The Girl in the Wall (11 page)

Last weekend we all went to the movies and Mike bought this big tub of popcorn. I’m not sure what started it but halfway through the movie all the guys started throwing popcorn at each other, the girls screaming and ducking to avoid getting that gross butter stuff on our faces and clothes. The manager came and threw us all out. On the way out of the aisle I grabbed the tub with the last bits of popcorn and seeds at the bottom, and once we were in the parking lot I dumped it on Mike’s head. Some guys would get all bent out of shape about a girl getting the final shot but Mike just laughed and told me we’d make a great Bonnie and Clyde if I’d ever agree to go out with him.

And now he’s dead at eighteen.

I can’t do this for a second longer. I am up, running through the tunnels to find Nico, to figure out the best way to turn myself in to The Assassin so that we can be sure no one else gets hurt. Maybe Nico can set up some sort of bargain, buy some kind of favor to help with his plan. I’ll tell him the code so Sera can call for help but I’m not doing this for a single second longer.

I slip on some dust on the top stair and fall to my knees, which is surprisingly painful. My palms sting too from landing on them. I take a moment to rub them together and check to see if I scraped my knees. They seem fine though, just bruised, but it’s enough to make me stop and think. Abby. If I turn myself in, what will happen to Abby?

Before I can answer my own question I hear voices in the hall. Several guys are talking and one of the voices is familiar.

I creep quietly to the nearest grate and see two agents walking down the hall, my uncle between them. My breath catches when I see his wild red hair, stripped of his Yankees hat and looking like he just walked through a hurricane, which I guess in some ways he has.

“Next step,” an agent is saying. He is probably one of the higher-ups and I desperately wish I could see behind his disguise, to know who plotted this.

“We’ve set everything up for the transfer of funds,” a second agent says.

They are walking right past the grate and I catch a whiff of Uncle Marc’s overpowering Hermes cologne, the kind my dad buys him every year and then complains about when Uncle Marc pats on like half the bottle every time he comes over.

“So I just need to sign the rest of the documents?” Uncle Marc asks.

My stomach drops.

“Yes,” the first agent says. “Then you’ll have the funds at your fingertips.”

“Ready to deposit in the Swiss account,” the second agent adds.

Uncle Marc nods and replies but they are too far away to hear, that or the ringing in my ears from his words is too loud.

I slip down to the floor, the wall of the tunnel holding me up as my mind takes baby steps toward understanding this, hoping against hope that I am somehow figuring it wrong. But there doesn’t seem to be any room for misinterpretation, a fact that has me shivering from the cold, ugly truth. The person behind the hostage situation, the shooting of my father and friends, and this night of terror is not some stranger.

It is my very own uncle.

The room is chaos after The Assassin stalks out. Two other agents are cleaning up the soggy pile on the floor that was once Mike’s brain while his body is being carried out by another, and most of my classmates are crying. But my eyes are dry and I’m not shaking or moaning or having flashback images fly through my mind. I didn’t know it until right this second, but something in me froze over when Mr. Barett and Bianca were killed, their empty bodies on this same floor. Seeing Mike does not shred me apart, not like that. It sits in my stomach, corrosive and nauseating, but it doesn’t threaten to engulf me, not like the first deaths did.

Hudson is looking at me, I think waiting for my delayed meltdown.

“This is not okay,” I tell him.

He looks slightly alarmed, like I might be on the verge of losing it, but this time I’m not.

“None of this is okay,” I continue, sweeping out my arm and banging my wrist on the chair in back of me. It hurts but I don’t really care. “They shot Mike like he was nothing, like he wasn’t someone’s kid and… ” Here come the tears. They slide down my face but slowly, not out of control, and I can still talk. “They just destroyed his parents’ and his brother’s lives without even thinking about it.”

Hudson nods, still looking at me like I might collapse.

“And they will do it again,” I say, with a sniff because now my nose is running. “And we just, we can’t let them do it again.” The words make more tears come, but I’m still not falling apart.

“Okay,” Hudson says.

I realize there are tears in his eyes too and for a moment the absurdity of it hits me, that we’re here, being held, watching people die. “Is it weird that I still can’t believe this is actually happening?”

He grins for a second, though the tears are still there. “Probably, but that’s exactly how I feel too,” he says. “Like I just have these moments when I think I must be dreaming or something.”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning back with a sigh. The tears are slowing. Without thinking I turn my hand and lace my fingers with Hudson’s. When I realize what I’ve done, I want to take it back—what am I thinking, holding hands with him? But he just gives my hand a squeeze, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe in this world, where nothing makes sense, it is.

I look around the room. Most of my classmates have moved back to their circle of sofas and chairs. I feel an emptiness, a hole where Mike should be, and for a moment it hurts so much it’s hard to breathe. I close my eyes and will it to pass. When it does I look back at the circle. A few people, like Cassidy and Trevor, are talking in low voices but most of them just sit, slumped against each other, waiting for whatever comes next. Agents stand in every doorway watching us.

Hudson stands up, my hand slipping out of his as he does. “Let’s get the phone,” he whispers, glancing to see that no agents are close by.

I almost forgot about it but now that’s he’s reminded me I can’t believe we’ve just been sitting around talking when the thing that will save us is still stuck in the sofa. Thankfully the agent who was sitting there is gone so we make our way over and I slip my fingers into the space between the cushions. But the phone has shifted, probably because of the weight of the agent who was sitting here. It’s jammed under one of the cushions and I can’t reach it.

“What’s wrong?” Hudson asks, his voice taut. “Is it still there?”

“Yeah, but it’s stuck.”

“Can you get it without lifting the cushions?” he asks, his eyes on the agents.

“Yes.”

There’s no way I’m not getting my hands on the phone but I hear what he’s saying about not being conspicuous. I think for a second, then bend down like I need to adjust my shoe and stick my hand under the cushion. This time I manage to get the phone and slide it into my sleeve.

“Got it?” he asks, still watching the guards.

“Yeah.” I sit back against the oversized cushion, letting my head fall back.

He sighs. “Okay, so now we just wait to give it to Nico.”

“Yeah.” I say, rubbing my eyes, which are gritty from tears and being up so late. Fatigue suddenly feels like a heavy blanket falling over me.

“You know what I don’t get?”

“What?”

“Why they haven’t taken anyone out, like a new hostage, to call his or her parents or whatever,” he says, his voice intense. “I mean, now that Mr. Barett is dead, how are they going to get money?”

He has my full attention now. “Maybe they’re calling some of the parents and don’t need the kids there?” I say. “Like Cassidy’s dad is a senator and Ravi’s family is loaded. They could be calling either one of them right now.”

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it make more sense to have the kids call their parents, with a gun to their heads, pleading and stuff? Plus I’m guessing the senator has an unlisted number. It would be so much quicker to just have the kid call the parent’s cell phone. Parents always pick up for their kids.”

“Yeah, that does make more sense,” I say slowly.

“And if they wanted my money, they’d need me to get a hold of my manager,” Hudson goes on. His face folds the tiniest bit as he says this.

A feeling crawls over me, cold with icy fingers.

“They must have some other kind of plan,” I say, trying to shake off the feeling. And then the obvious occurs to me. “Ariel’s dad isn’t the sole owner of his company. He owns it with his brother.”

“So you think they might be trying to find him to get the money?”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what they’re doing,” I say. “He loves Ariel. If he knows they have her, he’d do everything he can to help.”

Hudson sighs. “Which is why they’ll keep killing us off until they find her. They need Ariel.”

I look down at the phone hidden under my sweater. “We’re getting help before that happens.”

“I hope so,” he says.

“Since it’s a famous rock star, a senator’s daughter, and a bunch of super-rich kids being held, I think the police will move on this pretty fast, once they know about it,” I say.

He grins wryly. “Good point.” He rubs his thumb along his jaw line for a moment. “Who do you think is behind this?”

I shake my head. “Honestly it could be a lot of people. It’s not like I know much about Mr. Barett’s business but even I know he had a lot of enemies. He wasn’t exactly a nice guy.” I immediately light up with guilt. “I shouldn’t say that, though, now that he’s dead.”

Hudson rolls his eyes. “Why is that a rule? It seems stupid that you have to pretend someone was awesome after he died, even if he was a jerk sometimes.”

“When my grandmother died we all talked about her like she was a saint even though all she did was complain that my dad didn’t visit her enough. But I think it made my dad feel good when we said nice things about her.”

“I get that,” he says. “Except wouldn’t you rather be remembered for who you really were, not some perfect version of you that’s not even real?”

There is a heavy pause and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am. This is the kind of conversation I’d have sometimes with Ariel, late at night when the lights were off and it felt like we were the only two people in the world. But this is different because here, in this room guarded at every door, in this room where we’ve seen four people get killed, dying isn’t just hypothetical.

“Yeah, I think I’d want to be remembered for me,” I answer. “Though honestly there wouldn’t even be much to remember. I mean, I went to school and did some extracurriculars and that’s about it.”

“That’s stupid,” Hudson says, running his hands through his hair in that way I’m starting to love, though not as much in this moment when he just insulted me. “Who you are isn’t about what you do. It’s about your connections with people.”

And I remember I’m talking to a guy who writes songs that cut straight to my soul.

“You mean who you love,” I say. And the person who comes into my mind is Ariel. I’ve spent these past months feeling so badly that I told about Mexico, knowing that I let her down. But even if telling people was the wrong thing, for the first time I realize I don’t regret it. “I’d be remembered for ratting out Ariel’s secret. But I think I’m okay with that. Even if she hated me for it, I did it to try and help her.” I pause for a second, then take a breath. “I did it because I loved her.”

Something in the way Hudson is looking at me sends shivers down my spine. I look away, reminding myself this is not just some guy, this is a rock star and I am definitely seeing things that aren’t there.

“I’ll be discovered as a total fraud who lied to get famous,” he says gloomily. “That’s how I’ll be remembered.”

“Don’t be insane,” I tell him. “You’ll be remembered for your songs. I love your music, honestly it’s what got me through those first weeks after Ariel made everyone hate me.”

He looks shocked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, you have serious fans and it’s not because they think you’re hot. Your music means something to people.”

He is now smiling just a bit too smugly. I shouldn’t have said that part about him being hot.

“You like my music,” he says, sounding like a kid who’s just been given an ice cream cone.

“I love it. But don’t let it go to your head.”

He is about to say something but then he checks his watch and his face seems bathed in shadow. “We have to go,” he says, standing up. “Nico’s going to be there in a second.”

I stand up too fast and then have a moment when I swoon, too light-headed to stand.

Hudson grabs me before I can fall. “Careful.”

I can’t help but notice how good he smells, like warm coffee and clean T-shirts right out of the dryer. I step away as soon as I can.

“Thanks, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Nico is in the doorway of the kitchen when we get there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. At least I assume the guy in the ski mask is Nico because it’s our meeting spot. When he sees us he straightens and waves us over, giving a brief nod to the two agents standing in the far doorway.

We walk over to him. Hudson stands behind me, blocking me from view as I ease the phone out from my sleeve. For a terrible moment it is in the open, visible if anyone walked by, but Nico palms it, sliding it quickly into his pocket. Then he is gone.

I am limp with relief. We did it, we actually got him the phone.

We are going to be saved.

My uncle Marc is the one behind this, the one responsible for each person who has been shot in my home. I lean against the wall of the tunnel going back through this night, knowing what I now know. Marc and my dad started Barett Pharmaceuticals together but now Marc is barely involved and I’m assuming a good chunk of the money is unavailable to him. So if he wanted the money, he had to get my dad to sign things over to him. And to get my dad to do that Marc would need to put a huge amount of pressure on my dad, pressure like kidnapping him and taking a house full of kids hostage.

I have to admit, if that was his plan, he organized it well. Normally my dad would be nearly impossible to kidnap—he has too many enemies to go unguarded and he brings his security with him every time he leaves the house. But this party would have been a window of opportunity. My dad had to hire all kinds of extra security for Hudson, and Marc probably volunteered to be in charge of it. That way he could hire this band of psychopaths to hold us hostage while he got what he needed out of my dad. Plus Marc would know my dad’s code for his safe and all kinds of other inside stuff he probably needs to take my dad’s billions.