Never Gonna Tell (14 page)

“All right, listen. Here’s my wisdom for the day. Guys suck. All of us. Even I am a total douche most of the time.”

I scoff. “You could never be a douche.”

“Oh you’d be surprised, baby girl. Remember Devin, my ex?”

I take a swig of my Diet Mountain Dew before responding, “Yes. You guys were so great together. You never did tell me what happened.”

“I was a douche. That’s what happened.” A horn honks in the background and I hear muffled noises. “Okay, the cab just pulled up to take me to the bus station. My bag is packed and ready to go. My bus leaves at four and I’ll be there by morning, I promise. Will you be okay until I get there?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Have you told your parents I’m coming home?”

I shake my head, even though he can’t see me. “No, I thought it would make a nice surprise. I found my mom just sitting on your bed last night just looking at the empty closet. Trust me, they miss you like crazy and will be so happy to see you.”

“Until they find out I just bailed on the court order.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about that. Your mom is associating with known drug dealers and has you living in deplorable conditions. Mom can get a judge to revoke her privileges. Just come home.”

He sighs, and I can just picture him biting at a hangnail on his thumb like he always does when he’s nervous. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.”

I hang up and slide my phone into my pocket, excited that I’ll be able to see Charlie soon and get this all off my chest. I know it’s a risk involving Charlie and telling him what I saw, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer. I need his advice; I need to know what I should do.

Deciding to skip my afternoon classes, I head home to prepare for Charlie’s arrival, ensuring I don’t run into Marco any more today. I’m pretty sure if I see him again I’ll want to punch him in the throat, and as satisfying as that would be, it will only make matters worse.

I practically sprint home, where I’m very surprised to see my parents’ cars in the driveway. Neither should be home for at least three more hours, so what are they doing here? And how am I going to explain why I’m not in school?

The chill from this morning is gone and the front window is open, creating a warming cross breeze. I can hear Mom and Dad talking, so I tiptoe up the porch steps and sit just below the window.

“…it’s exactly the break in the case we needed. If we can find whoever it was, we’ll have enough to bring charges.”

The fridge closes. “So this librarian is sure the person witnessed the murder?”

My mom sighs. “No, but she saw the woman running from the alley around the time of the murder. We had her come in today to work with a sketch artist to find whoever it was. Unfortunately, her description was vague and from what the head detective tells me, the picture isn’t great. But it’s a small town. Someone is bound to know who it is.”

“How can you be sure whoever it was can even identify a suspect?”

I duck down farther as a car drives by slowly, the driver staring directly at me. I don’t recognize him, but the look he’s giving me sends a chill down my spine.

“We’ll do a lineup, have them search through mug shots, whatever it takes.” Mom sounds nervous, her words rushed. “I cannot have the unsolved murder of one of the town’s most beloved teachers on my record. Especially in a county that sees less than a handful of murders a year. They’d fire me for sure.”

“Well, hon, for your sake and the sake of that poor man’s family, let’s hope they find that potential witness.”

She sighs deeply. “I’ll second that.”

I don’t need a mirror to imagine how pale my face is right now. That old crone saw me? And is going to the police? Between that and the creeper staring at me in the car a few minutes ago, and now this? I just want to curl in bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

My knee bounces. I shift my weight and stretch it out, but I still feel shaky. It’ll be just a matter of time before the Calottas know there was a witness and have a picture of me so they know exactly who to whack.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I rub my clammy hands down my pant legs. What am I going to do now? I need to think and I need a plan. I begin to stand up when an old board on the porch creeks, grabbing my parents’ attention.

“Reagan? Is that you?” Mom calls. Her eyes widen when she spots me. “What are you doing home already?”

Busted.

“Teacher in-service,” I lie, avoiding her eyes. “Today was a half day.”

Mom heads for the calendar on the fridge. “Huh. I don’t remember seeing that on the schedule.”

“Well, it is. I’m going up to my room.”

“Did you eat lunch?” Mom asks, opening the fridge.

I shake my head. “Not hungry.” I haven’t had an appetite in days. My stomach is too full of knots to enjoy food.

I don’t give them a chance to question me further and sprint up the stairs, locking my bedroom door behind me before I begin to pace the floor.

After an hour, I’m no closer to a plan. No matter what I do, the risk is huge. Is it worse to have people know what I saw and put everyone I know in danger? It’s what I should do. The right thing.
But is it?
Who does “doing the right thing” benefit? Certainly not my family. Mr. Everett is already dead. Stepping up and identifying his killer won’t bring him back. It’ll only ensure that I’ll have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

I try to lie down, to relax, but I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I picture the look on Mr. Everett’s face as he begs for his life.

I sit up, gulping down water to try to relieve my dry throat. I can’t live like this. The constant fear, the sleepless nights. I’m going to be looking over my shoulder no matter what I do, and not telling my mom is eating away at me. Taking a deep breath, I steel my nerves and square my shoulders. Will this be the last time I see my parents? Will they be allowed to go into witness protection with me? Will the Calottas find me and keep me from talking? Will I ever fulfill my dream of becoming a journalist? Or hell, will I even live to graduate high school?

Before I can psych myself out any more, I unlock my door and step out into the hall, swallowing down the knot that’s residing in my throat.

“It’s the right decision,” I mutter to myself as I head downstairs to talk to my mom. I pause in the foyer and, just for a second, smile as I take in the moment. My dad in his recliner, yelling out answers to Jeopardy questions in the family room while my mom yells at him for not forming it as a question. “Definitely the right decision. I have to tell the police and my mom.” I turn to head their way when a large hand covers my mouth from behind and pulls me into the kitchen.

“Oh no, you’re not,” a deep voice whispers in my ear. “You’re coming with me.”

I TRY TO scream, but the grip over my mouth is so strong only a muffled yelp squeaks out.

“Stop,” the voice commands low in my ear. “Don’t scream; you’ll only make it worse.”

I bite down on the hand but only manage to scrape my teeth down his palm. A second hand circles my waist and grips it tight before pulling me off my feet, which dangle several inches off the ground. I have no traction to break free of his hold. I wiggle and squirm, but his grip only tightens, so I resort to kicking him in the shins over and over.

“Dammit, Reagan.” Marco’s voice is low and full of anger, which only heightens my fear. He shoves a piece of cloth in my mouth as a gag and binds my wrists with a zip tie before he picks me up, tossing me effortlessly over his shoulder. I try so hard to scream and kick, but his grip is like steel, and the gag prevents my voice from reaching my parents, who are watching TV only two rooms away.

Marco and I slip out the back door before he tosses me in the backseat of his car. I fall to the floorboard of his car and scramble to sit up and reach behind me, pulling with all my might on the handle, but he’s enabled the rear child lock and it won’t open. Stupid child safety locks.

“Mmmkk,” I mumble around the washcloth wedged between my teeth, trying not to gag. Tears flow down my face, and I focus on breathing through my nose so I don’t hyperventilate. “Mmmkk,” I try again.

Marco glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes cold and narrowed. “I didn’t want to do this, Reagan. I wanted this to go so differently.”

“Pllllsss,” I try again.

“Calm down, Reagan, before you hurt yourself.” He grips the steering wheel harder, his knuckles turning white, and curses under his breath. He doesn’t look back at me or respond any further; he just keeps driving. I kick at the door over and over again trying desperately to get free, but I only manage to crack the plastic cup holder on the door panel.

Why? Why is he doing this to me? Is he taking me to his uncle? Oh my god, I hope he’s not taking me to his uncle.

After ten minutes or so, I stop kicking. The door isn’t budging, and my ankles are killing me. My wrists are now raw from trying to get free from my binds. Drool runs down my chin and neck from the gag. Marco hasn’t said a word, but his phone has rung at least three times—he never answers. I wrench myself upright and sit quietly, trying to think of a way to convince him to let me go. I try to pay attention to the scenery around me, but this part of Tennessee is rural, and there’s very little signage. After awhile, everything blurs together and looks the same. I can’t tell one “watch for crossing deer” sign from another.

An hour passes. And then two. His phone rings again, but still he doesn’t answer. Instead, he throws it in the glove box before muttering something I can’t make out under his breath.

It’s growing dark, and eventually I doze off. When I wake up, we’re turning off the main highway and onto a narrow dirt road. Gravel crunches below the tires and the car slows, weaving slightly to avoid larger divots and holes. It’s too dark for me to see anything out of the window, and I don’t have a good feeling about wherever we’re going. Finally the car stops. I have no idea how long we’ve been traveling or where we are. For all I know, we could be out of Tennessee altogether.

Marco turns the car off and swivels around in his seat to face me. “I’m so sorry about this, Reagan.”

I give him my meanest, most evil “I am going to kick you in the balls so hard your testicles won’t rescind for months” look. Well, the best I can. Kinda hard to look menacing with snot running down your face.

“I’m going to come around and help you out of the car. Don’t scream. It’s only going to make it worse. Besides, no one is around to hear you.”

Ohhh, just wait
, I think.
Hello, balls, meet my foot!

Marco steps out of the car and surveys the area as if to make sure there really is no one to catch him before he finally makes his way around to the back door and slowly opens it.

“I’m going to take this out of your mouth now. Don’t scream. Your throat is probably already pretty raw.”

He reaches his hand toward me, and I growl like a rabid dog.
Screw him and his fake concern.

He pulls his hand back quickly. “If you’re going to try to bite me, I’ll just leave the gag on. Do you want me to leave it?”

Ugh. I really don’t have any leverage. He holds all the cards. I reluctantly shake my head to let him know I’ll behave. I really want him to take it out. My jaw is sore from keeping my mouth open this wide for so long.

He slowly extends his hand, more cautious this time. I allow him to remove the gag and sigh in relief when it’s out, opening and closing my mouth to help my poor jaw feel better.

“Thank you,” I say, surprised at how hoarse my voice is.

“You’re welcome. I’m going to cut the ties from your hands too, okay?”

I clear my throat before replying. “Yes, please.” I hate how meek I sound, but I’ve weighed my options, and I know playing nice is the best option right now. But as soon as I find a way to tip the scales in my favor, he better be prepared for a world of hurt.

Marco reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a knife. He flips it open and points it to me. My eyes widen in fear and I shrink back reflexively.

He opens his mouth to say something but merely sighs and shakes his head before slicing through the zip tie, freeing my hands. I rub my sore wrists, not the least bit surprised to see they’re already starting to bruise.

He holds a hand out. “Here, let me help you up.”

I want to shove him off me, but my legs have gone numb from sitting on them for so long, so I reluctantly lean into him for support. He doesn’t seem to mind and easily scoops me up into his arms and carries me. I look around as we walk up the dirt path, attempting to gain my bearings and plan an escape route. We’re in the woods somewhere. A small, single-story log cabin sits dark in front of us with nothing but giant oak and pine trees all around. I take a deep breath. It smells like Christmas. It’s late in the evening, and an owl hoots in one of the trees. I see no lights to indicate there’s another house or really anything nearby.

Great, I’m on the set of Deliverance with a mobster worse than Tony Sopran
o, I think.
No way I’m getting out of this intact.