Hoax (24 page)

Twisted, by Amity Hope, an excerpt

Chapter 1

“Remy? I think something bad has happened,” I whisper into the phone. “There’s a cop at the door.”

I can see the patrol car in the driveway. I can see the uniformed officer through the gauzy curtain as he rings the doorbell. I duck behind the wall, into the hallway, sure he can’t see me. My hands are trembling and my stomach is clenching in upon itself so tightly I want to double over.

“Let him in,” Remy calmly orders. She sounds groggy. It’s the middle of the day but I’ve pulled her from a deep sleep. My words are like a mental slap in the face. I can almost hear her struggling to become coherent. “Keep me on the phone.”

I hesitate, feeling frozen. Officers at the door are never there for good news. Never. The doorbell rings again and a terrified sob escapes my lips. This can’t be happening again.

“Maya, answer it,” Remy commands, firm this time. “Just pretend I’m there with you. And don’t hang up!”

“Okay,” I whimper into the mouthpiece, not feeling comforted because my imagination isn’t that good. Remy lives five hours away. I will my feet to move.

It was this memory that completely preoccupied my mind as I pedaled along. Faster and faster until I felt I was a blur, melding with the landscape. I didn’t see the car until it had already rolled through the stop sign. I saw it as it rolled toward me. A big, light blue boat of a car. It nicked my back tire. I remember being propelled over the handlebars, toward the asphalt. I had just enough time to shriek and try to cover my face. That’s it. That’s all I remember of the fall.

I felt someone tugging at my arm, a voice saying words I couldn’t comprehend just yet.

When I managed to open my eyes into slits the sunlight was blinding. It caused a throbbing sensation to ricochet through my brain. I groaned and tried to put a hand over my face.

“Can you sit up? Are you okay?”

The questions baffled me for a moment but then I nodded. I felt a pair of hands grip my shoulders, trying to assist me. I scrunched my eyes up to try to block some of the glare. I looked around. I was sitting in the middle of the road. My bike was on its side several feet away.

“Did that car hit me?” I asked, aghast, even though I knew it had.

“Yeah, the lady looked like she was a hundred and three. She could barely see over the wheel. I don’t think she even noticed. Probably thought she hit a pothole or something.”

I pulled my mind from my current predicament and looked, really looked for the first time, at my rescuer.

He was about my age, seventeen, maybe a little older. He had an angular jaw line with cheekbones most girls would die for. His hair was dark, almost black and due for a cut. Most of it was hidden under a blue baseball cap but some stuck out and was hanging in his face as he leaned over me. His skin was deeply tanned causing his grayish-blue eyes to contrast so startlingly that it almost took my breath away.  He had a small scar through the left side of his upper lip and another one across his cheek, right under the cheekbone.

“Another car is coming,” he warned. “Are you able to stand?”

“I think so,” I replied, noticing then that my knees were bleeding. I had a scrape the size of a dollar bill down my right calf.

I started to move but I wasn’t quick enough. He hoisted me to my feet without so much as a grunt for his effort. He quickly led me to a bench near the sidewalk and then jogged to the middle of the road to retrieve my bike. I was happy to see it looked like it was still in working order as he hurried it along.

The car rolled past and the street was empty again.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet or something?” he reprimanded me.

He kicked out the kickstand and nestled my bike near the bench beside me.

I wanted to argue that I never wore a helmet. But after what just happened I decided I might want to rethink that. I shrugged. “I don’t usually ride my bike. I prefer to run. But I was just checking out the town…”

“Is there someone you can call to come get you?” he asked. He was standing near the edge of the bench, looking down at me, appraising my injuries. I noticed he was tall, close to six feet, give or take a few inches either way. He wasn’t one of those gangly high school boys. He was nicely filled out with lots of lean muscle.

I shook my head, pulling myself away from my very inappropriate ogling. “What?” I asked, struggling to remember the question. “Oh, yeah. No, I don’t have anyone to call.”

He looked away from me, glancing around the park behind him. I wondered if he was trying to find someone else to help. He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowed, assessing me again, but didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I could call my sister, but I don’t want to wake her.” Those amazing eyes flickered with the slightest bit of a question. “She’s a nurse. She works the night shift at the hospital so she sleeps most of the day,” I explained.

I knew Remy would come get me in a heartbeat. But I felt like enough of a burden to her already. Not that she had ever said or done anything to make me feel that way. But still. “I’ll be fine. I mean, I am fine.”

Besides, my bike wouldn’t fit in her car. That would just give her one more hassle to have to deal with.

My knees were starting to throb. I noticed I’d torn the skin off an elbow too. I gingerly felt the growing bump on the side of my head. It was roughly the size of a golf ball.

“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. He looked conflicted. “You were knocked out. What if you have a concussion or something?” He scanned the open lawn of the park behind us. There was no one to see. We were alone at this end, so near to the edge I was seated on the only bench in sight. The trees thickened to the south of us. Even the paved running trail that followed the river was devoid of any runners or families strolling along.

He knelt down and unzipped the red backpack he’d been carrying. It looked full to bulging. He rummaged around for a bit, tilting it from side to side. He pulled out a bottle of water and some napkins. He wetted a napkin and handed it to me.

“Maybe you want to wipe some of the blood off? See how deep the cuts are?” he suggested.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it from him. I wiped at my knees. I was feeling a little less disoriented now. I was starting to feel far more embarrassed. I didn’t look at him as I scrubbed away the stuff that was already starting to clot. The cuts weren’t deep. I figured I’d survive.

“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be okay...” he said, letting his words trail off. He looked nervous as he shuffled his feet just a bit.

“I was actually on my way home. It’s just a few more blocks that way.” I motioned to the direction I’d been headed.

He scrunched up his face in genuine puzzlement this time. “You live here? In Beaumont?” He grabbed his backpack. He was still looking at me quizzically as he backed away just a bit.

“Um, yeah,” I replied. I was puzzled myself by his odd behavior. Or maybe he just couldn’t wait to get away. I must look a mess with blood oozing and crusting. I could feel pebbles and dirt in my disheveled hair. A few strands were sticking to my sweaty face. “I just moved here. Or I guess I should say I just moved back. I’m living with my sister now but I grew up here.”

He nodded as though this possibly made sense to him.

“I’m Maya, by the way.” I just realized we hadn’t made introductions.

His eyes widened just slightly. In recognition? He paused for a moment, processing what I told him.

“Maya Anderson?” I wasn’t sure if he was asking me or telling me.

I nodded. “And you are?”

He looked at me and shook his head just slightly, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Late for work,” he replied as he blew out a sigh. With that he took off toward the parking lot at a pace that would rival the little old ladies that faithfully speed walk around the mall.

“Well, it was nice to meet you!” I shouted after him. He didn’t look back.

I scrubbed the blood off my arm and leaned over to scrub my knees one more time. The beginnings of a major headache were just setting in. I swear I could almost feel my brain sliding from side to side, crashing painfully off the walls of my skull with each movement I made.

After a few moments I stood. Home was only a few blocks away. I could be there in a matter of minutes. I turned toward my bike and kicked something. A book. I picked it up. It was a thick, heavy hardcover.
It
, by Stephen King. The book was massive with a tattered receipt marking the page almost three quarters of the way through. I noted a sticker on the front of the plastic book jacket. It was a library book. I was certain it was his. I looked toward the parking lot but he’d already disappeared from sight.

I glanced back at the book in my hand. I couldn’t just leave it here. He’d be charged for the book if it wasn’t returned. I groaned as I shuffled my feet. My injuries were starting to burn and throb. I hobbled the few feet to my bike, swung a leg over and tried to figure out how I was going to ride home carrying a book I could barely get my fingers around while gripping the handlebars.

My eyes darted around. Still no one at this end of the park, no cars coming. I sighed and lifted my tank top up, pulled out the waist band of my biking shorts and stuffed the book halfway inside. I hurriedly covered it back up with my shirt before I pedaled on home.

The small house was quiet when I walked in. Yet it was still so inviting. It was an old house. Remy had purchased it shortly after being hired at the hospital a few years ago. She’d been working on fixing it up since the day she moved in. She’d started with new carpeting and freshly painted walls on the inside. New siding, a new front porch and flowerbeds full of an array of colorful blooms on the outside.

I loved Remy’s house. It was a single story with the standard kitchen, living room, bathroom, laundry and two bedrooms. Nothing fancy but it felt like home already. I loved the huge, overstuffed couches and the overabundance of throw pillows and scatter rugs. I loved the pictures and inspirational sayings on plaques that covered the walls. Everything from her knickknacks to the comfortable queen size bed in my room, the room that used to be her guest room, made her house feel like a home. It had been such a long time since I lived somewhere that felt like home.

As much as I missed my mom, I was looking forward to the stability that living with Remy would provide. For once, I’d actually unpacked all of my belongings. I’d be turning eighteen midway through the year but Remy was insistent I stay with her until the following fall, when I’d be starting college. It felt good to be wanted for a change.

I’d offered to get a job, to help out. Remy had only been offended by the offer. She insisted that she was happy to have me. That she wanted me, for once, to enjoy the school year. She didn’t want me to have any worries.

Instead, I did my best to help keep her already immaculate house clean. I did the majority of the laundry and the cooking. She took care of her flower beds and the grocery shopping. After only a month we’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm of living together.

I set the book on the kitchen counter. I padded off to the bathroom and took a bottle of ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet. I gulped two of them down with some water. There was a small ice pack in the freezer. I took it out and tried to push it through my tangled hair so it could rest on my scalp. I sat at the kitchen table with my head down for a few minutes, waiting for the pain killers and the ice to do their job. After a while I decided the ibuprofen was helping but the ice didn’t seem worth the trouble.

I headed back to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and all I could do was groan. My hair was a disaster of chaotic curls, my expression still looked stunned and I had something—probably,
hopefully
just dirt—smeared across my face. No wonder he’d been so anxious to get out of there.

Oh well
, I told myself. It could’ve been worse. I could have landed on my face and scraped up my nose and busted out some teeth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, there’s always a bright side to everything. It’s just that sometimes you have to work a little harder at finding it.

I quickly showered, letting the warm water wash away the sweat, blood and grime. Cleaned up, my injuries didn’t look too bad. I was hoping they would heal quickly. I didn’t want to start out my senior year in a new school looking like a first grader that had fallen off the steps of the school bus. I toweled off and then smeared on some antibiotic cream. Then I squirmed into a clean tank top and shorts. I went through the elaborate ordeal of getting my hair under control and slathered on some of Remy’s yummy caramel scented lotion.

All the while I was wondering if I knew
him
. If he knew me, I must know him. My memories from back then were foggy. So much had happened since we moved away. I pressed my mind back in time anyway, not sure if his face was familiar to me or not. Those eyes. I should remember those eyes. But then again, I was still in elementary school when we moved. My life was in limbo for a while and the boy-crazy stage didn’t really hit until the middle of seventh grade.

The only people I really remembered from Beaumont were my best friends, Hailey Marshall and Olivia Walker. Remy had dug out an old picture of the three of us. It had been taken on the swing set at our old house. It was a big, three level home with log siding and dark green trim. The backyard had been full of apple trees. Indoors, it had been full of love and happy childhood memories.