Pseudocide: Sometimes you have to Die to survive: A Twisty Journey of Suspense and Second Chances

by A. K. Smith

  The bus ride feels like an eternity. Hudson rubs my hand, his arm crossed over me protectively.

  “Just breathe.”

  “I’m trying to. I wish I had a video of him saying all those things.”

  Hudson tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “I know my mother would say right now is this: the truth will set you free. It’s going to be okay, Sunday.”

  I keep repeating this phrase over and over in my mind. I hope Hudson’s mother is right.

  Finally, the bus pulls up in front of Devon’s office building. We both check the street as we step off the bus. The walk to the front door seems like a long road. Hudson opens the large glass door to the building, and his other arm holds me up. “You’re doing a great thing. You can do this. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  I think to myself, plenty. HE and SHE, prison, Amir getting away, Jack hating me. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push the elevator button.

  Hudson takes my hand as we ride up the elevator, not in a romantic sort of way, but like a big brother. I imagine Clark watching over me. Having Hudson beside me gives me strength for what’s about to happen.

  Chapter 30

  Someone Else’s Truth Will Set You Free

  The door to Devon’s office is ajar. The lights are off. An empty chair sits behind the reception desk. It’s 5:30 in the morning. We walk through the small lobby area and stop a few feet from Devon’s office. It is eerily quiet.

  “Devon?” Silence. We push the half open door and walk in. Hudson leads the way.

  Lights on, the office is empty. Something is wrong.

  Yesterday, Devon’s desk was neat and tidy; now huge stacks of papers cover every inch of his desk in a disorganized mess.

  Hudson scans the walls and stops at the photo of Devon beside a red race car.

  “He’s a professional race car driver turned lawyer?” Hudson turns to face me.

  From the hallway, a voice says, “That was my first job. I wasn’t good enough, never made pro.” Devon walks in, his thick blonde hair damp from a shower, and he smells like fresh soap. Today he wears a black suit jacket, white shirt, and an undone tie around his neck.

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “And you are?” He lifts his chin as he fumbles with his tie.

  Hudson extends his hand, smiles, and says, “I’m, err, Hannah’s, I mean Sunday’s, friend Hudson, and can I say: what a great first job, being a race car driver.” I can tell Hudson likes Devon immediately. I relax a little now that Devon is here. I trust Hudson’s gut.

  “Sunday, I have a friend in the Las Vegas police department who works with an FBI investigator. He’s doing me a favor. A big favor. He agreed to meet us here this morning. The shooting happened in Fayette County, Pennsylvania, which is out of the Las Vegas jurisdiction, so he is going to get in touch with the department involved in the shooting, and if the evidence is strong enough to bring Amir in for questioning, they can arrange to have someone from Pennsylvania fly in. He wants to hear the recording and take it from there. We need to work fast.”

  I nod, trembling inside, my heart in my throat, a sharp pain in my stomach.

  “They will have to call your parents. I’m not sure about the media, but it’s going to be a breaking news story.”

  The media. Of course, every news outlet and internet blog will try and break the news first. I picture the headline: “Missing teenager from Pennsylvania school shooting found alive in Sin City under a fake identity.” Or “Missing student from school shooting exposes the real mastermind behind the massacre.” Will the public think I had something to do with it and ran away? Bile rises in my throat. It’s hot in this office.

  “Sunday, you with us?” Devon asks.

  I nod, unable to speak, trying to keep myself together.

  “Let’s hear the recording.”

  Hudson pulls the slim voice recorder from his backpack and hands it to me. My shaky hand tries to push the power on and Hudson puts his hand over mine to turn it on. Amir’s voice fills the room. I shudder. Devon listens intently and at the end of the conversation where Amir and I kiss, Hudson squeezes my hand. Amir then talks about the shooting. I twist in my seat, hot and queasy.

  Devon replays the conversation again from the beginning as we wait for the officer to show up. My phone dings, and I jump a foot in the air.

  A text from Amir. “See you at nine o’clock, inside, by the ticket counter.” I hold the phone, my hand, as usual, still shaking, and show Devon.

  “Are you up for this Sunday?” Devon asks, I nod. “Text him back. Confirm.”

  I’m not sure if I should text him back at this hour, but I want to acknowledge his text. I text back: an emoji thumbs up.

  Devon hands me a bottle of water.

  Jack. My Jack is in Las Vegas with Marcia and Ed, and they are going to walk in this door in about thirty minutes and I don’t know what I’m going to do. What can I possibly say to him? Lost in my own torment, my head in my hands, I don’t even notice the detective walking in at in first.

  From there, everything starts moving at super speed. Devon introduces Detective Harding, who shakes my hand and then runs his hand over his shaved head. His grey eyes possess a depth of seriousness mixed with caring. He shakes Hudson’s hand and then asks Hudson to wait outside in the reception area. Hudson meets my gaze, asking for permission to leave me.

  “I’ll be all right, Hudson, you can go if you want.”

  Hudson stands up and squeezes my shoulder. “Sunday, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right outside this door.”

  After a quick recap, Detective Harding asks if Devon verified my identity. Devon opens a folder from the stacks on his desk and removes three photos. He must have printed the pictures off the internet; they are the same pictures the media plastered all over the news. “Just the hair color’s different. She dyed and cut it when she came out West. The blue eyes—there’s no mistaking her. This is Sunday Foster, the missing girl from the Ohiopyle school shooting.”

  Devon pulls out a high school photo of Amir. No resemblance to the new Amir of today, this photo portrays a studious boy with glasses and braces. “This is Amir James Carter, the boy Sunday recorded a conversation with last night. He admits he knew about the shooting and even states he gave instructions for the shooter not to kill Sunday Foster. He bought the weapon. She is supposed to meet him at the Greyhound bus station at nine a.m.”

  “I also think he broke into my apartment the other night, and stole my money, tablet and jewelry.”

  “Why do you suspect him?” Detective Harding asked

  “I never told him where I lived, and he somehow knew where I lived, and he knew I didn’t have an alarm. It would make me need his help, another reason to go away with him. Amir is manipulative, and very smart.”

  “Did you call the police, was it dusted for fingerprints?”

  “No, is it too late?”

  “No, but let’s start from the beginning.” The detective sits down beside me and pulls out a voice recorder. He looks at Devon for approval; Devon nods.

  “Sunday, I need your permission to record you,” he says in a calm kind voice.

  I nod.

  “State your name.”

  The questions begin.

  The truth will set you free. I repeat this mantra each time Detective Harding confers with Devon. When I have an extra minute of escape from the barrage of questions, I think about Jack. I can’t imagine what’s going on in his mind. I still don’t know how he found me. Is it 7:00 a.m. yet? Slivers of light peek through the slats of the blinds in Devon’s office. I check my phone to make sure Amir hasn’t texted again and touch the screen. 7:05. The Grants have to be here. Unlike HE and SHE, they are always punctual, well Marcia is when it mattered. I know this mattered.

  The knock on the door startles me. Devon opens the door and Jack’s dad holds out his hand to Devon. His eyes dart around to me, recognition lights up his face, and tears fill his eyes. I am unaware my face is we
t until Devon hands me a tissue. Ed wraps me in an intense bear hug.

  “Sunday, do you want to take a five-minute break?”

  I want to say yes, but speechless, I nod, unsure of what to do next. I walk out the door with Ed, and there he is, my Jack, with his mom. Marcia is crying. When Jack’s eyes meet mine, my heart does a 360-flip flop or at least it feels like that. Jack flies to my side and embraces me in a hug so tight, I can’t breathe. It’s as if I’d traveled back in time, the love so strong, just as it always was. Soon all three of us are hugging and crying. My fear disintegrates. This love is what matters, and it is amazing. I understand family; what it means to belong.

  “How did you find me?” I finally manage to croak out.

  “I never lost you,” Jack says as he kisses me in front of everyone. “You were always with me. I knew you had to be alive. But then I saw the video. The casino video: the garbage man who won the jackpot. You laughed. Your tell, Sunday, I knew then that it was you. And I saw your ‘live free,’ tattoo.”

  I can’t stop looking at him. He grabs my face with both hands and his tender brown eyes penetrate mine to the very depth of my soul. I kiss his scar. I can read the question in his eyes, as he whispers, “Why?”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I say.

  Devon is listening and watching our little family reunion. I wonder if he knows, because of his father, they found me. I think by the look on his face, he understands what transpired.

  “I’m sorry to break this up.” Devon exhibits beautiful compassion to Ed, Marcia, and Jack. “You must have a lot to discuss with Sunday, and I know she’s eager to answer all your questions. But I’m going to have to take Sunday to Police Headquarters. You are welcome to follow us down there and we can fill you in on the way. But right now, we have to take care of an urgent situation.”

  The emotion on their faces crushes me. Confusion and concern. I want to start fast-talking and tell them everything as quick as I can, but we have to find Amir. Devon gestures for me to go in front of him, placing a barrier between them and me.

  Softly, but with conviction, Devon says, “Sunday, we need to go.”

  I nod and turn around, looking past Devon at Jack as I am escorted out of the building. He is all I ever wanted, and I let him go and he came back to me. “Will you come to the station with me? I want to tell you everything.”

  “We will be right behind you, Sunday. Don’t worry,” Jack says. Ed catches up to us and halts Devon. “We have to speak to you, as well. There are some things that will be important for everyone to know. We have some crucial information about Sunday’s parents.”

  Devon looks at Ed and then at me. “Mr. and Mrs. Grant, Jack, why don’t you ride with us to the station.”

  In the background, I see Hudson standing back from the chaos alone, both hands jammed in his front pockets. Sweet kind Hudson.

  “Hudson, you can come to, if you like, or I can call you: what do you want to do?” I say walking back towards him.

  Marcia studies Hudson and then my face trying to assess the situation. She says, “I’ll bring Hudson with me, we have the rental car. He can make sure I find it. I have no idea where I’m going.” Marcia nods her head and Jack’s eyes stay on mine as we walk out to the car, his warm hand squeezing mine.

  Jack and I climb in the back of the car, my hand in his. I want to hold him, kiss him, and never let him go. The saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder is true. I know right here and now, with all the clarity I have ever had that, I love this boy with all my heart. Jack never gave up on me.

  Ed turns around, with a facial expression I’ve never quite seen. Alarm builds inside me. This can’t be good, whatever he is about to say.

  “Sunday, we need to tell you about your parents.” Ed and Jack exchange eye contact.

  “Your father is in jail; your mother is in a rehab facility awaiting trial. Sunday, he is not your biological father. You are not related to that monster,” Jack says, his words flying out of his mouth so quick, as if trying to rip a band aid off a wound.

  What? I want to hear it again so I can understand what he is saying. My eyes fill up with water for the hundredth time that day. I have no control over my emotions. “What are you saying? What are you talking about? How?”

  Jack holds both my hands, rubbing his finger over the top. “Your mother was pregnant with another man’s child. Your father went ballistic. They arrested him for possibly killing Clark. Sunday, I am so sorry… I’m so sorry.” Jacks eyes fill up with water.

  “HE killed Clark? SHE let him kill my brother?” The trembling starts again, a river runs down my face. I blow out my cheeks to catch my breath. This is too much.

  Jack holds me tight; his warmth stops my shaking. “It’s going to be okay. I’m here, we’re here. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”

  Chapter 31

  Greyhounds Again, The Bus Stops Here, and Shiny Silver Knives

  Redemption.

  I just hope Amir doesn’t suspect my lies. I know I’m a good liar—I practiced lying all my life—but somehow this lie is different. This lie is important to get right. I need to do this for all the families and all the students from school. I need Amir to be questioned and taken in by the police.

  I step on to the bus headed to the Greyhound station. Can I possibly do one good thing to make up for my lies and deceit?

  All I need to do is meet Amir and identify him for the police. I want to do this, I need to do this, and thanks to Devon, here I am.

  Detective Harding believes me, I know it. My gut is right. My stomach might be doing flips right now but my instinct is spot on. Amir is the orchestrator of the school shooting. I’m certain he was the mastermind and although he didn’t pull the trigger he might as well have. He used Eric. I mean Eric pulled the trigger, he is a killer, but Amir set it all up, every bit of it and pushed Eric to take the leap.

  Surveillance cameras are live at the bus terminal, I remind myself I’m not alone as I push through the passengers and exit the bus.

  One block away.

  My phone’s microphone can be remotely activated by the police. Didn’t know that until I asked if I needed to wear a wire. I hear Detective Harding commanding voice in my head, “No wired needed, not in today’s world, all you need is a phone. We’ll be right with you.’” I hope he is right.

  I keep walking, trying not to walk too fast or too slow. I need to do this, to make up for my mistakes. I spent hours with Amir and never saw that he was sick. I mean how did I miss it?

  There are supposedly undercover officers at the terminal; I quick scan everyone wondering if they are there to assist me if I need it.

  I slow down. My breath is abnormally fast. The authorities had a long debate over whether or not Amir might have a weapon and create another possible shooting spree. They’re wondering if he figured out I had gone to the authorities.

  Amir is smart. But, I’m a great liar, and I hope he believes me and shows up.

  Amir with a gun. I can’t picture it. I’ve never seen Amir touch a weapon, knife or gun, and his father had plenty of guns in the house.

  I know now Amir can change and learn anything. My noisy head is affecting my breath. My inner voice is shouting. He bought the gun. He went to West Virginia and bought the gun. Did he have another one?

  Inhale. Exhale. Focus.

  I will not let Amir win and frighten me away.

  Where are the two undercover officers? They are here somewhere to arrest him for a firearm purchase under a fake ID. When I left this morning, they were waiting for confirmation from the gun shop in West Virginia.

  My brown suitcase in hand, my backpack on my back, I scan the crowd. The Las Vegas Greyhound bus station may be newly renovated, but all the modernization can’t rid the typical shadiness of a bus environment. Homeless people are sitting on the ground, and a few unfortunate others are sitting on their luggage, waiting. After traveling across the country on a Greyhound, I remember the fumes, urin
e scent and moldy odor. The beggars, the smells, and the intoxicated people are the same in every city.

  I place my backpack and my battered old suitcase on the floor and I set the trap. Perched on my suitcase, forcing my leg to stop twitching. It doesn’t. I move to the floor, checking my phone, and I wait. I grasp my phone with two hands to calm the trembling. I want Amir to be caught. I need him to be accountable. My motive gives me strength. Twenty-eight victims, the ones Amir could have saved. Brothers, sisters, daughters, sons, girlfriends, boyfriends, mothers and fathers, gone from this world forever. Amir did this. My fury ignites the fuel of courage.

  I’m ready.

  I wait and wait and keep checking my phone, no text, nothing.

  I text Amir.

  Where are you? I’m here waiting at the bus station.

  My heart drops when it buzzes

  The customer you are trying to text is temporarily out of service.

  Last call for the 10:05 am bus to Massachusetts is announced.

  Amir and I are supposed to be leaving on this bus. A curdling high-pitched scream follows the announcement. A woman with three unruly children is trying to gather her belongings. The dark-haired toddler, a girl with a tear stained face emits a high pitch squeal at an octave that hurts the ears. She doesn’t want to board. I know her pain.

  I walk over, examining every passenger.

  He’s not here.

  I’m not sure what to do, so I sit down and wait.

  If he’s not here, then where is he? Watching me?

  Maybe the police already arrested him.

  Will someone text me? I check my phone again.

  It’s possible he bought a new burner or untraceable phone. No, deep down, I know the truth.

  Amir figured it out. I guess I’m not such a good liar.

  I wait another hour.

  Now another 30 minutes pass.

  My phone buzzes.

  Leave and get on another bus toward the Strip.