Watched (21 page)

This isn't from the video. My heart lurches into my throat. This is live. King is trying to kill Miranda. Where are they?

I turn in a circle, my neck craned as I search the floors above me. There are lights on in the Jumbotron booth across the arena, on the top level, high overhead.

I race back out to the concourse. “They're in the control booth,” I shout to Oshiro's man. I run back to the little car, shove it in gear, and ignoring his shouts, rev it up the twisting spiral leading to the skyboxes and broadcast booth.

Lucky for anyone else, there are no more exhibits—and thus no innocent bystanders for me to hit—this high up. The smell of rubber burning as I skid around the turns fills the air. It tastes like my fear. All I can see is Miranda; all I can imagine is her dead because I'm too late.

Finally, I spot the booth. The brakes squeal and I jump free of the car as soon as it stops. I yank the door to the booth open, rush inside. Miranda and King are struggling for a gun.

He's bigger than she is, but she's kicking and clawing and biting for all she's worth, refusing to yield her grip on his wrist, pushing the gun away from her so he can't get a shot. He grabs her long hair, tries to yank her off her feet. I tackle him from behind.

We go down in a heap, the gun flying across the floor to where it comes to rest against a man's body. Miranda scrambles for it, grabs it just as King heaves me off and gets to his feet.

Beyond the glass surrounding the booth everything we do unfolds on the Jumbotron. Miranda aims the gun directly at King. He stops, ready to pounce on her.

“Put it down,” he shouts.

“No. I'm not taking orders from you. I want you to tell the world everything you've done.” She fires the gun into the floor, inches away from his foot. Then she takes aim at his chest, center mass. The kill zone. “Tell them. Now.”

The color drains from King's face as he stares at the gouge in the carpet, and I wonder if he's ever been threatened by anyone who can back it up. So very different than stalking little girls like Janey. He holds his hands up in surrender. “You can't shoot me. I'm unarmed.”

Her aim doesn't waver. If anything her expression tightens with resolve. She's beautiful, I realize. Long, dark hair with curls that defy gravity, dark skin, dark eyes you could fall into. Eyes that are shiny with tears.

“I don't care,” she says, her voice strong despite her tears. “They can send me to prison for the rest of my life. Killing you, I'd be doing the world a favor.”

I take a step forward, unsure of what to do or say. She keeps the gun trained on King's chest. “Get out of here, Jesse. Before the cops come.”

“No. I'm not leaving until you put the gun down.”

She shakes her head, her finger sliding from the trigger guard onto the trigger.

“Miranda—Ariel!” I cry out. “You're not really going to kill him.”

“Why not? He's taken everything from me!”

“No. He hasn't.” I step between her and King. She pivots, shifting her aim around me. “Your mom and dad, you have them.” I haul in a deep breath, stretch my arms wide. “And me, Miranda. You still have me.”

King makes a sniffling noise behind me. Miranda's aim doesn't waver, but I can't give up on her.

“Put the gun down,” I say, taking another step toward her. “For me, Miranda. For us.”

Miranda jerks her gaze away from King. Looks me in the eye—not just at me, into me, like she's seeing my soul. Her expression softens. She drops the gun onto the console.

King lunges past me toward the door—only to run straight into Oshiro and his men. They shove him onto the floor and have him in handcuffs before I can blink. Miranda tosses Oshiro a set of car keys. “He said my mom is in the trunk.”

Oshiro nods. “Don't worry. We're on it.” They haul King out. Miranda wavers, both hands clutching the edge of the control console as she leans back against it. I see the terror fill her face and I realize she's frozen in place, can't move. More than adrenaline—panic.

“Your mom will be fine.” She's trembling now and I'm afraid her legs are going to give out. I cross the space between us and take her into my arms. Beyond her, our image fills the Jumbotron. The crowd goes wild. “I knew you wouldn't do it. Shoot King in cold blood.”

“You know why I couldn't do it?” she whispers, circling me with her arms, letting me support her weight. “I thought of you. Of everything you've been through and how you never give up. I couldn't let you down.”

The crowd is chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.” We ignore them, too busy touching and taking in each other. She's even more beautiful than I imagined.

“Ariel—” The cops are coming for me. We don't have long. There's so much to say and no time.

She shakes her head. “I hate that name. Silly mermaid.”

“It's from Shakespeare. A spirit enslaved by an evil wizard who fights for freedom.”

She laughs, tossing her hair as her entire body rocks with the magical sound. “
The
Tempest.
Yes, I know. But I like Miranda better.” She tilts her chin and wraps her arms around my neck. “Don't you?”

“I like you no matter what you call yourself.” I sink into her embrace.

She hauls in her breath, searching for courage. “I have to face my parents.”

I need to tell her about her dad getting shot, but I can't find the words. Somehow it was so much easier talking to her when I couldn't see her, smell her, feel her body against mine. All I want to do is stand here and hold her, make time stop rushing past us, an unstoppable current trying to force us apart.

“You'd better get going,” she continues, her fingers stroking the back of my neck. “The police will be back for you any second.”

I shake my head, not wanting to take the time to explain that the police—at least the Feds—are on my side. “You sticking around?”

She knows I mean much, much more than waiting for the police and courts to finish with me. “You want me to?”

“I'm done running and hiding.”

Her smile turns into a grin that blinds me with its brilliance. “So am I.”

Oshiro pokes his head inside the door. “We found your mom, Miranda. She's okay. They're bringing her in now.”

I feel the relief surge through Miranda; we're that close. She squeezes me tight, bouncing on her tiptoes, as I hug her so hard I lift her off her feet.

Finally we can't avoid it any longer. Our lips touch. The kiss is better than anything I could ever dream of. The crowd is cheering and stomping their feet, rocking the floor beneath us. Or maybe that's Miranda rocking my world. I'm not sure, but it feels great.

Of course life isn't as easy as finding the girl of your dreams and solving all your problems with a kiss. Even if that kiss is earth-shattering.

I spend all day in custody, explaining everything to the cops, two lawyers (one for me, one from the DA's office), a child-protection worker, and then more cops, this time detectives and federal agents who listen and take notes as they go over everything again and again.

I ask for Miranda several times and they keep telling me she's fine, but I don't believe them, and it's starting to piss me off. I tell them she's only fourteen (they don't need to know she'll turn fifteen in just a few hours) and she has agoraphobia and they can't question her without her parents' and doctor's okay. I got that last from the lawyer Mr. Ryder got for me. I tell the lawyer I'll fire him if it means he can go be her attorney and watch out for her instead, and finally he goes to check on her, tells me not to say anything until he's back.

Another guy in a suit comes in, whispers something to one of the detectives, and suddenly they all leave. I wait by myself in the small room with no windows, not even the one-way mirror you see on TV. It's frustrating being kept out of the loop, but the only thing I'm worried about is Miranda.

Until the door opens again. Instead of my lawyer coming back, it's two guys in suits and my mom.

Her shoulders are slumped like an old woman's and she looks like her world has come crashing down around her, which of course it has. I know it's awful, but I just don't have the energy to care. Part of the reason why I'd insisted on talking without her present—I just can't handle worrying about how she'd take it, listening to the details.

“I told you,” I snap when I see her, “I don't want her here.” She's been hurt too much already and I'm so exhausted, I'm not sure I can protect her from everything I'm feeling.

The detective, I've forgotten his name already, pulls out a chair and helps my mom into it. The other guy, Mr. Ryder's FBI friend, a guy named Taylor who looks way too young to be an FBI agent but seems to know his stuff, sits down beside me. Now we four are gathered around the tiny table as if it's a family dinner.

“Things have changed,” Taylor says, taking the lead. He doesn't look happy. “I need you both to hear this.”

“What's changed?” I ask, on full alert. “Is King talking?”

“No. Not unless you count asking for a lawyer.” They'd told me earlier that so far they had no concrete evidence against King. He'd destroyed it all in his preparation to leave the country. The scene at the arena he'd blamed on Miranda, said she'd been stalking him—even sent her father to harass him—that she was the one with the gun who'd forced him up to the control booth. According to his version of events, he'd tried to stop her, but she'd shot the man there. His word against hers.

Doesn't help that the only thing anyone at the arena saw was the two of them struggling for the gun and her threatening to shoot him, even though he was unarmed.

The cops also told me the recordings from my pen are circumstantial at best. Their only hope is my uncle, that he'll testify against King and lead them to the other men King worked with.

Suddenly I know exactly why they're here. “King's not talking but my uncle is, right? He wants a deal.”

My mom looks stunned. She's still trying to deny the role my uncle played in all of this. I think it will be a long, long time before she can replace her version of the past with what really happened. I'm not looking forward to that day, not at all. When she realizes what she did, how she just gave me to him—how can a parent ever come back from that?

I can't deal with that now. I focus on the two men.

Taylor, the FBI agent, nods. “You have to understand, while the potential homicide and sexual assault charges are local, the cybercrimes are federal and so it's in the hands of the US Attorney. Given the extent of Kerstater's criminal activity—”

“You're going to do it. You're cutting him a deal.”

Finally my mom gets it. She leans over the table. “You mean Richey isn't going to prison? Does that mean Jesse won't have to testify?” She says it like it's a good thing, as if the entire world doesn't already know what my uncle did—what I did. “Do we have a say in any of this? Can we recommend that you do that, give him what he wants?”

I know she thinks she's saving me—and her—the pain of testifying, but I can't help the flare of anger that she's willing to even discuss letting my uncle off the hook.

“I'm afraid not, ma'am. It's up to the US Attorney. I'm notifying you as a courtesy, that's all. He's asked for full immunity, and while one of my colleagues was taking his statement at the burn unit, something came to light that we thought you should know. This is all confidential, but—”

I jolt up straight as I finally understand what he's dancing around. I reach for Mom's hands across the table, take them both in mine, giving her something to hang on to. This is so much bigger than me and my anger issues. “He confessed,” I choke on the words. “It's Dad. He confessed.”

Mom's eyes go wide as Taylor continues, “A requirement for the plea bargain is that he confess any and all past criminal activity. Otherwise, his immunity deal is void.” He turns to Mom. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Alexander. I truly am. As soon as we verify the identity of the remains found in your brother's house—”

For a second I think Mom's going to faint. The color drains from her face and her hands grip mine so tight my fingers go numb as Taylor tells us everything my uncle has confessed to.

How Dad went to my uncle, suspicious of the way he acted around me. Said I'd told him I didn't like it, didn't want to see my uncle anymore—I don't remember that, but I don't remember much about back then.

My uncle killed him. Then he let us get kicked out to the streets when Mom never heard back from Dad and we couldn't make the rent. Killing my dad was the perfect way for my uncle to get everything he wanted.

It was Dad's body they found in the fire. Dug up from where he'd been buried beneath my uncle's barn.

I thought Mom would break, hearing that. I know I almost did. Knowing he'd been so close all those years.

Dad stood up for me. He'd loved me that much. He hadn't abandoned me—us. He'd thought I was worth fighting for. He'd believed me, even though I was just a kid. He'd believed
in
me.

The rest of the night is a blur after that. Next thing I know, they decide there won't be any charges brought against me and I'm sitting with Mom in the front lobby of the police station when Miranda's folks come out from the detectives' area behind the desk. Mrs. Ryder has a black eye and split lip. Mr. Ryder is using a crutch. They both look scared. Miranda's not with them.

“Where's Miranda?” I jump to my feet. “What's wrong?”

Her dad answers, looking over his shoulder at the door behind the desk sergeant, as if expecting it to open and Miranda to appear. “Waiting inside. Our lawyer is still talking with the DA.”

“Why?” I demand. “She didn't do anything wrong. She saved my life.”

“They keep talking about attempted murder. Assault,” her mom says in a dazed voice. “Federal computer crimes.”

“It's bullshit. If she wanted to kill that scumbag, he'd be dead already.” Her dad sounds more proud than upset.

“Is she okay?” I ask. “I mean, she told me about her panic attacks—”

Mrs. Ryder gives me a hug, the top of her head barely coming up to my chin. I can't believe she stopped the men who King sent to rape her; she's such a tiny thing. But definitely strong, just like her daughter. “Thanks for asking, Jesse. Her doctor says it can happen like this, flooding she calls it. The brain becomes so overwhelmed, there just isn't any more room for fear.”

“So, she won't have to worry? It's not coming back?”

“Too soon to say,” Mr. Ryder said. “But for now, she's doing all right.”

“You know King's not talking—”

“Beyond trying to blame my daughter for the man he killed, yes, we know.” Mr. Ryder's voice is flat, like he's trying to pretend he doesn't want to wrap his hands around King's throat and choke the life from him. But it's the fury that sparks in his wife's eyes that makes me take a step back.

I feel trapped, can't breathe, desperate for air, space to think. My lips go numb and I realize I'm hyperventilating. My chest is crushed so tight it takes me a moment to realize: this is what Miranda lives with every day. Yet, she's here, out of her safety zone, dealing with all this crap like the games King and my uncle are playing…because of me.

Feeling caged, I start pacing, fighting to find enough space, enough air.

“They aren't talking about—I mean, they can't actually arrest her, can they?” The room blurs around me I'm pacing so fast.

“No, of course not,” Miranda's mom says. But I hear the doubt in her voice.

“They just need to get all the facts straight,” Mr. Ryder adds. He sounds certain, confident, but his arm tightens around his wife's shoulders and I know he's bluffing. He has no idea what will happen to Miranda. I think of all the stories about innocent people being falsely convicted of crimes they didn't commit, and I realize, as much as the cops helped us today, we can't always trust the law to do the right thing.

Case in point, the deal my uncle made. He's getting away with murder and the law is on his side.

After everything Miranda has done for me, I can't let there be the slightest chance that the cops lock her up. I have to help her, but I have no idea how. I stop my pacing and lean against the glass doors leading outside. The crowd from the arena has converged in front of the station. I'm stunned they're still here even though it's been hours and is now dark.
What
do
they
want?
I wonder, tempted to put them in the same box as King's clients, voyeurs gorging on someone else's misery.

They're holding candles and signs, and there are speakers with bullhorns standing behind a police barricade. There are hundreds of them. Not just kids—moms and dads, as well.

It's weird. For so long one of my greatest fears was what the rest of the world would think of me if they ever learned the truth. I thought being branded a victim—or worse, people thinking I liked what my uncle did to me, that I wanted it—would be almost as bad as seeing Janey or Mom hurt because of me.

Now everyone knows the truth. And it doesn't matter. Sure, some might think badly of me. But I find I honestly don't care.

TV crews have set up on the steps of the station, filming the crowd and interviewing “experts” including Mr. Walker, my vice principal who started all this when he hung up on King. He's on the steps, talking to a pretty reporter from the local station, chest all puffed out.

Miranda said we could use the crowd. The power of the people, she'd called it. We need that power now.

If the crowd turns Miranda into a hero, there's no way they'll charge her. They wouldn't dare, not if they're letting scumbags like my uncle go free—and wouldn't the reporters just love to hear about that little deal?

I drag in a deep breath, my panic vanishing, and step through the doors.

The crowd sees me and goes wild. They hoist signs reading:
Take
back
the
Net! Protect our Kids! Stop the Madness!

Reporters crowd me. I'm blinded by the lights of their cameras. I don't know where to look or what to say, so I tell the truth.

“There's a girl, you know her as Miranda.” The crowd roars so loud I'm disoriented for a moment and have to start again. “Miranda was cybersmashed because she dared to stand up to a bully. She was driven out of school, her family terrorized, and she tried to kill herself. Twice.”

A gasp races through the crowd and they fall silent, listening.

“She's the bravest person I've ever known.” I knuckle tears from my eyes, not caring how stupid I look. “She's been fighting predators, saving kids for years, and no one knew the price she paid. She almost died today saving my life.”

Suddenly the crowd starts to cheer, drowning me out. There's a commotion behind me, and I turn to see Miranda rushing through the doors, running toward me. Straight into my arms. For another of those amazing kisses.

After that, I don't really care about much of anything else.

“We did it, Griffin!” she says when we come up for air. “They believe me. They're charging King!”

I keep my arms around her, don't want to ever let her go. “Jesse,” I tell her. “Griffin is some made-up hero. I just want to be Jesse, a normal guy.”

“As long as you never forget that you're my hero. Jesse,” she says with a smile that makes me blink it's so blindingly bright. “I couldn't do this without you.”

I pull her to me tightly. Lift her off her feet as pride surges through me.

For the first time in years, I'm proud to be Jesse Alexander. Son of James Alexander, a man who died protecting his family.

I wanted the truth and I got it, in all its painful glory. And the rest of the world now knows the truth about me. But the burning fear in my gut has vanished.

I can face tomorrow. I can face the world.

Miranda was right: truth changes everything.