Girl on the Other Side (7 page)

That's when I see it — a message waiting for me in my email box. It's from Catherine. I click it open and start to read:

Tabitha,

This is an emergency so pay attention. We've just been tipped off that your father's company is coming under suspicion of billing fraud. I'll explain what that means next time I see you. But for now, you need to know that we'll be here all night cleaning up and getting things sorted out. Whatever you do, do not answer the door. Do not pick up the phone. Do not talk to anyone. We'll explain more when we see you.

And please, don't wait up and don't reply to this message — I'm too busy and there's still so much to do here. And whatever you do, don't tell anyone about this.

Catherine.

I swirl the mouse around in frantic circles.
Under
suspicion?
WTF?! How much trouble are those two in? I read the email again. “Billing fraud.” What the hell does that mean, anyway? Giving up on Derek, I close my IM, open up Google and type in four words:
Law firm billing fraud.

I click “search.” A second later, my computer comes up with half a million results. I started scrolling through the links. What I read leaves my jaw hanging open. Stories of rich lawyers making off with illegal millions, law firms shutting down, court proceedings, men in suits being hauled off to jail. Oh my God! Has David been stealing from his clients? That would mean pretty much everyone in this town. How much money has he stolen? Who else knows about this?

Don't tell any of your little friends
, David had warned.

Don't talk to anyone
, Catherine had written
.

God, I hate them! Don't they ever care about anyone but themselves? They commit a crime and now they're sneaking around in the middle of the night trying to cover it up? Screw that! They totally deserve to get caught!

Suddenly, I have an idea. A brilliant idea. It's like a light turning on inside my head and in a split second I know what I have to do to get them where it will really hurt the most. No more messing around with stupid pranks like fatty pasta. This time, I'm going to hit a bullseye. Without even the smallest hesitation, with one tiny flick of my finger, I do something that I know will change my parents' lives forever.

Don't reply to this message. I'm too busy
, she'd said. That's nothing new. From the day I was born, she's always been too busy for me. So why does it still hurt?

“Fine, Catherine, you get your way,” I whisper, with an angry tap of the mouse, I click “forward” instead of “reply.” I know my BFFs will know exactly what to do with this information.

To: Dylan; Cc: Brandi
Subject: My father's a crook and my mother's a liar.

My chest is tight and I can feel a prickly heat growing under my arms and spreading up my neck. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and click “send.”

As soon as the message is gone, I feel a little ball of pain form in the pit of my stomach and slowly creep up and down my entire body. Closing my computer, I crawl back into my bed and switch the TV back on. The next time my eyelids start to droop, I let them close. Tonight, for the first time in years, I don't wake up in a panic. The dream doesn't come.

I think it's because in my real life, I've just taken a flying leap off that tall building.

Lora

Dear God, nighttime in my bedroom sounds like an overrun animal shelter. It's so loud in here that, if I wasn't so constantly tired, I don't know how I'd ever get to sleep.

Buster, our cat, is sleeping in Allie's bed and purring so loudly you'd think he'd swallowed a small engine. On the dresser across the room, the trio of hamster wheels squeak and creak as they spin in circles in the dark. Those little guys run like maniacs all night. It's incredible that, after all that running, they still haven't figured out that they're not getting anywhere. Beside me, the parakeet chirps in his cage. I look over at him and see his eyes shining at me through the dark.

“Go to sleep, Frank … it's late,” I whisper. He chirps again, louder this time. I know he's trying to get me to feed him. He learned that trick from the dogs, who also share our room.

I ignore him and pretend to be asleep. That bird is too smart for his own good sometimes. My thoughts skip back to Miss Wall's class today. We discussed the lark and the nightingale scene from
Romeo and Juliet
. Bet you neither of
those
birds were as manipulative and crafty as Frank. I mean, how many other parakeets know how to beg for food?

After the class was over, Miss Wall asked me to stay back for a chat. I knew right away she didn't want to talk about universities or animals. There were two deep lines creasing the skin between her eyebrows — a dead giveaway that something serious was on her mind.

“Everything okay, Lora? You look tired.”

I bit my bottom lip and shrugged. The lines in her forehead got deeper.

“Those are some pretty black circles under your eyes,” she continued. “Are you sleeping enough?”

My palms started to sweat. I could see in Miss Wall's eyes that she wanted to help. And a big part of me wanted so badly to let her — just tell her all my troubles right then and there. But another part of me — the stronger part — was still too scared.

So I just shook my head and stared at my shoes.

“Please, Lora, if there's anything you want to tell me …”

“No, I'm fine,” I'd said, keeping my head down so she wouldn't see the truth in my eyes. I heard Miss Wall sigh.

“All right, Lora. You can go now.”

And just like that, my chance was gone.

On the other side of the house, the rhythmic sound of Chelsea's snoring buzzes through the thin walls. My little sister is louder than all the animals combined. She snores so loudly it makes my bed vibrate. And she isn't even in the same room as me. We've had her checked out twice by Dr. McMullon, but even he couldn't figure out how or why a five-year-old child would be snoring like an overweight middle-aged man. The snoring freaks out all the animals, so they all have to sleep in my room. Thank God her snoring doesn't seem to bother Cody or he would want to sleep in my room, too. As it is, there's barely any room left to breathe in here.

Since there's no place for a proper bookcase, the floor next to our dresser is piled up high with books by all my favourite authors: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Steinbeck, the two Margarets (Atwood and Laurence), Rowling, and Dickens, of course … his writing about kids in workhouses really strikes a chord with me. I treasure my books and would rather keep them in the closet where they're less likely to get stepped on, but there's no room in there, either. It's so crammed with clutter and junk that there's barely enough room for our clothes — which isn't such a bad thing because most of them are dirty, anyway. The laundry bin at the foot of our bed is an overflowing volcano of stinky clothes; a malodorous reminder of all the housework I've fallen behind on.

Trying to muffle Chelsea's snoring, I turn over in my bed and pull my comforter up over my ears. I can feel eyes on me and I know Frank is still staring.

Allie turns around and mumbles something in her sleep. I can hear her breathing, deep and slow. I turn my head to look at her. Her coppery curls are messy and damp with night sweat. Reaching my hand out across the bed we share, I brush her bangs gently out of her face.

When they're quiet and sleeping, it's so much easier to love these little guys. Sometimes I feel like I'm their real mother. And, even though we all know Mommy is nearby, I think they feel the same way about me. Thank God, so far none of them have had an issue with bullies. Allie's in grade two now and there hasn't been even a hint of trouble. I don't know what I'd do if any of them had to deal with problems like mine.

Her little arm flops across my shoulder as she tosses onto her back. I hear her sigh in her sleep like she's having a nice dream. I turn and look at the clock.

1:03 a.m.

I think about all the things other kids my age might be doing right now. Staying out late with friends, talking on the phone, going to parties, hosting sleepovers, having fun, smiling and laughing … not a care in the world. And a piranha like Tabby Freeman? Would she be sneaking out with one of the pit bulls? Probably. For me, the idea of dating is a foreign concept. And the thought of having a boyfriend is completely inconceivable. Even if I had time for one, every boy at my school is an enemy. And every girl, too, for that matter.

There are times when I wish more than anything I could do normal, teenaged things like other kids. But I know that's never going to happen. Even if I had friends, I can't have them over to my house. Mommy needs it to be quiet here so she can rest. And anyway, what would I do with my little brother and sisters if a friend ever wanted to come over and hang out? And how would I have a sleepover in this crowded room? Where would I put an extra person? Under the birdcage? No, there'll be no sleepovers for me. My childhood is officially over.

I flip over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. For the first time in my life, I notice the shape of my room. It's a perfect square. A small square box crammed inside a slightly bigger box — this house. Suddenly the walls dip inwards and I realize in one awful moment that I'm really no different than any of these animals in their cages. I am
just
as trapped as them. And I'm spinning my wheels harder then those hamsters.

In that moment, the room darkens like a shadow has fallen over the house. Tears roll down my face and into my hair. Some drops manage to make it to my ears where they form little saltwater pools. I close my eyes as the burden of my life comes crashing down from above, pinning me to the mattress with a weight heavier than a thousand cruel jokes.

May 8

tabby

Dylan and Brandi did exactly what I knew they'd do and sent the incriminating email out to everyone in their address books. Word spread really fast. It only took two days for the police to make an arrest. The next morning, the story was the headline in the local newspaper.

When I picked our copy up off the front porch, David's bright orange prison jumpsuit was the first thing I saw. Next was his unshaven face, flooded with shame. I'd never seen him look that way before. I stared at the photo for a full minute before noticing the headline.

Local Businessman Arrested for Fraud

Then I started to read:

Yesterday, police raided the office of the town's most prestigious legal firm, Freeman Law. Officers seized all the files and computers in the building and temporarily shut down operations pending the completion of their investigation.

David Freeman, president and CEO of the firm, has been charged with multiple counts of fraud, obstructing justice, and destroying evidence. His wife, Catherine Freeman, is also being questioned on suspicion of destroying evidence.

The firm's fifty-two employees have been suspended without pay and are all expected to co-operate with the ongoing investigation.

After spending the night in jail, Mr. Freeman will be arraigned in court this morning and, according to sources, is expected to be released on $25,000 bail. Outside the courthouse yesterday, he spoke to the press briefly.

That's as far as I got before my vision blurred. Once I started crying, I couldn't stop. After a minute, I heard a gasp from behind me and suddenly Nanny was there, tearing the paper out of my hands and pulling me into the house.

“Tabby, what are you doing?”

Sobbing, I clung to her little body and tried to think of an answer. Why
was
I crying? I hated him, didn't I? He deserved whatever he got. Hell, I practically turned him in myself!

But something about seeing my own father handcuffed and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit was surprisingly traumatic. Nanny must have realized that because, before my tears were even dry, she gathered up the newspaper and threw it into the recycling bin. But it was too late to erase what I'd seen — the image had been tattooed onto my brain.

I ran upstairs to my bedroom and, with Sam at my side, watched from my window for Catherine and David to get home from the courthouse. Unfortunately, the first ones to come were the media. I watched in shock as they pulled up in those ugly grey vans with the satellite dishes mounted on top and surrounded our house with their cameras and microphones.

Next came the police. Just hours after David's arraignment, a squad car pulled up into our driveway and two officers stepped out. Dodging the reporters, they charged right up to our front porch and pounded on the door knocker.

“Open up!”

Leaving my window, I ran downstairs to see what they wanted. As I swung open the door, I could see an army of cameras pointed at me. My stomach dropped.

“H-how can I help you?” I asked, trying my best to keep my voice from shaking. But the officers didn't say a word. They just flashed a search warrant in my face and pushed their way past me; their heavy, black boots scuffing up our marble floors. I was amazed at how rude they were. I couldn't remember anybody ever treating me that way before.

It took the officers less than an hour to seize all the computers in our house — including my own laptop. That really freaked me out!
Holy crap!
Were they going to find out that it was me who leaked the information? Would I get arrested, too? My knees felt weak. What would happen if Catherine and David discovered that it was me who told on them?

As soon as the police left, I went back up to my room to watch for my parents. When David's Bentley finally pulled up, reporters and photographers swarmed the car and set off a storm of flashbulbs in their eyes. With their hands covering their faces, my parents elbowed their way through the frenzy and ran inside the house. Sam and I tumbled down the stairs just in time to see them deadbolting the front door.

“David, help me lock all the windows and doors,” Catherine yelped. “And Beth, I want you to close all the curtains and shutters! I don't want any of those photographers out there getting our picture.”