by Rina Kent
My gaze lands on the laptop sticking out of Marcus’s backpack. Was he going to study and decided against it, or was he in too much of a hurry to push it down all the way?
I’m all too aware of how much time is slipping past while I stand here motionless.
If Marcus used his car, then his GPS might be logged to an online app like my father’s Merc. Fuck knows how that shit works — Dad mentioned it in passing during one of his visits a few months ago, and it sounded like pretty cool technology. Said he would know exactly where they were if anyone ever stole his car.
I grab the laptop and flip it open. Setting it down on the desk, I stare at the empty password field under a photo of Marcus smirking into the camera wearing sunglasses, a joint sticking out of his mouth.
Fuck.
I try a few random phrases, each more desperate than the last.
password
Pasword123
Marcus
Marcus123
I hesitate, then type:
Briar
Jessica
Nothing. My eyes slide to the default avatar of the guest profile next to Marcus’s. I’m not exactly a computer boffin, but I know you can’t access stuff on one profile from another, not unless you’re the admin. Browser history, all that shit is profile dependent. It would be absolutely useless—
My fingers go hunting for a packet of smokes, an absent gesture as my mind grinds its gears.
But I don’t touch a box of cigarettes. My fingers brush against the flash drive in my pocket.
Maybe not entirely useless.
I take out the drive, and swallow hard when it brings back a too-vivid memory of what Marcus had drawn on that piece of paper. He’s no artist, but it was blatant how much time he’d spent on the sketch. The faint lines where he’d erased his pencil marks again and again to make sure every curve was just right.
I drum my fingers on the table as I wait for the computer to log me in and pick up the flash drive plugged into its USB port.
Squeezing my thumb and forefinger against my eyes, I do my best to rid myself of that image, but it’s impossible.
Obviously, he lied to me. But I could never have imagined the extent of his depravity.
He killed the cat.
I let out a soft, bitter laugh, and open the flash drive’s folder. Videos. Fourteen videos, all different file sizes. Porn, from the titles.
kayceegang.mp4
Castingcouch_HD.mp4
Bendingbecky.mp4
I scan the list, and my eyes immediately fix on the seventh, eighth, and ninth one.
Jess.mov
Jess (1).mov
Jess (5).mp4
Jess (6).mp4
I open the first one, chewing on a fingernail as I wait for it to load. It’s the shortest one, so it doesn’t take long.
A blur of yellow.
The camera focuses reluctantly.
“What are you doing?”
My heart clenches at the sound of Jessica’s voice. Marcus laughs and suddenly the camera’s on him. “What’s up?” he says, giving a peace sign.
I remember this video. I inhale deep as Marcus focuses the camera back on Jessica. He was using his phone — a new one he’d just bought with a something ridiculous megapixel camera he couldn’t stop talking about.
Jessica’s wearing a bikini. I see myself in the background playing volleyball with a few guys in our team. This video is more than a year old, but the time stamp was from a few months ago.
And then I see why.
It’s been edited.
The original video — the one Marcus had posted all over social media to show off his video skills — had been of him panning the beach, giving Jessica a fake interview about UV indexes and where she bought her designer bikini from, and then some macro shots of sand crystals and a lone starfish.
Only the interview was left.
When I’d watched the video on my phone’s Facebook app, I hadn’t realized just how close Marcus had been sitting to Jessica.
How uncomfortable she looked.
How tiny her fucking bikini was.
But I guess Marcus did, because he kept the video.
Sickened, I close the window and open the second video.
Sickened, but still curious as fuck.
Curious, but hoping against all hope this will reveal something I can use to find Indi.
I don’t recognize the second video, but it’s another faux interview with Jessica. She wanted to become an actress, so she was never shy of the camera. She’s absolutely trashed in this video. She’s in a bar, but it’s one I don’t recognize. Above the drone of conversation, music, and laughter, I hear another familiar voice.
Addy sounds as if she’s having a conversation with someone else off-camera.
Jessica, however, is pouting and batting her eyes to the camera, explaining how easy it was for her to get cast for the latest Spielberg movie.
But it was obvious Marcus was less interested in what she had to say than in her mouth, her tits, and her legs judging from the close-ups and where he was pointing the camera.
Was this one of those nights I had to drive to the middle of nowhere to pick her up when Addy disappeared on her or took too many drugs to remember she was there with a friend?
I end that video prematurely, and consider for a long moment if I even want to watch the next. I don’t know if I can bear watching another leering pseudo-interview.
Instead, I spend a few minutes hunting around in the computer’s file system, trying to gain access to anything that might have some hidden meaning.
I find nothing.
So I light myself a cigarette and sit back in Marcus’s desk chair, staring out the window as I smoke.
I shift, and the folded up paper in my pocket rustles.
It’s with morbid fascination that I take it out, unfold it, and smooth it open on Marcus’s metal study desk.
I carry on smoking my cigarette as I do my best to look past the actual image and find any clues it might hold. A landmark, maybe, or a significant object. But there are precious few significant objects. Two, in fact. My eyes keep going back the necklace. That tear-drop cut stone. I know it to be encircled in diamonds, but Marcus’s skill with a pencil doesn’t do it justice. He almost tore through the paper how he colored that stone near-black.
Indi’s necklace.
But Indi’s not the one wearing it. The woman is about two decades older. A bit plumper.
Indi’s mother.
And Marcus drew her exactly how Indi described her in her final moments.
Bound.
Gagged.
Naked.
There’s an object between her legs. It’s as darkly filled in as the stone around her neck.
I close my eyes and try to will away the image, but I can’t.
I’ll never be able to unsee that soda bottle.
Chapter Forty
Indi
I wake with a throbbing headache, a stiff, cotton-dry mouth, and utter darkness. There’s a hand on my upper arm, and it squeezes me tight enough to pinch. But when I cry out in pain, the sound is stifled.
Because I’m gagged.
Icy snakes of fear worm through my bones as I’m hauled up and out of a car.
Marcus’s SUV. I remember a little now, although much of it’s still groggy. He led me out of my gran’s house to his car. Fuck knows how he got past the gates, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? He shoved me in the back, and was beside me an instant later. Like lovers getting ready for a quickie in the back seat.
I tried fighting him.
Don’t let them take you away.
Never change locations.
Rather die than let that happen.
Which is all sterling advice…if you have a fucking choice.
I didn’t.
Marcus the goddamn football player is twice my size. I didn’t stand a chance at resisting him. After the first kick, he had his ropes out and lashed around my ankles. And the first
time I tried to scream, he gagged me. Once my hands were bound, there was literally nothing more I could do.
But he wasn’t satisfied. He brought out a syringe, and jabbed it into the side of my neck. Whatever was in it took effect in seconds. I don’t remember anything else — not how long I’ve been out, or if he did anything to me while I was unconscious. A mental scan of my body only tells me that my ankles and wrists are aching, and that I really need to pee.
My legs sag under me, and Marcus leaves bruises in my flesh as he props me up beside him and starts walking. The hood over my head is a new addition. When did he put it on? How long ago was that?
More importantly, where the fuck are we?
Chapter Forty-One
Briar
I finish my cigarette before I can force myself to watch the last video. As it is, I almost decide against it. Marcus’s actual depiction of a crime scene didn’t give me any fucking clues — what would another fake interview with my dead ex-girlfriend help? But it’s not as if I have anywhere to go. Any other leads to follow. I could scour the entire town of Lavish and not find him in time before he—
Thumping my hand on the table hard enough to rattle the ashtray, I let out a long breath and stab the spacebar.
A shaky camera focuses on Jessica’s sleek hair. She turns her head, and grins wide at whoever’s holding the camera.
“What’s up, princess?” Marcus asks.
Jessica’s eyes go wide in surprise, and then she slaps playfully at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?”
She tilts her head, lips pursing. “’Cos you know Briar will catch a fit if he hears you.”
“Why? I’m just protecting you from scavengers,” Marcus says. The camera phone zooms in on Jessica’s face. “Shouldn’t have left such a fine specimen by herself.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re the scavenger, Marcus.” She’s jostled to the side as a pair of arms encircle her, each hand holding a red Solo cup. My face comes into view, eyes glassy and unfocused, hair a mess.
Christ, I’m drunk as fuck.
I give Marcus a lopsided smile and lift a cup for Jessica to take. Her eyes narrow at Marcus as if in warning, and then she spins in my arms and kisses me. Beer sloshes out the cups, but I don’t even seem to notice.
The longer the kiss goes on, the emptier both cups get, but then a bottle of vodka appears in the camera’s view. Marcus pours a few solid glugs into one of the cups — the one I’d been about to hand to Jess before she kissed me.
The bottle disappears. “Drink up, guys!”
I come out of my kiss wearing a wide, sloppy smile.
I was so happy. I can see it in my own face watching this now, and my heart squeezes before I can push away that unexpected swell of emotion.
Jessica peeks at Marcus over her shoulder. “He’s had enough,” she says, and then snatches the red cup from my hand as I’m bringing it to my mouth.
“It’s his birthday, Jess,” Dylan says as he appears in the shot wearing his white baseball cap and slings an arm over my shoulder.
“Yeah, Jess,” Marcus parrots. “It’s his fucking birthday.”
Jess scowls at Dylan, and then her gaze returns to Marcus as she drains what’s left of my cup. She staggers a little and then takes a few gulps from her own.
She’s just as drunk as I am — perhaps even more — but how couldn’t she have tasted the vodka in her cup? It must have been strong as fuck. Jess never liked hard liquor. Beer was always her first choice, then wine. But she’s throwing back her drink like it’s watered-down beer.
“I hope you’re gonna put out for my buddy tonight,” Marcus says, handing a lit cigarette to me. Smoke briefly obscures the video. “Seeing it’s his birthday and all.”
Jessica’s mouth drops open as she turns to me. “You told him?”
My grin widens.
Christ. I’m so far gone, I don’t even realize how much shit I’m getting into.
Marcus lets out a low chuckle and reaches for Jessica’s shoulder. She shrugs him off immediately, throwing him another heated glare.
“Ssstop it,” Jessica slurs.
“Think your girl’s a bit fucked,” Marcus says. The shot focuses on Jessica’s face, and she swats him away as she twists her mouth in disgust.
The camera jolts and noise stutters through the laptop’s speakers. I hurriedly lower the volume, glancing over my shoulder at the closed door behind me. It’s ridiculous to feel paranoid in an empty house, but I can’t help it.
This is the video Addy sent me. It’s much higher quality, but there’s no mistaking where this was taken.
Really still think Addy sent you this?
My hands curl into fists on either side of the laptop and I close my eyes in utter disbelief. I never suspected Marcus, because evidence against me would be evidence against him covering up for me. But if it was Addy blackmailing me…?
His plan fell through. Or maybe he hadn’t thought it out well enough.
“Tell you what, bro. I’ll help you get the princess to bed, yeah?”
“Bed sounds good,” I say. “Don’t it, Jess?”
She giggles at me.
The video ends.
I stare at the square of black on the laptop screen, my heart thundering in my chest.
But then, a new video begins playing.
Jess (6)
The last video.
A black screen. The sound of breathing, shoes sloughing over carpet, fabric rustling.
“She’s so fucking trashed, bro,” Marcus says.
“Tha’ was the point, wa’nt it?” I slur back.
“Almost there,” Marcus says.
“Jess? Still with us?” I ask.
There’s the faint outline of a doorway. A silhouette approaches it. Opens the door. A low light from inside splashes over the guy’s face.
It’s me. I’m standing in the doorway to Marcus’s bedroom, swaying as I hold open the door for him.
I turn in the chair and stare at the closed door. My stomach tightens, and for a second I’m convinced I’m going to puke. When I face the laptop again, it’s with a grimace and slitted eyes.
I don’t want to watch this any more than I wanted to look at that picture Marcus drew. Because I know what happens next, and I don’t want to have to face it like this.
But if I don’t, then I’ll never know if she said yes or not. It’s always been her word against mine, but now—
Judging from how drunk she is, I already know she couldn’t possibly have consented to anything.
I tap the spacebar anyway. And I force myself to watch.
“But it’s your birthday, bro,” Marcus says. “She’s supposed to be giving you head right about now, not passing out in my bed.”
“You’re th’ one that got her this drunk in the first place,” I say.
Got both of us drunk it seems. On the contrary, Marcus’s hand is steady, and his words come out just fine.
Marcus brings Jess over to the bed, but instead of gently putting her down, he collapses on the mattress with her, letting out a theatrical groan.
She tries pushing his arm off of her, and then starts giggling.
My chest grows tight again.
Nothing could ever get Jessica down for long. She was always so happy, so fucking optimistic. My little Hollywood starlet.
Until I ruined her. Until I broke her so badly that no one could put her back together again.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and move to close the laptop lid. I can’t watch anymore. Just thinking about what comes next sickens me—
From the laptop comes the unmistakable sound of a door closing. And then Marcus speaks. What he says makes my eyes shoot open and sends a flood of bitter bile into my mouth.
“Give the birthday boy a goodnight kiss.”
“What?” Jessica says, laughing. “Get out, Marcus.”
“Come on. One for the camera, princess.”
“Fine,” she says through a sigh, but sounds only
too happy to comply. The camera jolts. Light blooms and then Marcus’s arm retreats behind the lens again. The lamp on the nightstand throws a golden aura over the bed. I perch unsteadily on the edge of Marcus’s mattress, my bare feet on the floor and my knees wide apart, and drag Jessica onto my lap.
She straddles me clumsily, her back to Marcus as he moves away from the bed. Her skirt rides up her thighs when she leans in to kiss me, both of us swaying like reeds in a high wind. She seems to have forgotten all about Marcus as our kiss deepens. I grab her ass, dragging her hard against me. When she mewls into my mouth, Marcus steps to the side to get a better shot.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs.
Cold sludge slides down my back as my lips slowly part.
On the video, my hands move clumsily as I try to take off Jessica’s shirt. I end up tangling it in her arms, and she starts giggling uncontrollably as I struggle to undress her.
The video blurs and then settles. Marcus’s face obscures the shot, a pale smudge until he steps back.
My hands clench into fists. Marcus’s pupils are crowding out his irises. It can’t just be the low light in the room causing that — that must have been the coke and shit he was on that night.
“Marcus to the rescue,” he whispers to the camera, his mouth inching into a coy smile. He points at the camera. “Who’s the greatest wingman ever?” He points at himself with his thumb. “I am, and don’t you ever forget that, bro.”
He grins, smooths down his hair with his hands, and spins around to face me and Jessica on the bed. Creeping up behind her, he slides his hands under her shirt and pulls it over her head.
She doesn’t even seem to notice it wasn’t me undressing her. With her eyes shut and her body arching against mine, she looks lost in the moment.
And so am I. My hands move to her bra, but Marcus brushes them away and unhooks it for me. I claw the straps from her shoulders, baring her tits, and Marcus draws the lacy bra out between us and tosses it on the floor.
He should have left then. I could have stomached all of this, up to this point. He was high, so he thought he would help me. It was all innocent.