Punch Like a Girl (17 page)

I throw off the covers and try to stop shaking. Decaf chai or not, I won't be sleeping again tonight.

I get out of bed and go to the window. I can't lie still while Casey is missing. I have to keep going, just put one foot in front of the other. If I stop moving, I might implode, but I won't be taking any aliens with me.

The windows of the houses on my street are dark, the curtains shut. The streetlamps burn circles of light into the grass and asphalt beneath them. Pin-prick stars smolder in the coal-black sky.

Where is Casey now? What will he do with her? I ask the stars, but they have no answers.

Maybe he's pampering her to win her over and make her forget her mother.

But for some reason, I imagine the worst, maybe because Casey seemed so scared of him. I can see her shivering and cold in a damp drainage ditch, calling out for her mother as her father clamps his hand over her mouth. I imagine her in the trunk of a car with duct tape covering her mouth and pinning her arms behind her back while the car hurtles down some distant highway, her father grinning at the wheel. I imagine her tied to a chair in a dusty old cottage, her father standing over her threateningly.

Then I wonder if maybe, just maybe, the police have found Casey while I slept. I open my laptop and check the news online.

No luck. Just an article about the search teams and how the police suspect that Stewart Foster is still in the area. But how could they know that? He could be in another country by now.

I fume at the cops for not finding her and at myself for not stopping Casey's father in the first place. Can none of us help her?

In the corner of my room, I see my cell phone glowing, the message light flashing. I'm tempted to check it, but what if it's Matt?

We should finish what we started, he texted.

I shudder. Does he mean it? Or is he just messing with me?

I hug myself to stop the shaking. Then I head to the bathroom across the hall and dig around in Dad's drawer, keeping the lights switched off.

The straight razor lies beside the electric clippers.

I open the razor, hold it in my injured hand and run the blade along the length of my wrist. Not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough to feel its bite.

My hands get clammy. My chest hurts. Maybe Matt will come after me. Just look at what happened to Casey. Nightmares do come true.

I shove the razor back in the drawer and settle for the electric clippers. In the glow of the streetlamp, I shave my head with my left hand. It's awkward, but I manage.

I staunch the blood from two small cuts. Then I wander through the house, pacing. Dad snores loudly behind my parents' bedroom door. I run my fingertips over the stair railing, the back of the couch, the lamps and tables. It grounds me, connects me to the thrum of the house, solid in the earth.

So why do I feel like I'm spinning?

I find Joel in the kitchen, stuffing his face. He's wearing pajama bottoms, and his scrawny chest is bare. The light from the fridge spills across the tile floor, and cold air wafts toward me.

Mom would scold him for leaving the fridge open. Dad would swat the back of his head. I just shut the fridge with my foot and sit across from him at the table. The light from the streetlamp shines in a swath between us.

“Want some?” Joel isn't whispering, but he's quieter than usual. He nudges his bowl toward me, which is strangely generous for him, and then scoops up a mouthful of Kraft Dinner with a chunk of sugared donut.

“That's just gross, Joel.” I turn up my nose.

“Your loss.” He grabs another donut from the package beside him. “Shaved your head again? Mom will love it.”

I shrug. “Why are you up?” I rest my elbow on the table and prop my head on my good hand.

“Can't sleep.” Joel takes another large bite and talks while he chews. “I just keep thinking about that missing kid and the asshole who took her.”

“Really?” I wonder what he'd think of Matt, if he knew.

“Yeah. Like, I wonder where the hell the cops were.” He waves half a donut around, sprinkling sugar on the table between us. “That reporter said the guy had whacked around his wife before, and maybe his kid, so why was he even out on the streets? They should have had the loser locked up somewhere!”

“I agree, but I can't believe I'm listening to you say it.” I shake my head, amazed. “When did you develop a moral code?”

“What the hell, Tori? I'm not some kind of creep!” Joel takes a swipe at my head, but I lean back out of the way.

“Even though you dropped ice cubes down a girl's shirt just to get near her boobs?” I balance my chair on its back legs to avoid his wrath.

“It's not the same thing and you know it!” He gets red in the face.

“Okay, sorry,” I say, liking this side of Joel.

He scowls and shovels in the last of his disgusting food. He marches to the sink to dump in his bowl and then digs in the fridge for the glass milk jug, drinking from the spout.

I make a face but say nothing. I won't be pouring milk from that jug for a while.

“Where do you think he's taken her?” Joel finally says.

“No clue.” I rub my eyes. “The police think he's nearby.”

“Still?” He wipes his mouth and puts the jug back in the fridge.

“Yeah.” I scratch at the skin around my cast. “Maybe we should go look for her.”

“It's the middle of the night!”

“Yeah, I know.” I sigh. “I just wish I could do something.”

Joel stares at me for a moment and then asks, “Why do you think he did it?”

“To get back at his ex-wife for leaving him.”

“Seriously?” He leans against the side of the stove.

“Yup. That's what she said.”

“He's a loser.” Joel snorts. “Why not just get a new woman?”

I scowl. “You think there's another woman just waiting to hook up with this guy?”

“Good point.” Joel scratches his chest absentmindedly. “His reputation is in the toilet now.”

I think about Matt, and how Melody doesn't know what he's like, even though I tried to warn her. “Maybe we need a national database of creeps,” I say, only half joking.

“Not a bad idea.” Joel nods. “CreepWatch-dot-org. Protect yourself from creeps, stalkers and deadbeats.”

I grin—until I remember that Casey is somewhere with her father. I tap my fist on the table, wishing I could save her somehow. “I can't stand waiting, not knowing where she is or if she's safe.”

Joel gives me a long look and then strides over. “Come on, sibling.” He yanks me by the arm. “I have the perfect distraction.”

I'm pulled to my feet before I can object. “What?”

“A
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
marathon. It'll be awesome.”

“But I don't want to—”

“Yes, you do.”

I let him drag me into the den.

Joel lines up a sequence of
Buffy
episodes and collapses on the couch beside me. Under the blanket Mom crocheted, we watch hours of petite, blond-haired Buffy destroying the monsters that threaten her town. I find it strangely soothing.

Joel digs out a box of Fruit Loops, and I manage to eat a few handfuls. He's a decent brother, at least tonight. When I tell him so, he pretends to punch me in the face and then smiles.

After a few episodes, I put my head on Joel's shoulder, just for a minute.

I wake to someone shaking me.

“What?” I groan and roll over.

Sunlight streams through the windows. I squint, trying to remember why I'm in the den, sprawled on the couch, gripping a cushion like it's a life preserver. Joel is asleep on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, a blanket twisted around his legs.

Dad is leaning over me. He's wearing his boxers and a white T-shirt, and his hair is flattened on one side in a serious case of bed head.

“Didn't you hear the phone?” His voice is urgent. “The police called. They found Casey. You're wanted at the station right away.”

HAUNT
to torment continually

I switch radio stations in the
SUV
, hoping to hear details about Casey on the news, but there's only tinny pop music, a stupid car commercial and boring Saturday-morning programming.

“Did the officer who called you tell you anything else?” I turn to Dad, who gave up the front seat to sit in the back by himself. Joel is still dozing in the den.

“I asked, but he didn't know much.” Dad's voice is husky with sleep.

I frown. “I still wonder why the police want to see me.”

Mom gives my newly shaved head a disapproving glance, although at least she hasn't harassed me about it yet. “Maybe they want you to identify Stewart Foster in a lineup. Or interview you again.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Whatever it is, we'll find out soon enough.”

“I've already identified him. And I told them everything I know.” I lean against the headrest and stare out at the blur of buildings we pass.

The radio plays an annoyingly cheerful tune. My mind churns. If only Casey and I hadn't gone to the park that day. If only I had tripped her father or tackled him. I can't shake the feeling that I should have done more to help.

When the news comes on the radio, I shush everyone. Casey makes the top story.

“An
AMBER
Alert was called off after Casey-Lynn Foster was found early Saturday morning,” a female announcer says.

I turn up the volume, desperate for details. Is Casey okay?

“The alert was issued after her father,
39
-year-old Stewart Foster, who is separated from her mother, allegedly abducted Casey-Lynn from Mill Pond Park on Friday afternoon. Police report that Casey-Lynn was found in good health and has been returned to her mother. Stewart Foster is being questioned by police. Charges are pending.”

“So he hid out in someone's shed?” I'm already trying to imagine what it was like for Casey. Dirty? Cold? Terrifying? “It sounds like he didn't hurt her.”