Possession

by T. M. Frazier

  “You expect me to believe all of this?” she asks, waving her arms around in the air like she’s swatting at my words as they float around her head.

  “I don’t expect you to believe anything, but it’s the truth. What you do with that is up to you,” I reply confidently. “Let me ask you. Does Gabby know you’re here?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve been keeping a low profile. She’ll find out soon enough. When this is all over, that is.”

  “When what is all over?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” she says. “Just be grateful I’ve kept you sedated for the last couple days.

  “Why?”

  “To allow you time to heal of course,” she says.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

  “Oh, but it will.”

  “So, you keep saying,” I mutter at her vagueness.

  Mona thinks for a moment before tapping her finger on her chin. She smiles and heads for the corner of the room where she digs out a box from under a crate.

  “Do you know what I studied while I was in school?” she asks. She reaches into the box and pulls out a small black machine with wires and straps attached to it.

  My blood runs cold. The bitch is going to electrocute me!

  “No, I didn’t go to high school. I wouldn’t know.”

  “I was in high school, but I was also taking college courses. My field of study?” She chuckles. “Psychology.”

  Is that where you learned to be a psychotic bitch?

  Mona attaches a strap around my waist and pushes me down into a chair. I land with a hard thud, and my tailbone vibrates all the way up my spine. “This is a polygraph machine, otherwise known as a lie detector.” She places more straps around my wrists and sticks two round, plastic things with wires hanging from them to my temples.

  Oh shit.

  “It scans the subject and reports on changes in blood pressure, pulse, respiration, and skin conductivity. All the telltale physical signs of lies.” She smirks and leans over me. “I’m going to learn the real truth, EJ. Not some bullshit you decide is the truth when it suits you. Right here. Right now. You were always a good liar, but you’re not that good. And you’re about to be found out for the traitor you are, once and for all.”

  She doesn’t say that she hopes I’m telling the truth. Not even for my sake. Her choice of words tells me that she wants me to lie. She wants me to be a traitor.

  She wants to hate me.

  “I’m not lying,” I grate, wishing an arsenal of men with guns wasn’t on the other side of the door, because if they weren’t, there would be a strong possibility of me pushing her out of the fucking window and making a run for it.

  Mona shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  She’s less than two years older than me and less than a year older than Gabby, but it’s her intelligence and bitterness that always made her seem much older. It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed about her. She looks years older than her nineteen years as she sets up the lie detector on a nearby table and gently adjusts the delicate needle like fingers atop thin graph paper. The needles leave a line of marks on the paper as it scrolls. She clicks a dial to the right. A small, red light blinks on the corner of the machine.

  “Last chance to come clean,” Mona states with her finger paused over a button.

  Blood pressure, pulse, respiration, and skin conductivity. That’s what the machine measures. I take a deep breath and summon every skill I’ve ever had. This is a magic trick more daring than any underwater escape. I spy the gun on the table next to the polygraph machine.

  And even more deadly.

  I can’t just lie. I have to put myself in a place where I believe my own lie. Where it becomes my truth. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, I can feel my racing pulse slow from a gallop to a trot. I straighten my shoulders and stare right at Mona.

  “Go right ahead.” I dare.

  “This is going to be fun,” she says with a cluck of her tongue. She presses a button. “We need to start with some questions I know the answers to so I can set a guideline for your reactions. Answer yes or no.” She stands behind me, out of sight. I imagine she’s sharpening her knife on her tongue. “Is your name Emma Jean Parish?”

  “Yes.” The needles make a lazy swipe on the page, creating a wide U-shape.

  “Is Gabby your best friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Lacking the name of this town?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you attracted to Marco?”

  “No,” I say flatly. The needles again makes a lazy U-shape.

  She snickers. “I can’t say I blame you for that one. He can be quite an ass. And his sense of fashion could use some work. Those baggy pants. Blech.”

  She’s trying to gain my trust by acting like we’re just two school friends having a little gossip. Mona might be a psychopath, but she’s a fucking smart one. Smarter than I’ve given her credit for.

  “It could be his pants,” I say. Then, I pause and snap my fingers. “Oh, I know, maybe it’s all of the threatening to kill me or whore me and Gabby out since we were tweens. Oh, and then there’s that whole tied-me-up-and-raped-me-thing.”

  Mona makes some sort of satisfied hmmm sound, disregarding the horrible truth of her brother’s actions like I just told her it was going to rain today. She wasn’t going to let it stop her. She was just going to get a fucking umbrella.

  “Okay, time for the good stuff.”

  She rounds my chair and takes a seat beside me like she’s moving from the nosebleeds to the front row. She doesn’t just want to see me sweat. She wants to fucking taste it.

  “Do you find Grim attractive?”

  I’m her friend. I’m on her side. I’m one of them. Magic is distraction. Illusion. Trickery of the mind.

  A mind fuck.

  Which is what I’m about to give Mona.

  “Yes.”

  “I thought for sure you’d lie about that one,” Mona says while leaning over the machine and marking the graph paper with a pen.

  “I thought the goal here was to be honest. You’d have to be dead not to think Grim is attractive,” I argue.

  Mona looks up and her eyes darken. “I agree. But, one thing at a time.”

  I chuckle because even though she’s threatening me, she’s not. I’m not Emma Jean Parish right now. I’m someone who would think that remark is funny. I’m someone who does all the terrible things Mona and Marco do and would follow them over a cliff to help them do it.

  She raises an eyebrow at me curiously, then checks the machine again before continuing. “Did you fuck Grim on the night of Belly’s funeral?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  She claps her hand against her thigh. “Wow, this is getting juicy. Not even going to try and deny that one, huh?”

  “You want the truth. You got it,” I say. I don’t recognize my own voice. I’m outside of my body, listening to this other person speak, and it’s eerie but even more calming because whatever I’m doing might just work. “Marco ordered me to get close. I got close. Very close.”

  “It’s yes or no,” she reminds me. “Did you fuck Grim because you’re in love with him?”

  She’s breaking out the big guns.

  “No,” I hear myself answer, I even sound a little disgusted at the idea. The real me’s heart starts to split like a tiny break in a lake of ice at the sound of my own words, but I seal it back up before it can do any damage. My heart might be breaking, but it’s still beating steady. I’m not in love with Grim. I’m his enemy.

  The needles, thankfully, make another lazy U.

  I fucking got this.

  “Did you fuck Grim because you wanted to get close to Bedlam in order to extract information for Los Muertos?”

  “Yes. Well, and no. That reason and because he’s really hot,” I say.

  “It’s yes or no,” Mona chastises.

  “I thought you might want clarification,” I offer.

 
“I don’t. Did you fuck Grim to gain his trust?” she asks, raising her voice. Her jaw tightens.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you at any time act as a spy for Bedlam?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to be with Marco?”

  “No.”

  “Do you respect him as your leader.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you respect him as a man?”

  “No.”

  Mona looks up at me.

  “I wanted to say yes, but your brother is a bit too rapey for my tastes. It keeps getting in the way of the whole respect thing,” I say with a jaded smile.

  She frowns and makes a mark on the machine. “Maybe this fucking thing is broken,” she mumbles. “I need an obvious lie.” She presses another button and turns a dial. “Reply the opposite of the truth. Lie. You’re good at that.” She pauses. “Do you want Gabby dead?”

  “Yes.” I lie, allowing myself to think of her cold and in the ground and no longer a part of my life. The needles dance on the paper.

  Mona crosses her arms and stands up. “Would you continue to extract information for Los Muertos from Bedlam if allowed?”

  “Yes.” The needle makes another slow U. “Do you think Grim is in love with you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think Grim trusts you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you love Gabby more than me?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  Mona’s eyes glaze over, and I’m shocked that she’s capable of tears or that she even cares that I love Gabby more than her. Then it dawns on me. The reason why she’s doing this. Why she hates me so much.

  “Do you think Gabby loves you more than me?” she asks. Her voice has only the slightest hint of a crack, but it’s there. It’s real. And it’s all the ammo I need to load my mental gun and take aim.

  “No,” I answer. “We’re best friends, but she loves you. Always has. You’re her sister. Blood is thicker than water. I loved you, too. You were family to me.”

  It isn’t a lie. Gabby doesn’t yet know that Mona’s cuckoo clock is misfiring at all hours, and instead of popping out at the top of the hour, it springs out with its fucking mouth open whenever it pleases, feasting on human flesh and despair.

  “Yes or no only,” Mona spits, sniffling. She clears her throat. I can almost see her pushing the human in her to the side of the pool while the psychopath does a motherfucking cannonball right into the center. She returns to checking the machine and marking the paper.

  “Do you think Grim is coming for you?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. It’s the truth. He doesn’t know what’s going on here right now, and I made him promise to stay away. To give me time so the town can avoid a war.

  “One last question,” Mona says. “It’s a repeat. An oldie but a goodie.” She takes a deep breath. “Are you in love with Grim?”

  I won’t think about his kiss. Or the way his hands feel on my body. Or the way the air shifts when he’s around.

  “No,” I respond with a calm clear voice.

  The needles move in a slow U-shape before going back to the center of the page to recommence the pattern of steady little peaks and valleys.

  I would stand and cheer in victory, but I’m still attached to the fucking machine.

  Mona stands and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her with an angry scream of frustration. She barks orders at someone on the other side to tie me up and put me back out.

  I rip off the straps. The tearing of Velcro echoes in the small room. The paper on the polygraph machine falls to the floor.

  I’ve done it. I won. I beat the machine. I open my inner door, letting in all of the emotions I’ve been holding at bay. My heart seizes in my chest. The lines of breakage that began earlier tear through me at sharp angles, slicing it to pieces. I feel each cut. Each mark. A tear rolls down my cheek, falling onto the graph paper I’m now clutching. I look down and notice that the lines have made a pattern. A shape. I begin to laugh at the irony of it all, but it doesn’t last, quickly changing from laughter into a quiet sob. I crush the paper angrily between my fingers and let it fall back to the floor where it unravels, taunting me with the shape in full view. Daring me to see it for what it is. What it seems destined to always be.

  A broken heart.

  Eleven

  “Marci, Sandy, and Haze were all released from County this morning,” Bethany informs me.

  She’s talking to me through the glass partition of my cell at the sheriff’s station. Unlike my family, I was never moved to the county jail. Lemming wanted to keep me close, and because of some special task force exception, he was allowed to do so. He’d even gone so far as to cancel my arraignment. I’ve yet to see a judge, and for the three days, I’ve lived in this fishbowl of a cell.

  “It took a while to get the judge to agree to bail, considering that all three of them have some heavy priors, plus the seriousness nature of the new trafficking charge. However, more serious is the judge’s little dalliance with a young girl a few years back.”

  “How young?” I ask, feeling sick.

  Bethany smiles. “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen is legal.”

  “True, but it didn’t take a lot of convincing to make the judge believe she’d lied about her age and was actually sixteen at the time. If you were in County, I would’ve gotten you out, too. But since Lemming has pulled this Homeland Security task force GI-Joe bullshit, he can basically keep you here indefinitely without ever seeing a judge.”

  “I can’t stay here indefinitely,” I say, wringing my hands.

  “I know.” Bethany looks tired. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her with even the slightest bags under her eyes. “It took some doing, but I wanted to let you know that I made contact with someone on the inside at Los Muertos.”

  “Tricks?” I ask, feeling an immediate sense of panic.

  “No. It’s not Emma Jean.” Bethany hesitates. “Emma Jean is alive but in rough shape. She’s locked up in a room somewhere in the main building, has been since the night of Belly’s funeral. Gabby told me that Marco’s…well, I don’t need to go into detail, but he’s hurt her.”

  “I can’t fucking stay here one second longer.”

  “I know that. Trust me. I know that.”

  Something occurs to me. Gabby?

  “Your person on the inside is Gabby?” I ask, just to make sure I’d heard her correctly.

  “It is, although it wasn’t easy. I had to pull a lot of strings and bribe a lot of people to get to her. All of which will be listed on your bill under ‘other’”.

  I don’t give a shit about a bill right now. “Listen, Gabby is the one who’s been updating me on Tricks. She never once said that she was in danger, as she sure as shit never said Marco’s got her fucking locked up.”

  Bethany thinks on it for a second, then she grabs her phone and flicks through some screens before showing it to me. “This is Gabby Ramos. I’m a hundred percent sure.”

  The picture is of Tricks with her arm around another girl. It was taken years ago because Tricks looks more how she did when we met and less like she does now. The girl she has her arm around has darker skin and long dark hair. On first glance, it does look like the girl I ran into on the path that night and who came to me on the reservation.

  “Zoom in,” I say.

  Bethany zooms in, and it’s only then that I notice the girl in the picture doesn’t have the same downward turned eyes or the big pouty lips like the other girl. These are all things that could change with age, but the clincher is the birthmark below her eye.

  There isn’t one.

  Because it’s not the same fucking girl. I ball my fists against the glass. Bethany tucks her phone away.

  “Fuck!!!!!” I yell, tearing at my hair. “Whoever the girl was, she wasn’t feeding me intel on Tricks. She was feeding me lies.”

  I pound on the glass with my closed fist, but there’s no one in the vast room beyond m
y cell except for Bethany and the muffled sound of a distant TV.

  “Grim,” Bethany says sternly. She shakes her head slowly from side to side and lowers her voice to a whisper. “I’m taking care of this. No need for all the yelling.”

  “How?” I hiss.

  She answers with no sound at all. I’m forced to read her lips. I called someone. Just wait. She raises her index finger over her lips.

  An officer emerges into the main area. Bethany looks over her shoulder and gives him a little wave. He feeds some bills into the vending machine. He grabs his pork rinds and tips his chin to Bethany before disappearing again. The volume of the tv rises from muffled to impossibly loud. Either someone's going deaf or there’s a bigger plan at play.

  A janitor ambles into the room, emptying garbage pails from underneath the cubicles at a snail’s pace. The wheels of his garbage cart screech along the linoleum. As he passes by my cell, he slips something through the square receiving box on the wall.

  Bethany nods to the box, again pressing her finger to her lips. “We will know more when you’re assigned a judge. Until then, we will just have to wait,” she says loudly. She points with her eyes to the item in my hand, then leaves.

  The object I’m holding is a rock with a piece of paper attached to it by a rubber band. I pull the paper free and flip it over. It’s a note.

  Stay by the glass, motherfucker! Whatever you do, don’t turn around. PS-You look nice today. Prison blue suits you.

  The one-piece scratchy uniform I’m wearing is bright orange. What the fuck is all this about?

  I peer out from my cell. There’s no one in the room now. Not even the janitor. The security camera high in the corner across from my cell, the one that’s usually pointed directly at me, is now facing down toward the floor.

  Whatever you do, don’t turn around. Okay, so I won’t turn around completely, but curiosity leads to risking a glance over my shoulder. It’s just a wall. An empty blank wall. BOOM. BOOOOOM!

  An empty blank wall...that just exploded.

  The sound resonates through my eardrums. I duck and cover my head with my hands as pieces of cement rain down into the cell. Dust coats my hair and the back of my neck. After a few beats, I stand, waving away the plumes of the aftermath.