The Set Up (49 page)

I’m the scapegoat here.

I know it.

“Look,” I say, “I need to find my girlfriend. She’s going to be upset about Tory and what all of this might mean. I want to talk to her, and then I’ll come down to the station on my own.”

The laughter he expels makes chills run down my spine.

“You have to let me find her.”

“Right. So we can have another murder to solve. I don’t think so. Now turn around,” he says again, this time putting his hand on his gun.

“Please—she’s not answering her phone, and with these two murders I’m worried about her.”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this: turn around.”

And I want to say
fuck this
. I want to say it so bad I can taste the words on my tongue. But where will that get me? A stun gun to the ribs? Maybe a bullet in the leg if I try to run? A slew of more charges to hold me on, for sure.

I have to think of her now. Not just me. But her too.

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

She’s counting on me and I’m going to let her down.

Why the hell did I ever let my
don’t count on me
mentality slip away? I knew better and yet somehow in the whirlwind of Charlotte, I’d let it go. You’d think my father leaving me with nothing would have been the biggest lesson I needed to keep me on my destined path.

But the truth is—she was always a part of me. It started long ago. Her. And me. A boy. And a girl. And I swore to her then that I’d take care of her.

She’s on the bus before me and staring out the window.

I sit beside her. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

She says nothing.

“Charlie?”

Again she says nothing, but this time she closes her eyes tightly.

“What’s the matter?”

Slowly, she turns and I can see she’s been crying. “You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone, you know that.”

She shakes her head.

“Why didn’t you come to the window last night?” I ask her.

“Because I couldn’t,” she says quietly.

Anger wells within me. “What did she do this time?”

Charlie shakes if off. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Tell me.”

She sighs. “It was my fault anyway.”

“What was your fault?” I’m starting to get mad.

She sighs again. “I wanted her to read me a story like I saw her doing with Tory the other night when she and Uncle Tom were over for dinner, but she was in a hurry and she told me she would tomorrow, but I wouldn’t listen to her. I got upset and just kept asking her until she’d had enough of me and told me to go to bed.”

“And?” I grit out, knowing that’s not the end of the story.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I got up to get a drink of water and saw she was all dressed up. I knew she was leaving and going to see Tory. And I said the most horrible thing.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her she loved Tory more than me.”

It wasn’t Tory she loved more, but I couldn’t tell Charlie that.

“And when I wouldn’t stop crying she told me that was because I’m too needy. When I wouldn’t stop crying she locked me in the closet.”

My body is shaking. “For how long?”

“I don’t know. I fell asleep and woke up in my bed.”

“You have to tell your father, Charlie—you have to.”

“No,” she pleads. “No. He’ll be mad at her and then she’ll be even more mad at me.”

She has a point.

And right then and there, I vow to myself to always take care of her. To bust into her room, break down her door, do whatever I have to do so that she’s not scared.

I did a shitty job of it back then.

I was too young to understand what that meant.

But I understand what it means now.

Will she be okay?

Even if she is, she’s going to be scared when she finds out where I am. And I can’t do shit about it—again.

Jake’s breathing is growing heavier by the second.

The detective is staring at me.

I give him a nod and put my hands on my head.

But before surrendering, I twist toward Jake and plead, “Please, Jake, find her and when you do, tell her not to worry. Tell her that everything will be all right.”

Tell her she can count on me.

Quite possibly his eyes have tears in them, not unlike the night I told him to run. The night all those years ago that I told him to get the fuck out of Dodge and he couldn’t. He was frozen in place and I stayed behind with him. It took forever for him to snap out of it, and when he did and finally ran like I told him to, it was too late. The cops were there. And I stayed behind and took the fall for stealing the car.

“Jake,” I say.

Nothing.

Does he even hear me?

“Jake, promise me,” I grit out.

He blinks a few times and then says, “I promise, JJ. I promise.”

Resigned to my fate, I keep my hands on my head and give Detective Hill my back.

Pulling my arms down, he slaps the cuffs on me and two police officers start to lead me out the door.

I glance back and shout, “Don’t forget, Jake! Take care of her,” and then I close my eyes.

Twenty years later.

All grown up.

And I still can’t be there to help her.

HIGH BEAMS

Charlotte

WITH MORE THAN
one lurch, a few jerks, and a stall-out or two, I manage to get to my apartment in one piece in the Storm. I certainly didn’t do it in record time or drive anything like Jasper, but I did it.

The Bronx Bar is in full happy-hour swing and there’s some kind of outdoor summer fest going on. The music is much louder than normal and it’s hard to hear anything but the thumping sound of the bass.

I’m glad I won’t be home tonight. Or I assume I won’t be home. Hmmm . . . did Jasper ask me? Did I ask him? We’ve been so busy I’m not certain. This taking things slow thing is a little more difficult than I thought it would be. All I want to do is turn it up.

Certain tonight will be on as long Jasper makes it back; I take the elevator and scan the local news on my phone. Finally, the story has broken. Deep in concentration, I exit the elevator and fumble for my keys, waiting impatiently for the story to load. Reception in the hallway has never been good.

Inserting my key in the lock, it won’t go all the way in. I turn it around. Still won’t go in. It’s as if I have the wrong key. After trying one more time, I deduce that something is jammed in the keyhole.
Odd.
When I yank on the handle, the knob turns. I look at the lock again, wondering if in my rush this morning I somehow jammed it. The hallway is too dark to really see it, though.

Just as I open the door, I remember to take my phone off silent and it pings with a message from Jasper. Before I hit listen, the story loads and a picture of a car takes up the screen. Below it is a headline that reads, “Dead Body Found,” and I gasp.

Oh.

My.

God.

It’s a red two-door Audi.

It’s Eve’s car.

My mouth starts to quiver.

My body quakes.

Why would Eve’s car be found in the woods near Jasper’s mother’s house? I try to read quickly through the article to see if the body found inside it has been identified, but the site hasn’t fully loaded.

Staring at my screen, I close the door behind me and as soon as I do, I feel like something is off. The living room is dark and all the blinds are drawn. Jasper must have closed them this morning. Feeling uneasy and off balance, I reach to flick the lights on but before I can, a loud thudding noise draws my attention toward my desk.

Terrified, my eyes skitter to my left.
Let it be an animal, the wind, anything but—
before I can finish the thought I see him.

Big.

Really big.

A massive black-clad figure, and he is rifling through my things. Tossing them. Shredding them. Pieces of paper are raining down on my hardwood floor like strips of white confetti. The clues Jasper and I had come up with but never went back to are under his feet. He’s looking for something.

I force down the scream in my throat and quietly take a small step back, another, and another, hoping to make it to the door before he sees me. Just then the website on my phone completely loads and a commercial blares through the room.

Oh, God, no.

The intruder turns.

Sees me.

Our eyes lock.

Quickly, I lunge for the door, hoping to open it and escape into the hallway. I’m moving as fast as I can.

I’m not quick enough.

In one swift movement, the faceless man grabs me by the shoulders and throws me to the ground.

My breath comes out ragged as I try to scream.

The intruder looks at me for a beat and then picks up the vase of flowers Jasper brought me exactly one week ago. With the vase in his hand he stares down at me.

Now screaming as loudly as I can, I scurry to get up and launch myself toward the door.

Before I can turn the knob, he grabs me by the shirt collar, dragging me backwards. I choke a little until my shirt buttons pop and when I can breathe, I start to kick and scream, flailing my limbs in every direction. Effortlessly, as if I’m a rag doll, he shoves me to the floor.

Through the panic and fear, all I can see is Jasper’s face.

“Jasper!” I scream, knowing he can’t hear me. Knowing he can’t help me. Knowing I’m here alone. In the dark. With a monster.

My biggest fear coming true.

The mountain of a man doesn’t look so big anymore as he stares down at me with those wide, wild eyes. A high-pitched, terrified scream rushes from my lungs. That’s when he flings himself on top of me and drops the vase in the process. My head snaps toward the noise, and I watch as the antique pewter bounces and tumbles, the flowers windmilling across the floor and the water flowing beneath me. The faceless monster above me bears his full weight painfully on my legs and my eyes dart around looking for something, anything, to hit him with.

Nothing.

There’s nothing within my reach.

I flail uselessly beneath him, screaming and crying, all the while knowing no one is going to hear me.

Everything tells me that I should not panic. That I need to be in control if I’m going to have any chance of getting out of this alive, but then I look up, and all I can see is a monster.

It’s wearing a mask.

And two eyes are peering down at me.

A monster in the dark.

It’s like when I was little and my mother would lock me in the dark closet. I was so scared. So alone. Afraid of what was in there with me. Monsters. And no one ever came.

Except Jasper.

He came.

He let me out.

Jasper.

Jasper.

Jasper.

I’m not little anymore. I’m not that small, frail girl. I can do this. I need to fight for myself and for Jasper.

Giving it all I have, I reach for this monster in the dark and try to claw those beady eyes out. The howl of pain tells me I accomplished something, but then his hand draws back and makes contact with my face. The punch is hard. Painful. There’s more pounding, and I cry out over and over as the sting of his hand slaps the skin of my face.

Warm trickles of blood ooze down my chin, and I find myself going in and out of consciousness.
Focus. I have to focus.
My legs won’t move. He’s still pinning me down. Terror and adrenaline shoot through me. I’m not a fighter. I’ve never hurt a single person in my life. But right now, I summon all I have and with my right arm, I throw the hardest punch I can right into his groin.

A deep hissing noise escapes his mouth. Everything moves in slow motion. He picks up the vase. I hold my hands out to defend myself. He grabs both of my wrists with one hand and twists one of them so hard I hear it snap.

Deep, burning pain like I’ve never felt surges through me.

All thoughts of overpowering him vanish from my mind. Survival is all I can hope for. I lie here beneath this monster, the warm air blanketing me as cold terror sluices through my veins, and find myself praying for mercy. Praying for a miracle. Praying that I make it out of this alive.