Deadly Little Secret (24 page)

47

It’s just after four o’clock, and since I know my dad isn’t home yet and Mom’s not answering the phone, I decide to go to Knead.

Spencer’s there. He’s teaching a group from the senior center. There’s a frail, pink-haired lady painting a giant, boob-shaped mug for her boyfriend—one in which you actually drink from the nipple. I can’t decide what’s weirder—the fact that an eighty-year-old woman is painting it, or that she’s chosen a bright blue base color with red and white stripes for the accent, as if it were some celebration of America. Either way, it makes me laugh, which is exactly what I need right now.

I rub my wrist, still red from Ben’s grip, and then unravel my clay car from its plastic covering, eager to get to work.

“I’m glad to see you still working at this,” Spencer says, standing right in front of me now.

“I’m determined to get it right.”

“I know how that feels. Sometimes my work keeps me up at night. I feel guilty just going to bed, sort of like I’m abandoning a friend in crisis.”

I nod, anxious to see what becomes of my piece—to surrender myself to the power of touch, as ironic as that sounds.

Spencer lingers a moment, watching as I moisten the clay’s surface with a sponge and then carve out an opening for a door. “I have a feeling this is going to be your most intriguing piece yet, or at least the one with the biggest pulse.” He smiles.

I smile, too, continuing to work my fingers along the car’s exterior. While he resumes his class, I create a bumper and fine-tune a tailpipe. Then I close my eyes and concentrate on the power of touch and where it can lead me. I smooth my fingers over the clay, making the passenger-side door of my car sculpture open wide. I spend several minutes adding a dent to the fender and a gash to the grill, and then I put a bunch of holes into the side for no other reason than that I feel they belong there.

More than two hours later, even after Spencer leaves and turns the CLOSED sign toward the street, I continue to work, conscious that time is running out and I need to get home. My dad will be looking for me. I start to put everything away, catching a glimpse of the pinecone sculpture Ben and I made together.

I start to pick it up, but the door chimes sound, startling me.

It’s Matt.

“Hey,” he says, all out of breath. “I had a feeling I’d find you here.”

I look back toward the door, surprised Spencer didn’t lock it on his way out. “Is something wrong?”

His face is pale and sweaty. “It’s Ben,” he says.

“What’s Ben?”

“He had an accident. He dumped his bike.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the guy went ballistic and started drag racing me down by the lake. I didn’t even want to, but he started tailing me, getting right up on my ass. He even put a dent in my door.”

“Wait—
what
?”

“You need to come with me. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

“Is he okay?”

Matt shakes his head and looks toward the door. His car is parked right outside, under the streetlamp.

Without further questions, I grab my jacket and lock the studio up behind me.

“Where is he now?” I ask, once we start driving.

Matt turns the radio up—some heavy metal song— and then takes a bunch of turns, leading us onto the main drag.

“
Where is he?
” I repeat, talking over the music.

“The hospital. The guy was racing me and got carried away. He flipped his bike and plowed into a tree.”

“And you called an ambulance?”

“Yeah, I called them. He was banged up pretty bad.”

“Why were you racing? Did you guys get into an argument or something?”

“The guy went ballistic,” he repeats.

“Yeah, but
why
? I mean, there had to be a reason.”

“Apparently not for him.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” I sigh. “That’s not like him.”

“Have you not seen his temper yet?”

Unwilling to answer, I glance out the window, watching as Matt takes another turn, pulling out onto the highway.

“What hospital is he at?” I ask, noticing how we keep getting further and further from the lake.

“Fairmont.” He turns his radio up even louder.

“Why Fairmont?” I say, competing with the music.

Matt shrugs. “It’s where the ambulance took him. The EMT guy said there are more people on staff there tonight.”

I dig my nails into the palm of my hand, eager to get there and to see him. The speedometer climbs up well past eighty. Meanwhile, the heavy metal pours out of Matt’s dual speakers, making me even more anxious.

Finally, Matt weaves over to the right lane and takes the Fairmont exit. A couple of minutes later, we reach the center of town and follow the first few hospital signs.

The town of Fairmont is even more desolate than I remember; which is why I almost never come here. Only a small grocery store, a pizza restaurant, and a gas station occupy an otherwise dark and narrow street. I spot another hospital sign, positioned under one of the few streetlamps. It directs us to the right.

But Matt takes a left.

“You missed the sign,” I say, pointing back at it.

Matt turns down the music and tells me he knows a shortcut, but we end up at a stoplight—one that seems to take forever.

The inside of his car is cold and damp—and getting more uncomfortable by the minute.

“I think we should go back,” I say.

Matt scratches nervously at his face and then adjusts his rearview mirror. The pinecone air freshener dangles with his gesture, forcing me to notice the toxic scent in the air—like bug spray. “I think we’re lost,” he mumbles, turning down a desolate road, and then another, until I’m completely turned around.

There’s a sickly feeling raging in my stomach as we drive farther and farther from the center of town and deeper into a dark wooded area. I glance down noticing that the door handle is missing.

“Relax,” Matt says, bringing his car to a stop at the end of a dead-end street. There’s a trailer parked in the woods, like maybe we’re on the fringes of a campsite. He cuts the engine and then turns to face me. A relieved smile crosses his face. “Are you scared?”

My jaw tenses. I feel my eye twitch. I try to nonchalantly run my hand over my jacket pocket and search for my cell phone. But Matt notices, snatches the phone away, and chucks it out the window.

“Now’s no time for a phone call,” he says, moving in closer.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax,” he says again. “I just want to talk.”

“You lied about Ben.”

He nods and stares at me. His teal blue eyes are wide and intense. “I had to. You wouldn’t have come with me otherwise. . . . Right?”

I look toward his door, noticing his handle’s still there. “What do you want to talk about?” I say, trying to play along.

“Us,” he whispers, taking my hand.

I resist the urge to snatch it away. Instead I lean in closer, wondering if I can grab his car keys from the ignition—if maybe I can use them to fight.

“I still care about you, you know.” He rakes my palm with his fingertips.

“I care about you, too,” I manage to say.

“No,” he says, peeking up at me. “I mean, I
really
care about you. I wish we never broke up. Why did we?”

My mind reels, searching for the perfect answer. “We thought we were better as friends.”

“No,” he snaps. “That’s what
you
thought. You said you didn’t want a relationship, but it looks like you want one now—hanging all over Ben.”

“I’m not interested in Ben,” I lie.

“Then, why did you come with me? Why did you seem so upset when I mentioned his name . . . when I mentioned his bike accident?”

I move my free hand down my leg, hoping to reach for the keys. Meanwhile Matt continues to scold me, telling me how tired he is of watching me flirt with other guys, that I have no consideration for anyone but myself, and that I’m such a selfish bitch.

“My dad’s going to be looking for me,” I say, suspecting it must be well after seven.

“Well, let him look for Ben.” He smirks. “That’s who everyone’s going to blame when they can’t find you.”

“They’ll find me,” I whisper, feeling a knot form in my chest.

“It actually couldn’t have worked out better,” he continues. “Ben’s shady past, your sickening attraction to him. . . .”

“Did you hurt Debbie?”

He shakes his head and moves even closer. His face is only inches away now. “I haven’t been following Debbie,” he whispers. “I’ve been following you.” He runs his finger down my cheek, then strokes my chin. “We never did get to kiss much, did we?”

“A few times,” I mutter, remembering the last time we went out. The night seemed more like an appointment with the dentist than an actual date. It was like pulling teeth to get him to talk that night. He wouldn’t relax or open up, but he still tried to kiss me before we parted ways. I turned my head in the nick of time—just before his lips bumped the corner of my mouth.

Matt traces my bottom lip with his thumb, like he’s about to try and kiss me again. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”

Keeping focused on the keys, I move closer and press my mouth against his. Matt closes his eyes to kiss me back. Meanwhile, I reach behind him and try to snatch the keys from the ignition. They wiggle out. And make a jingling sound. Matt notices and grabs my wrist, twists my arm behind my back, and pins it there.

“You’re such a bitch!” he shouts.

“Please,” I tell him. “I’m cold. Turn the heat on.” I gesture toward the ignition.

Matt relaxes for just a moment, as if he might believe what I’m saying, but then he reaches into his console and grabs a set of handcuffs. He pulls my pinned hand from behind my back to try and put the cuff around it, but I’m able to thwack him with my other hand; my fingers just miss his eye. He recoils slightly but then rebounds, grabs both my wrists, and snaps the cuffs around them.

He opens his car door and starts to pull me out. I let out a scream and try to bite his hand, but he pushes me back against the car and then squeezes my neck.

“Shut up!” he shouts.

My throat burns. I hear myself sputter and choke. Finally, he lets go, muttering how next time I won’t be so lucky.

It’s pitch black outside. With the door still open, only the car’s interior light shines over our immediate area.

Keeping a firm hold on the cuffs, Matt leads me to the rear of his car. He pops the trunk and turns his back to fish inside. And so I kick him, hard, right in his upper thigh. Matt stumbles back, but tugs me with him, still holding on to the cuffs. I raise my arms and try to pull away. Tears stream from my eyes.

“Enough!” He swings and misses my face. I duck away just before he can hit me.

I try to kick him again, but Matt pulls me closer, and I almost lose my footing. He pins me against the side of his car with his knee and then smacks me in the jaw.

The canvas behind my eyes goes black. Stars spray out all around me, and my head begins to swirl.

48

“You’re starting to come around,” a voice whispers. I open my eyes. Things are blurry for a second. And for one relief-filled moment I think that maybe what happened was a dream. But then I feel my jaw ache—a gnawing, singeing pain—where he hit me. And I realize that this isn’t a dream at all. It’s just that Round One is over. And I’ve lost. Now that the blur of colors is lifting, I’m able to see Matt. He sits cross-legged right in front of me. “How are you feeling?” he asks. I try to swipe a strand of hair from in front of my eyes, only to find that my hands are still cuffed together, only they’re behind my back now. “Where are we?” I ask, looking around. It’s dark except for a small lantern positioned between us. We’re sitting on the floor of a tiny room. Aside from a TV tray in the corner, there’s no furniture, no appliances, nothing mechanical, just a thin layer of carpet beneath us.