep it as warm as possible. I set it down in front of her, and she peered down into it like she was gazing into a mirror. “Ooh, did you ask for powdered sugar on top this time?”
I smiled. “It’s a Crazy Elliot’s secret.”
She stirred. “Thanks. That was so nice of you.” She took a sip and smacked her lips. “Extra sweet.”
“So my brother,” I said. “He is securely locked away, right?”
“He is,” Miranda said. “You don’t have to worry. And I mean it: don’t feel guilty.”
“How securely?” I asked. “He escaped once already and came for me and my friends.” All the moisture fled from my mouth and took shelter in my eyes. “He could escape again.”
She reached out and, this time, patted my arm. Her fingers were warm. “He won’t. Julia, Ryan is locked away in the basement of the Sunny Vale police station, behind two locked doors. There’s only one exit from that basement, and it goes through the main office, where there are always officers present. You don’t have to worry about him getting away again.”
“Two locked doors?” My voice wavered. “My brother is smart. He could get the keys.”
“He can’t,” Miranda said soothingly. She patted my arm again, and I jerked away. “The key is in a locked box. Don’t worry—they keep a close eye on everything.”
I breathed out, but it sounded like a sob. “What if he has someone helping him? He’s charming, my brother, and he got someone to break him out of the hospital that first time. He could…” I paused and licked my lips.
“He can’t,” Miranda said. Her words had a blurry sort of edge to them, like she was having trouble moving her tongue. “You can’t even get into the police station without a valid police ID. They have security at the entrance. I’m telling you, Julia.” Her hand shook, and she sloshed a few drops of hot chocolate onto the table. “You are safe.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “Thank you for telling me that.”
“I’ll check on him tomorrow morning and let you know he’s still there, if that would make you feel better. My shift starts at nine. Now,” she said, and her hand trembled again, “was there something else you wanted to tell me about your brother?”
That was right. I’d gotten her here by telling her I had something to tell her. I looked down at the table. The drops she’d spilled made a shape almost like a dog. That made me think of Fluffy. Poor little inside-out Fluffy. “I wanted to tell you I was worried he might escape,” I said. “But it sounds like you guys have it under control.”
I walked Miranda to her car, and when I told her I had a forty-minute walk in the dark ahead of me, she insisted on driving me home. “If it bothers you, I’ll drop you off down the block so your parents won’t see you getting out of a cop’s car,” she said through thick lips. “Come on. Get in.”
I smiled at her, and this time it was genuine. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
I didn’t get in the car.
—
I awoke at 7:35 a.m. to the cry of my alarm. Miranda’s shift began at nine. I had set my alarm for 7:50. Why was it going off now?
It wasn’t my alarm, I realized. It was my phone. Alane. I peeked out my window to see her car idling in the driveway. Shoot. I’d forgotten to tell her not to pick me up.
The shrill of my phone stopped. She was getting out of the car. She was striding up the walk, her hands on her hips. She was ringing the doorbell.
I hurried down the steps, realizing how terrible I looked only after I’d swung open the front door. “I’m sick,” I said as my heart lurched in my chest like a dying fish. “Sorry. I forgot to text you.”
Her eyes raked me from top to bottom, and for a moment I imagined myself through her eyes. Still wearing the same clothes I’d worn yesterday, though now they were crusty with dirt and sweat; even I could smell them. Sallow cheeks and haunted eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously.
I let out a laugh that sounded more like a scream. “Just peachy,” I said.
“You look like death warmed over,” she said. “Actually, not even warmed over. You look like ice-cold death that’s just clawed itself out of the grave using only its fingernails.”
I couldn’t muster up the energy to joke back. “I’m sick,” I said. “I’m not going to school today. See you tomorrow.” Hopefully.
I went to close the door, but she blocked it with her foot. I tried to close it anyway, and she flinched, but she didn’t budge. “You’re hurting me,” she said.
“I don’t want to get you sick.”
She shouldered her way into the crack, yawning it open a bit more. I leaned forward, but I was completely drained. Even standing required burning too much energy. I needed to down, like, eight espressos, and then I might be able to hold fast. That, or one perfume bottle full of neon-pink essence of Alane. I was willing to bet Alane never got sick.
“You’re not sick,” she said. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”
I grunted as I pushed back against the door. “You’re going to be late to school.” And she was going to make me late for my shift. Well, for Miranda’s shift. I had to make sure to get there before her and before she discovered her stuff was missing. The dying fish in my chest flopped and jolted my stomach, making me feel seasick, making me feel like I wanted to throw up. I could feel it beginning, a burning in my nose, a tingling in my cheeks.
This was my own fault. I’d wanted the loyalest of loyal friends, and when I’d pulled Alane away from her lonely lunch table and installed her on the social ladder, I’d gotten that. She owed everything to me. If I was going to push her away, I’d have to be cruel. I didn’t want to be cruel to Alane. I loved her, I think.
Alane leaned in further, slowly but surely pushing me back into the foyer. I finally gave up, stumbling back into the wall and sliding downward. The tile floor was cool through my jeans, and I leaned my cheek against the wall, breathing deeply, staring intently at the ceiling and the floor and the wall and anything
else that wasn’t Alane. Which was difficult, as she was hovering over me, dipping and ducking her head, desperately trying to catch my eye.
“Something’s wrong, Julia,” she said. “Tell me. I can help you. Does it have to do with your brother?”
“It’s over, Julia. We’re safe now. They can’t tell.” The smell of blood was heavy, metallic, sticky against the inside of my nose. It rose in clouds toward my brain, choking it and suffocating me.
I let my brother pull me to my feet. “But eleven people are dead,” I said. “It’s not like we can just walk out of here. Like we can disappear.”
“Of course not,” my brother said, holding me tight against him. I breathed in deeply and let the smell of him—smoky, spicy, sweaty—block the smell of blood. “I have a plan for that. You’ll just have to trust me.”
The sob that escaped my throat surprised even me. “Everything has to do with my brother,” I said. “Everything. And I’ll never get away. I can never get away.”
She settled to my side with a thump. Distantly, I could hear her truck rumbling. She’d left it on. “I can help you,” she said. “I’m your friend.” She linked her elbow with mine. “I love you, remember?”
Cruel. Whether I wanted to or not, I had to be cruel now. For Alane’s own safety.
I stood up so quickly I knocked her aside; she went reeling and cried out as her elbow smacked into the wall with a thud. “You don’t love me,” I said coldly. “I don’t know what love is, but I know I don’t love you. I had a best friend, and she’s dead.”
She popped to her feet, her lower lip trembling, and stuck her chin out at me like a shield. “You’re stressed out and you’re hurt and you’re sick and you probably feel like you’re drowning,” she said. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”
I didn’t say, Goddammit, Alane. I don’t want you to forgive me. I want you to go and hopefully not hate me tomorrow. “Please go,” I said instead.
Her hands fluttered to her shoulders, then back down to her sides, then up again. I took a step away in case she was thinking of hugging me or something. I could already see the seams running through the world, slight, nearly invisible lines of air and dust that held reality together. If she were to touch me, I was sure they’d just split down the middle and tear the world apart. Tear me apart.
“Call me, Julia,” she said. “Or come by. I’ll be waiting.”
I watched her go. She sat in my driveway for way too long, her phone to her ear; I bet my phone was shrieking upstairs. I knew she wanted me to race out and tell her I’d had a momentary lapse and of course we were best friends. Of course I loved her. That was the last thing I could do, though. Liv had died because she’d gotten too involved with me and my brother. I could never, ever let that happen to Alane.
I waited ten minutes or so after she pulled out to make sure she didn’t come back, pacing circles through the quiet house. My parents, asleep upstairs, had no idea I was wearing a path into the carpet. I didn’t know if they even knew their only son was being held minutes away; they certainly hadn’t let anything slip to me. I never knew what they knew or didn’t know. The only thing that mattered was that they’d think I’d have left for school with Alane. If I didn’t make it back, their memories of me would hopefully remain pure, undiluted, clean as our bathroom floors.
Upstairs, I unpacked my bag and pulled out all the things I would need this morning. One black suit, the one my mom had worn ages ago to my bat mitzvah—it wouldn’t fit me as well as Miranda’s black suit fit the real her, but that couldn’t be helped. Hopefully nobody would look too close. After the suit, I stretched on a pair of sleek black gloves—I’d leave no fingerprints. No trace. One official police ID. We looked different, but I pulled my hair into a tight bun, rouged my cheeks red, and plucked my eyebrows thin to make the differences as small as possible. Hopefully nobody would look too close. I just had to get through the police station and into the basement without rousing any suspicions.
And, finally, what I’d left for last: the key to my mom’s car, currently parked in the driveway. The mere thought of getting back in the driver’s seat made my palms so slick with sweat I dropped my phone. It landed with an ominous crack. I considered picking it up and checking to see if I’d broken it, but I didn’t bother. I wouldn’t need it anymore. I left it there, facedown on my floor, most likely cracked beyond all repair.
The morning was so beautiful and serene and normal I actually burst into laughter as I stepped outside. Birds twittered, soaring over me like they had somewhere to go besides flying into windows and breaking their sorry little necks. Wind rustled the perfectly manicured lawns; each of which was greener than the last, as if our street were competing in some sort of Miss Green Beauty Pageant.
I was laughing again.
I turned for one last and what might be one final look at my house. No, not my house, I told myself. Not Julia’s house. Lucy Black’s house. Lucy Black, rest in peace. She’d lived a quiet life, and she’d fallen in love, and then she’d disappeared like she’d never been.
Two of my neighbors were in the process of leaving for work, kissing their beautiful families goodbye. Neither of them spared me or my mom’s car a glance. I took a few deep breaths, pushing back nausea, before climbing into the driver’s side and revving the engine.
My physical reaction was instantaneous—chilly beads of sweat clung to my forehead and upper lip, my throat closed halfway, making me gasp for every molecule of oxygen, and the skin on my hands felt shiny and tight. I went to shift the car into drive. The dying fish in my chest, which was somehow still flopping, had invited a number of his dying fish friends to a party in my stomach. I thought I might throw up.
I could do it, though. I could drive. I had to. I forced out thoughts of Aiden dying behind the wheel, of my wrist cracking like an egg. I closed my eyes for a second, just for a second, and saw eyes staring back at me, shocked eyes, scared eyes, boring through a cracked windshield.
My eyes popped back open. I could do it. It was a short ride.
And I had no choice. It wasn’t like I could ask Michael for his help with this. He’d done all he could for me. This last part was all mine. I knew the way to the police station by heart; I’d memorized the directions from Google Maps—three different sets of directions, in fact, just in case any roadblocks or anything should pop up—and programmed them into the car’s GPS. But it turned out I didn’t need either of the alternate routes; I just drove right on into the parking lot and parked in the middle, not too close, not too far away. I didn’t want to draw any extra attention to myself. I expected to hear sirens blaring as I walked in the front door, even with the sunglasses obscuring half my face; to have a cage clamp down on me from the ceiling; to be swarmed by cops enraged by the thought of me, stupid little me, pretending to be one of them.
But there was none of that. I simply squared my shoulders, nodded at the cops on duty, flashed Miranda’s ID and presented it for a scan, and walked through the office. I scanned the interior: an entryway and waiting room out front; then a large room filled with desks, filing cabinets, and assorted other office things; a hallway that must lead to the bathrooms, the chief’s and deputy chief’s offices, and interview rooms branching from the sides; then a stairway to the basement, where they kept the holding cells. From what Miranda had said, my brother wouldn’t be in the regular holding cell with the drunks and hookers and vagrants. There was a more secure holding cell, down another flight of stairs, near the water heater, where they were keeping him.
I nodded at a few of the officers at their desks sifting through mountains of paperwork, keeping an eye out for Michael’s dad. His dad was hopefully still in Berkeley with Aria for the day, but that could always change. Anything could change. If he was here, all I could do was duck behind my sunglasses and pray. “Morning, Officer,” one of the cops said, smiling absently.
I tried to smile back as I nodded. “Morning,” I said. I held my arms by my sides as I walked through the room. Were my ar
ms too stiff? I swung them a little. No, now I looked too carefree. Somebody else nodded at me. I nodded back. Oh God, they were on to me.
“If you want some coffee, Officer, there’s some in the kitchen,” someone piped up from behind me.
I gave a wave of my hand. “Thanks, maybe,” I said. “I’m just here to see the prisoner.”
Thankfully, that didn’t set off any red alarms. I continued through the office, each step as loud as a bomb, and made it into the hallway. I exhaled heavily in relief. One room down.
Then a hand clamped around my arm. “Julia?”
I was caught. It was over. Everything was going to come out. I might as well be dead.
I might as well be dead. My hand was already by my side. I lifted it so that my fingers grazed the bulge of the gun in my suit jacket. If I ended it now, I wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout. I couldn’t deal with the fallout. It would be worse than the days before I became Lucy Black.
“Julia?”
My captor was Michael. Life whooshed back through me like a cool breeze, rendering me so weightless I might have floated away save for the stabilizing hand on my arm. “Michael, what the hell?”
His lips opened again; I stood, frozen, as he moved them in what appeared to be exaggerated shapes. “I should be asking you that,” he said. A vein ticked in his forehead like the countdown clock of a bomb. “What the—”
“Shut up.” My eyes moved frantically back and forth, but nobody was gaping at me in horror or pulling their gun. We were hidden from view in the narrow hallway, but it was only a matter of time before somebody took a stroll for some of the aforementioned coffee. “We can’t talk out here.” I tried to pull him to the side. He resisted at first, but I slowly dragged him through a doorway that turned out to lead to the handicapped bathroom, a small, dank, mushroom-smelling space packed with boxes. It was so claustrophobic I could hardly breathe; just standing there we were pressed right up against each other, our elbows nearly brushing the stacks. And yet I couldn’t help but let out a dry chuckle. In times of woe I always seemed to find myself in handicapped bathrooms.
Damage Done Page 19