The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die (13 page)

From this angle, I can see his profile as well as his eyes in the rearview mirror. He's concentrating so hard on getting us out of here that he doesn't notice me watching him. To keep my mind off my fear that we're about to get caught, I take inventory of this guy I've known less than a day.

Full lips, right now pressed together.

Under thick black eyebrows, eyes that are never still, flicking from the rearview mirror to the side-view mirrors and then to the road again.

Dark hair so thick it stands up, except for a piece that falls across his high forehead.

A blunt-tipped nose that makes him look a bit unfinished, as if someone forgot to give it the sharp edges it needs to match his high cheekbones and the precision of his long sideburns.

Basically, Ty's beautiful in a way that only a guy could be.

“We're out of Bend and on the highway now,” he announces, and I can see his shoulders relax a bit. “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. If you haven't already done so, you need to stow your carry-on luggage underneath the seat in front of you or in an overhead bin. Please take your seat, fasten your seat belt, and make sure your seatback and folding tray are in their full upright position.”

His recitation is flawless, as if he has said it a million times. “You sound awfully official,” I say. “Do you moonlight as a stewardess?”

“After my parents separated, I used to fly to Colorado a lot to visit my dad.” The turn signal begins to
tink-tink-tink
. Ty checks over his shoulder, and then I feel the car move to the left. We pass a triple trailer. The driver, a big guy with an even bigger beard, smiles down at me. I can't help but smile back. It feels a little rusty.

“So your parents are divorced?”

He sucks in his lips and is quiet for a long moment. So long I don't know if he's going to answer me. Finally he says, “I don't know. What do you call it when one of them's dead?”

The smile falls from my face and I reach forward to touch his arm. “What happened?”

“A couple of years ago my mom decided she didn't want to be with my dad. Actually, she was seeing the guy she worked for. But she didn't say that at first. Just that she had gotten married too young and that she was tired of not having any money. My dad moved to Colorado because he loves—loved—to ski. He also made furniture by hand. People started collecting it. He was actually making good money at the end, which was ironic. Then one day he was skiing off trail and fell into a tree well.” Ty takes a shaky breath. “And he suffocated.”

“A tree well?”

“You know how evergreens have low branches? Those branches can stop snow from filling in at the base of a tree. So there's all this loose snow and it's like quicksand. You fall into it and you can't get out. Basically, you drown in snow.” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

“I'm so sorry.” I've been worrying about how my parents might be dead. But Ty's dad is really dead, and Ty's never going to see him again. At least I don't know for sure. Not knowing feels like a curse, but maybe it's really a blessing. “How long ago did that happen?”

“Almost a year. And after that, things with my mom started going south. She married her boss but I don't get along with him. Then one day I borrowed his car without asking, his brand-new BMW, and went too fast around a curve. I wrecked it.”

I'm starting to understand why Ty lives with a roommate and sleeps on a mattress on the floor. “So you ran away?”

“Actually, they kicked me out.”

Something inside of me recoils. I don't know anything more about my parents than what I saw in that photo, but somehow I know that I'm theirs forever. No matter what.

Ty sighs. “So I was on the street for a few months over the summer. I had a tent that I pitched in the woods. The cops don't like you to be too near downtown. They said we scared away the tourists. That's the same reason they didn't like to see us picking through the garbage at Starbucks. Hey, we had to eat. Then I met James and he was looking for a roommate, and one of my dad's old friends gave me this car, and I got a job at McDonald's and everything started coming back together.”

The mention of McDonald's reminds me. “Are you supposed to work tonight?”

“I called in sick this morning.” For a second, his eyes meet mine in the mirror.

Ty wouldn't be doing any of this—missing school, missing work, stealing cars—if he hadn't met me. I'm the very definition of a bad influence. “Why are you doing all this for me?” If Ty thought helping me entitled him to something, he would have tried to crawl into bed with me last night, instead of sleeping on the couch.

“When I saw you in McDonald's counting your money, I guessed you were in some kind of trouble. And when I was out on the street, some people helped me. People like James and Audrey. If they hadn't, who knows what would have happened.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Now, would I have tried to help you if I had known how bad it was going to get?” He lets the question hang in the air before saying, “I guess we'll never know.” And then he half turns again to give me a smile.

“The problem is, nobody knows what's going on,” I say with a yawn that goes on so long I get dizzy. “Not even me. Especially not me.”

I should be planning what we're going to do once we get to Portland, but instead my eyes keep closing for longer and longer stretches. And eventually the hum of the car lulls me to sleep.

In my dream, I'm outside the bowling alley again, watching the kids walking toward the door carrying brightly wrapped presents. Only this time I'm much closer, so close I'm walking right behind the dad carrying the silver balloons.

The man in the blue Lexus catches sight of me. He jumps out of his car with a gun in his hand.

And I'm screaming and trying to push the kids inside to safety, but one little boy falls. I pick him up by his arm, too rough, but there's no time to worry about that. I just have to get him inside before he's killed. The little boy is crying and he's twisted around to look up at me. And he has the same face as the boy in the photo.

“Cady!” he says. “Cady!”

I wake up with a jolt. It's Ty. He's calling my name.

And his voice is full of panic.

 

CHAPTER 28

DAY 2, 3:44 P.M.

 

“Cady, Cady!”

I lift myself up on one elbow. “Wha–?” At first, I don't know where I am. But for a second, I feel like I know
who
I am.

Only for a second. Then it slides away.

Ty has turned the radio all the way up. He has to half yell to be heard over it. “They're talking about you. It sounded bad.”

Bad? I don't have time to ask. On the radio, chimes sound, marking the beginning of the news. “Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Susan McCallister. Thanks for tuning in to KNWS. And here's our top story: This morning, firefighters responded to a cabin fire forty miles north of Bend in the Deschutes National Forest. Authorities say that the vacation cabin belonged to the family of Cady Scott, the Portland teen being sought for questioning in connection with the death of Newberry Ranch security officer Lloyd Dillow. Fire incident commander Rick Ochoa told us that it took nearly fifty firefighters from several responding agencies to put out the fire.”

A man says, “The ranger district's initial attack crew was first on scene. They found the structure fully involved in flames, with little chance of being saved. But thanks to the crew's quick action, we were able to contain this fire and keep it from spreading to the surrounding forest.”

The newscaster says, “Ochoa would not comment on reports that human remains were found in the ashes.”

I freeze. Human remains?

“Keith Pilligan in Portland has more about the growing mystery surrounding Cady Scott. Keith?”

Bitter bile rises in my throat. Is this the reason I can't remember? Was the shock that caused my fugue state seeing my family die?

“Good afternoon, Susan. Where is the Scott family? Police say their Portland home shows signs of a struggle. The family's car, a dark green Forester, is missing, and neighbors say they haven't seen the Scotts for several days. Friends fear the worst. Coworkers at Z-Biotech, where Patrick and Janie Scott have been employed for seventeen years as microbiologists, say the Scotts haven't been to work since Monday, the day before Lloyd Dillow was murdered. Three-year-old Max Scott, who normally attends an on-site day care at his parents' workplace, is also missing. Monday is also the last day that sixteen-year-old Cady Scott last attended classes at Portland's Wilson High. Employees at Z-Biotech told KNWS the older Scotts have recently spoken about tensions at home, saying that Cadence—or Cady, as she is known to her friends—had begun stealing from them and using drugs and even selling.”

Drugs? I feel like I'm being whipsawed. Could it be true? Should I feel guilty for something I don't know I did?

But even if I am a drug addict, it doesn't explain a lot of things. Like what about the men? The men who pulled out my fingernails, the men who wanted to kill me, the men who were searching for me—where do they fit in? If I really have been selling drugs, have I somehow gotten on somebody's very bad side?

While I'm thinking, the reporter is still talking.

“Police, however, have still not identified Cady Scott as a suspect in the shooting of Lloyd Dillow or in the disappearance of her family. They will say only that she is a person of interest.” From the tone of the reporter's voice, it's clear he thinks it's only a matter of time until I'm charged.

The woman newscaster says, “But there is one person who does believe in Cady Scott's innocence, right, Keith?”

“That's right, Susan. I'm at the Portland hotel where Elizabeth Quinn, Cady Scott's aunt, has been speaking to reporters about her niece. She flew into Portland as soon as she heard about her missing family members.”

Elizabeth Quinn? I've just been given one more piece of the puzzle of who I am. Thinking of the human remains, I wonder bleakly if it's possible she's now the only living relative I have.

“I am certain Cady didn't do it,” a woman says emphatically. “I've known her since she was a baby. She sends me little notes on email all the time. She's a sweet, quiet girl. There's no way she could be mixed up in something bad. There's either been a terrible accident or some kind of mistake. And I'm not going to leave Portland until I find out what really happened.”

The male reporter cuts in. “And that's what everyone would like to know. What happened to Cady Scott and her family? This is Keith Pilligan, reporting to you live from the Winchester Hotel. Back to you, Susan.”

The newscaster says, “Cady Scott is sixteen years old, five foot seven, and about one hundred twenty-five pounds. She has shoulder-length dark blond hair and blue eyes. You can see a picture of her on our website.” She takes a breath and then says, “In other news around the region…”

Ty snaps off the radio.

Remains.
Even when they were talking about other things, I kept going back to the first thing they said. The worst thing.
They found remains at the cabin.

In the rearview mirror, Ty's wide eyes meet mine. His skin is pale.

I try to think it through. “But I checked all the rooms of the cabin before I left. Nobody was there.”

“You said it was trashed and you were in a hurry.”

“I think I'd have noticed three bodies.” The words come out with a sarcastic spin that makes him flinch. Earlier I imagined—and I pray I only imagined it, I pray it isn't some sort of memory—my family sprawled dead in the forest. What if the men had dragged them back into the cabin and then set the cabin on fire to cover up their crimes?

But thinking of dragging reminds me of something else. Someone else. And it's wrong that it makes me feel better to think of it. But what if the man in the oxblood shoes came back to figure out what had happened to Brenner, why he wasn't returning his calls? After he found him dead, he could have decided it was the perfect opportunity to cast more blame on me. He could have dragged Brenner back to the cabin before setting it on fire.

My mind whirls with possibilities. Am I an addict? A sweet girl? A girl who knows how to kill someone with her bare hands? What's a lie and what's the truth? I have no idea. But it sounds like the one woman who might be able to tell me is at the Winchester Hotel.

My aunt Elizabeth.

And we're only thirty minutes away from Portland.

 

CHAPTER 29

DAY 2, 5:08 P.M.

 

Once we're in Portland, we hit a Burger King drive-through (Ty refuses to even consider McDonald's), and then hunt for a pay phone. When we finally find one, he calls the Winchester Hotel and asks to be put through to Elizabeth Quinn. We decided it was safer to have a guy ask for her.

After he hangs up he walks back to where I'm sitting in the car. He's smiling.

“At first your aunt thought I was a reporter who missed the press conference. Then I explained who I was—and, more important, who I'm with. She's so happy to hear that you're okay. I tried to explain about how your memory's gone, but I don't think she totally understood. Still it sounds like she might know something about what's really going on.”

Something inside me loosens. To finally know all the answers. To let an adult be in charge. I grin back at Ty.

Elizabeth said the safest thing would be to meet at the Winchester Hotel, so we park in the underground garage and then take the elevator up to the third floor. I take a deep breath and knock on the door of 312.

A slender woman dressed in cuffed skinny jeans, Doc Martens boots, and a long black sweater opens the door. She looks down the empty corridor and then pulls me inside. Ty's right on my heels. As soon as she closes the door, she hugs me.