The Conclusion (10 page)

Memories. Such clear memories.

“I don't have amnesia,” I murmured out loud. I
still remember everything. Everything except tonight.

I felt a chill. Such a cold night.

I checked myself out. What on earth was I wearing? My down parka. And underneath . . . two sweaters?

Did I remember putting on the two sweaters? No. Did I remember pulling on the parka and leaving the house? No.

But here I stood in the middle of The Triangle, shivering in the cold, wondering if I was losing my mind.

“Get home, Hope,” I ordered myself. “Get home where it's warm. And a little bit safe. And maybe Jasmine or Angel will help you. Maybe one of them will clear everything up for you.”

I let go of the fountain and took a step over the grass. My legs felt shaky. But my head no longer throbbed, and my heart had slowed to a normal pace.

Tucking my hands into the coat pockets, I lowered my head against the wind and began walking quickly in the direction of the sorority house.

Near Pine Street, a couple of students—a boy and girl, arms around each other—came walking slowly toward me. She had her head resting on the shoulder of his coat. They murmured, “Hello,” as they passed.

I mumbled, “Hi.” And thought about Chris. I wished I was walking with him tonight, my head resting on his shoulder, our arms around each other's waists.

Yes. That would be so nice, I told myself. So much
nicer than wandering around by myself in a daze, not knowing where I had been or what I was doing.

I was still thinking about Chris when I walked up the front lawn to the sorority house. But he vanished from my thoughts—and I stopped and gasped when I saw the front door standing wide open.

Had I left it open like that?

Or did I have a visitor while I was out?

Taking a deep breath, I ran the rest of the way to the porch. I burst into the house. Slammed the door shut behind me. And hurried to the living room.

“Anybody here?” I called. “Anybody—”

I didn't finish my question.

As my eyes swept over the room, I pressed both hands to my face and opened my mouth in a scream of horror.

“N
ooooooo! Oh noooooo!” I wailed.

The furniture, the drapes, the . . . the whole room—it had all been trashed.

One armchair lay on its back, the seat ripped open, the stuffing pulled out. The couches had been slashed again and again, the leather falling off the frames in jagged strips.

The legs had been pulled off an end table. Deep cuts rutted the tabletop. The curtains had been ripped off the windows and shredded.

“Who—?” I choked out weakly.

“Who—?”

And then I saw the note. Stuck on a knife on the wall beside the window.

I lurched across the room and pulled the heavy kitchen knife from the wall. I tossed it to the floor.
Then I raised the note close to my face and read the handwritten words:

You cannot escape from me.

I stared at it for the longest time, silently reading the words over and over.

Who came here? I asked myself. Who knows that I am living here?

Who is
doing
this to me?

• • •

That night, I slept curled up in a tight ball under my coat and all my clothes on the balcony outside the upstairs bedroom. It was a cold night, and I shivered myself to sleep.

The balcony was damp and rickety. The wooden railing was about to break away. But I didn't go inside. I wanted to be as far away from the front door as possible. As far away from any intruder who might come looking for me.

I'm not safe in this house anymore, I realized, pulling my coat up over my head. I'm going to have to find a new place to hide.

But I felt too exhausted to think clearly about it. I fell asleep under the coat, my head resting on a balled-up sweater for a pillow.

The next morning, I woke up still feeling shaky and frightened. I need to clear my head, I told myself. I need a new plan. A new place to live. I have to get some money. I'm going to need to buy more food soon.

I brushed my hair, staring at myself in the mirror, still surprised to find myself a brunette. So many changes . . . I suddenly felt as if I were no longer the same person.

I walked along Vermont for a while, checking out the old fraternity and sorority houses. It was a gray, cold day. The air felt wet and heavy. A low fog drifted between the bare trees along the street.

I hoped to spot another abandoned house where I could move. But the places I passed were all occupied.

Where shall I go? My mind felt as hazy and foggy as the sky.

Without realizing it, I found myself crossing The Triangle. Bundled against the cold, students hurried along the crisscrossing paths to their classes. In a wooden booth in the middle of the grassy area, two girls in clown suits were selling tickets to a student musical. A loudspeaker blared a song from the show, “Send In the Clowns.”

Normal life.

I let out a sigh. I couldn't help myself. I had to force back the tears.

That's all I wanted. A normal life. I gazed up at the Language Arts building, rising like a dark castle through the wisps of fog. I pictured myself sitting in class, taking notes, discussing
Othello
or Mark Twain or some ancient writer I never heard of.

That's why I had come to Ivy State, after all. For a normal life.

Now here I was, homeless and broke. Hiding from the police because my boyfriend was a murderer.

It isn't fair! I told myself.

I crossed the street—and stopped.

Chris! I spotted Chris huddled with someone at the side of the library.

Feeling a rush of excitement, I started jogging toward him. I opened my mouth to call his name. But instead uttered only a startled gasp.

He was talking with
Melanie.

I stopped running and ducked behind the wide branch of a tree. Had they seen me?

I leaned against the cold tree trunk and peered out at them.

No. They hadn't seen me. They had their heads close together, and both appeared to be talking excitedly.

Chris had his parka hood pulled up over his head. But I could see his dark eyes gazing hard at Melanie. He was gesturing with his hands. She kept nodding and talking at the same time as he.

“I—I can't believe this,” I murmured out loud.

Do Chris and Melanie know each other? What are they talking about?

Peering out from behind the tree, I tried to concentrate. I could hear their voices. But the rush of the wind drowned out their words.

Are they talking about me? I wondered.

Is Melanie telling Chris that I lived across the hall from her? Is she telling Chris what she told the police? That I'm crazy?

Chris is the only decent guy in my life right now. The only bright spot for me.

Is Melanie going to spoil that too?

I needed Chris. I really did. Why was he talking to Melanie?

I couldn't bear to watch them anymore.

I pushed myself away from the tree, turned, and
began running back across The Triangle. I ran as fast as I could. The cold, wet air felt so refreshing on my skin. My face felt as if it were burning up.

I must have been crying. Or maybe I had a strange expression on my face. Because several students turned to look at me as I ran past them. A few jumped out of my way.

I didn't stop my mad dash until I reached Pine Street. Then I turned away from the campus and kept going, taking long, hurried strides, breathing hard, unable to run away from that image of Melanie and Chris together . . . together . . . together.

Why weren't Chris and
I
together?

Without realizing where I was going, I found myself pulling open the glass door of Java Jim's and dropping onto a seat at the end of the counter.

My heart throbbed. My chest ached. I held my breath, waiting for the pain to fade.

“You okay?” the waitress asked, wiping the counter in front of me with a towel.

I told her I was fine and ordered a coffee. I tried combing my hair with both hands. Then I pressed my cold hands against my burning cheeks.

Wow. Seeing Chris with Melanie had really messed me up. I shook my head, trying to clear it. They probably met in the dorm, I decided. They both live in Fear Hall. So they probably met at a dorm meeting or something.

No big deal.

Unless Melanie was telling Chris about me . . .

Had Chris made the connection? Did he realize now that the girl he thought was Karen was really Hope—a wanted criminal?

Hope, you've got to think, I told myself. You've got to make a new plan. A survival plan.

The waitress lowered my coffee to the counter. As I reached for the sugar container, my eyes fell on two girls in a booth against the wall.

They were both staring at me. One of them pointed a finger in my direction.

When they saw me staring back at them, they both instantly turned away.

My heart skipped a beat.

Have they recognized me? I wondered. Has my photo been in the newspaper? Do those two girls know who I am?

I jumped off the stool. Landed off balance. Steadied myself against the counter. Then took off.

As I reached the door, I heard the waitress shout after me, “Hey—your coffee!”

But I pulled open the door and bolted outside.

I lowered my head and began to run. “Whoooa!” I cried out as I nearly plowed into a double baby stroller.

“Watch where you're going!” the mother behind the stroller angrily snapped.

“Sorry!” I choked out. And kept running. My open coat flapping behind me. The shops and restaurants whirring past in a blur.

And then I was back on Vermont. Still running as hard as I could. My legs aching. Each breath making my chest throb with pain.

A horn blared as I started across the street. I staggered back, and a blue minivan screeched around me, the driver waving a fist in the air. “Watch where you're going, idiot!”

I took a deep breath, looked both ways, then crossed the street. My abandoned house was on the next corner.

I'll be able to stop running for a while, I told myself as it came into view. I'll be able to get myself together, to think clearly.

“Oh—!” I let out a cry as I saw someone in the driveway.

Someone running from the house.

Chris!

C
hris? At my house, my hiding place?

How weird,
I thought.

What was he doing here? How did he find out where I live?

And why is he running from the place?

I watched him for a few seconds, trying to decide what to do.

I can't let him run away, I decided. I have to talk to him. I have to find out what's going on.

“Chris—! Hey, Chris!” I shouted.

He stopped when he heard my calls. His mouth dropped open. I could see the surprise on his face.

Surprise and . . . guilt?

His cheeks flamed. “Karen—hi!” he called, forcing a weak smile. At least he hadn't learned my real name.

I trotted up to him, my heart pounding again. “Chris—what are you
doing
here?” I blurted out.

His cheeks darkened to a deeper scarlet. “I . . . I came to see you,” he stammered. “But you weren't home. So I just . . .” His voice trailed off. He shrugged.

“But, Chris—how did you know I live here?” I demanded breathlessly.

“Well . . .” He hesitated. His eyes burned into mine. “I might as well confess,” he said finally. “I followed you home one night.”

“Excuse me?” I cried.

A smile spread over his blushing face. “I was just curious,” he explained. “You wouldn't tell me where you lived, so I found out for myself.”

Then, to my surprise, he leaned forward awkwardly—and kissed me. A short kiss but sweet, his lips dry and warm.

He pulled back before I wanted him to.

Did he kiss me to stop my questions? I wondered. Or because he likes me?

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why are you living in this abandoned house, Karen?” he asked.

I sighed. What could I say?

I couldn't tell him the truth. No way.

And I couldn't think of a good lie.

“I don't understand,” Chris said, gazing up at the old wreck of a house. “Why are you here?”

Before I could think of an answer, I heard another voice. A boy's voice.

“You ask too many questions, Chris!” he growled.

Darryl!

“No! Darryl—leave him alone!” I shrieked. “Darryl—don't touch him!”

But Darryl ignored my cries.

With an angry snarl, he reached up both hands. Grabbed Chris by the throat. And started to strangle him.

“L
et go of him!” I wailed. “Darryl—let him go!”

Darryl's hands tightened around Chris's throat.

Chris uttered a choked cry. His eyes bulged. He twisted his whole body and shot out his arms, struggling to break free.

But Darryl was so strong when he became angry. His jealousy gave him amazing strength.

“Karen . . .?”
Chris choked out. He dropped to his knees, struggling . . . struggling . . . unable to breathe.

“Let go! Let go! Let go!” I pleaded with Darryl.

With a desperate cry, Chris ducked his head. Hit the ground. And rolled free from Darryl's grasp.

He jumped to his feet quickly and raised both
hands to rub his neck. “Karen—I don't understand!” he gasped.

“Darryl—go away!” I cried. “I mean it, Darryl! Go away! Leave us alone!”

Chris stared at me, trying to massage the pain from his neck. “I don't like this, Karen,” he murmured softly, shaking his head. “I don't understand.”

“Darryl—stay away from him!” I begged. I turned to Chris. “Darryl is just so jealous,” I tried to explain. “He can't help himself, see? He gets jealous and then he goes berserk. It isn't his fault, Chris. He—”