Hold Me Like a Breath (17 page)

Screams. Dr. Castillo. A syringe. Blackness. Garrett.

Don't be late, princess
.

“Penelope.”

My eyes flickered open again, looking for the clock that hung across from the beds in the clinic. They met twilight. Sky. Trees. Telephone poles. Fences. And sunset glare on glass and—I shut my eyes again.

This was not the clinic.

“Wh—” I tried to swallow. My tongue was too big, filling my mouth like an uncooperative, floppy, dead thing. “Wh-where?”

“Penelope, open your eyes, little girl.”

I did. Blinking and pausing, I traced the lines of the walls up to a low ceiling. To double doors and their small rounded windows. Followed the lines back to where Dr. Castillo sat on a bench beside me with a stranger. In an ambulance.

When I focused on him, he smiled at me. “Good girl. Welcome back.”

The stranger was a distinguished Asian man with gray hair and a suit. His face tugged at my memory, but I couldn't place him.

“How about some water?” Dr. Castillo held out a cup with a straw.

I wanted it. Desperately wanted something to cool the fire in my throat and unglue the parts of my mouth that felt like nearly set cement. But I'd never been in an ambulance. This wasn't right. It wasn't where I was supposed to be.

“You … drugged … me.”

Dr. Castillo looked down, his eyes falling on a spot on my arm. “I'm sorry I had to do that.”

I wanted to press up off this table. React to the threat of the situation. Dig my cell phone out of my pocket and hit the panic button. It would trigger a GPS tracker, and I'd have a Ward here within …

I didn't know where “here” was. I didn't know how long I'd been unconscious or how long it would take a Ward to arrive.

I didn't know what would happen in the meantime.

Why was that stranger staring at me with such concern and fear?

And my fingers were clumsy. Struggling to even open and close, never mind dig around in my pocket to retrieve the phone.

Dr. Castillo held out the water again. “You'll feel better if you drink. And it's good you're moving your fingers. Can you move your toes too? The sooner you can do that, the better. We need to start driving again.”

I'd always thought the panic button was ridiculous—I never went anywhere. The only time I'd ever pressed it had been a mistake, when I was trying to wriggle it into a too-small pocket on tight pants. Al and Mick had thundered into my bedroom with such force that the knob on the backside of the door had been embedded in my wall.

I hoped it was Al who came to rescue me. I could get consoling words from my parents later. Garrett could almost touch me and reassure me I was okay after that, but first I wanted Al, with all his intimidation and not an ounce of humanity. His ruthlessness would get me home, wouldn't pause or hesitate just because my betrayer was Family … had been practically
family
.

I managed to close my hand around the square shape of my phone through the fabric of my jeans. Clumsy fingers grasped for the round button on the lower right side. I needed to hold it in for five seconds. Five seconds and alarms would ring back at the estate.

Dr. Castillo put his hand on mine. “Don't worry, I turned it off. If we'd had time to stop, or could've done so inconspicuously, I'd have thrown it away. Do so tonight, please.”

“Don't. Worry?”

He was still trying to press the cup in my other hand. I took it, then threw it weakly back at him.

He flinched as the cup landed harmlessly on my leg. The plastic lid popped off and water and ice chips sprayed across my jeans; some bounced into the stranger's lap.

“Take me home.” I wanted to add a “please.” Mother's etiquette training practically commanded it. But Father would never request something of a kidnapper, he'd
demand
it.

“Penelope, I can't. I know you're confused and scared, but I need you to trust me. I'm keeping you safe. I did this to save you. I promise.”

“Save me?”

“I'm so sorry, Penelope, about everything that has happened. That I have to be the one to tell you. That I couldn't save you all.”

The stranger shifted uncomfortably. Looked away from me and out the window.

Save us?

“Carter?”

Dr. Castillo opened and closed his mouth a few times. Finally he shook his head in resignation. Reached over and turned on a radio. Thumbed it to a satellite news station and turned it up.

“Maybe I should wait outside for this.” The man opened the back door of the ambulance and climbed out. I devoured every
inch of the landscape. It was an anywhere road. An anywhere field. An endless line of phone poles pointed each direction without revealing which way led home.

Where and why? I should've been asking that. I should've been asking a million questions and distracting him while I maneuvered the panic button into my grip, turned my phone back on, and called in a rescue party.

But I was too busy holding my breath. Listening.

—receiving reports of bodies found on the Landlow estate. You may remember that their eldest child, Carter, was murdered just two weeks ago. His death remains unsolved. His body was found outside the gates of the family's estate with two bullets in his head and Chinese characters carved into his chest
.

The reports we're getting off the police scanners suggest there were three new bodies found today. Malcolm and Abigail Landlow—

It no longer mattered that my mouth was glued shut, because I could no longer breathe. I'd gone to pieces. I'd dissolved and couldn't be whole again. I couldn't possibly be whole, not when the radio was telling me my world was irreparably broken and gone.

The third body was found in an upstairs bedroom and is believed to be their only remaining child, seventeen-year-old Penelope
.

“I'm not dead?”

These were important words. Maybe they shouldn't be a question, but they were.

“No,” Dr. Castillo agreed. “No, you're not. That was why I
drugged you: you were fighting me and I didn't have time to argue; I needed to get you off the property as fast as possible and undetected.”

Malcolm Landlow was heir to the Landlow spa fortune, though he and his father before him were rumored to be involved in the illegal and controversial process of trafficking in and transplanting human organs and tissue—a topic that is becoming increasingly heated with Vice President Forman championing a bill that would legalize the buying and selling of organs for transplant—

“They're not—they can't be. Father, Mother … they're fine.”

He used the sleeve of his white jacket to wipe the ice and pooled water off my jeans. Then pulled a blanket from some compartment and tucked it up around me. I realized I was shaking.

“I'm so sorry, Penelope, but they're not.”

“No. You're wrong. The report is wrong. I'm not dead. They're fine.”

He shook his head.

“But—” I managed to move, enough to slap blindly at the radio, succeeding only in turning the volume to blasting levels.

—bring you further details about the gruesome—

Dr. Castillo turned it off. “Penny, they're not okay. I wish I could say differently, but I heard the gunshots. I saw part of it on the clinic's security monitors. The warning light went on—your father must have triggered it—and I had to get you out.”

“You called me Penny.” It was a stupid thing to say. An idiotic, nonsensical thing. There was so much my brain should be processing right now, how could
this
be what I fixated on?

He put a hand on my wrist, checking my pulse. “We can't keep the ambulance parked here any longer without drawing notice. It's not safe. Can you sleep any more? Would you like another shot?”

“No.”

I was fighting so hard to stay awake. Stay in this moment and make it make sense. I could feel the pain. Practically even see it. It was just away from me. Just shy of settling in my mind and on my skin and making me realize what this all meant—

I started to scream.

I screamed until my voice gave out and Dr. Castillo flashed another needle like a threat. The stranger climbed into the passenger seat and the doctor drove. Alone in the back of the ambulance, alone in the world.

I was still screaming; it just wasn't audible. Inside my head was a chaotic orchestra of wails and whimpers and sobs.

Words like “orphan,” “forsaken,” “defenseless,” “murdered” drifted across the front of my mind. They were nonsensical, detached from all meaning. The world itself had lost its meaning. This was not the way my story went:
Once upon a time Penelope lived and they did not
.

The invalid did not outlive her vivacious brother. The powerful father and gracious mother did not get gunned down in their own home. The gregarious nurse—because it must've been
Caroline—did not get killed because she wanted to borrow a dress to impress a date.

Home. The place we'd celebrated seventeen Easters and Thanksgivings, Christmases and New Year's Eves. The place where I'd left my first tooth under my pillow and later found it in Mother's jewelry box nestled beside diamonds and pearls like it was equally precious. Where my and Carter's heights were marked on the inside of his bathroom closet door. Where Garrett and I had spent the afternoons after rainstorms rescuing worms from drying up on the patio. Where the three of us had played epic games of hide-and-seek. I'd been so good at hiding that sometimes I fell asleep before they found me curled up beneath Father's desk, or behind the racks of evening gowns in Mother's closet.

I wanted to hide there now. Behind that row of silks and satins and sequins, my cheek brushed by the slippery fabric and my nose tickled by the ghostly traces of her perfume.

The home I was fleeing.

The home where I left Garrett waiting behind the pool shed. He had to be okay—he
had
to be. But did he know
I
was?

Because home was also where Caroline was being zipped into a body bag with my name on it.

The ambulance stopped in a parking lot in an industrial area. It was too similar to my last outing with Carter, when the air had also been full of secrets and gunshots.

I looked out the window with wild eyes. The only other vehicle was an idling town car. I flinched when the ambulance doors opened and Dr. Castillo and the stranger stepped back in.

“This is Tom Tanaka, I should have introduced him earlier. He's one of your father's—” He paused to swallow and seemed to lose his train of thought.

“I was at the estate for an incision check,” the man said gently. “We met briefly a few months ago, before I had my transplant.”

“Of course. You're looking very well, Mr. Tanaka.” The words were automatic. A script. A very inappropriate script.

But as a VIP client he had the breeding or money to recognize and ignore it, nodding briefly before saying, “I'd like to help you if you'll let me.”

He and Dr. Castillo began to outline a plan: car/driver, a hotel room they'd reserved under a fake name, cash—they pulled this from their wallets. My credit cards and cell must not be used—get rid of them. Get rid of all forms of ID. I must be—for all intents and purposes—dead.

But sedative drugs and grief don't lend themselves to comprehension. I blinked against the mental fog. “But what do I
do
?”

They didn't have an answer. Their plans and aid would end once I stepped out of this ambulance and into the other car.

I stared at Dr. Castillo. “Alone?” This was as taboo as bungee jumping or hang gliding. I was never alone. Alone was forbidden. Father would have a fit—

I doubled over, wrapped both hands around my stomach so the sob threatening to tear me in half couldn't escape.

“Penelope, you have to understand. I love you like you were my own daughter—but what about my children? My wife? If they realize I smuggled you out in the ambulance with
Mr. Tanaka …
No one
can know I helped you escape. And they can't know you're alive.”

“Who are
they
? Who did this?”

He shook his head. “I wish I knew. And until we do, you have to hide. Stay in the hotel, order room service, and be safe. I'll be in touch as soon as I can.”

His answer turned my whole world into a boogeyman. Anyone could be the bad guy. Anyone could be coming for me with a gun. And if
they
knew I was alive—then I wouldn't be for much longer. Goose bumps surfaced all over my body, and I wished I could scoot into the corner.
Keep your back to the wall. Face the entrances. See everyone before they see you
. Father's advice. I'd never get to hear him say it again.

With autopilot acceptance, I thanked the men for their rolls of cash. I smoothed them and added them to the inside pocket of my purse where they nestled next to the fat stack of bills I'd plundered from my unicorn bank this morning.

I let Dr. Castillo help me down from the ambulance and hand me my purse. I nodded at Mr. Tanaka's good luck wishes and when Dr. Castillo opened the town car's door for me, saying, “Be brave. I'll come for you as soon as I can.”

“Wait!” I said. “My counts? Before Carter, I thought I might be heading into a remission—” I saw his face and didn't bother to continue.

“You don't need to worry about your counts right now. They're … okay. It's been less than two days since your last infusion. I'm sure this will be …” He couldn't finish that sentence. It wouldn't ever be “better” or “resolved” or “over.” And the
driver was watching us, listening. “I'll see you before you need more.”

He kissed the cheek I tilted toward him, accepted my flat-voiced “Thank you,” and was gone.

It was only after the door shut behind me—after the engine started and the tires began to put distance between me and everything I'd ever known—that my veneer of mannerly obedience cracked and reality started to filter in.