Unleashed

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

THERE IS NO ONE AROUND TO HEAR YOU SCREAM
.

The words came into focus as I woke up on a toilet. The last thing I remembered was drinking Gatorade. Then a fog that had turned into midnight black.

Someone had dragged my unconscious body from the back of the mildewy gym where I’d passed out to the bathroom of the locker room, where I found myself now.

I was bound with duct tape. I was still in my sweats, sitting on top of the toilet-seat lid. Those factors, at least, were a small mercy. One, being in sweats, and two,
on the lid of the toilet seat as opposed to the seat itself. After not knowing how you got there and being unable to move, it would be even more awkward to look down and see your sweatpants bunched at your ankles.

The duct tape kept me from moving. I had no idea who had done this to me. The logical guess was the owner of a pair of white leather Converse basketball shoes on the floor on the other side of the cubicle door, toes facing me as if he were about to push open the door to use the toilet. I guessed it was a he only because the shoes looked like size twelve. Doubtful they would be a female’s, unless she was clever enough to put on shoes that large to fool me. After I gave that some thought, it struck me that it could be possible, because another short-term difficulty I’d been facing had been caused by Jo and Raven, two girls my age who were genius, demented freaks. Maybe they’d had something to do with this.

The note was taped to the inside of the door at eye level. It was clearly meant for me to read when I awoke. Given that I was barely recovering from whatever had been slipped into the Gatorade, it was good that the computer-printed letters were in caps for visibility.

THERE IS NO ONE AROUND TO HEAR YOU SCREAM
.

True. Terrifyingly true.

Before waking up on the toilet-seat lid, I’d been the last person in the gym, listening to the echoes of my knuckles slamming into a punching bag. Billy, who owned the place, trusted me enough to give me a set of keys to lock up and set the security. And it was trust. This gym meant the world to Billy, and it was a responsibility I took seriously. Billy might have been more relaxed if he knew that the place could burn down and my father would simply write a check to replace the entire building, and that the amount would be covered by the interest made in less than a month
by my trust fund. But Billy didn’t know that, and I wanted it to stay that way. To Billy, I was just another kid on the streets, clawing for a way out of Vancouver’s inner city. To me, this was my escape, my outlet for the rage that I woke up with every morning.

ANSWER MY QUESTIONS, OR YOU WILL NEVER BOX AGAIN
.

Obviously, then, I was here because the person who had done this expected that I would not want to answer the questions. Otherwise, why not just walk up to me and ask? The threat on the note also told me that the person on the other side of the cubicle door knew me well enough to know how much boxing meant to me.

AFTER A CURLING IRON HEATS UP, IT STAYS HOT FOR TWENTY MINUTES AND THEN AUTOMATICALLY SHUTS OFF. AFTER IT COOLS DOWN, IF IT IS STILL PLUGGED IN, IT BEGINS TO HEAT UP AGAIN. I WILL STAY HERE ALL NIGHT LISTENING TO YOU SCREAM IF YOU DON’T GIVE ME THE ANSWERS
.

In my other world, I play chess. People think I’m smart. That’s nothing that makes me proud. That’s just a matter of hitting a genetic lottery jackpot, although most of the time it seems more like a curse than a blessing, just like the other world I was born into. I was more proud of what I’d done in my chosen world. How I’d endured countless hours toughening my hands against a punching bag. It didn’t take a genius to understand the implications of the part of the note about the curling irons.

Each of my hands was taped to a curling iron. Once the curling irons were plugged in, the skin on the inside of my fingers and on my palms would melt with third-degree burns. The heat would go away when the curling irons shut off. Then I’d sit here in agony, smelling my burnt flesh, waiting for the curling irons to cool down and then automatically start up again.

CALL OUT WHEN YOU ARE READY, AND I WILL ASK THE FIRST QUESTION
.

The fact that the notes were printed, not handwritten, showed that this had been planned. I assumed by the person in the white leather Converse shoes. There was a deep scratch in the leather, across the toe of the left shoe. A clue, right?

The person on the other side of the door knocked politely. I didn’t respond. I had shifted focus to my hands and how tightly my fingers were wrapped around the curling irons. With my upper body, I leaned away from the wall to try to pull at the duct tape that was holding me to the pipes. That made just enough noise to tell the person who owned the basketball shoes that I was now awake.

A pad of yellow, lined paper made it over the door. There was a small hole at the top of the pad where a nail or drill had pierced it, and fishing line had been tied through the hole of the pad. The block printing on this one was handwritten.

I HEARD YOU MOVE SO I KNOW YOU ARE AWAKE. ARE YOU READY TO TALK?

I stayed silent.

The pad disappeared as the person on the other side tugged on the fishing line and pulled it up and over the door again.

This was so eerie. Except for the dripping of a leaky faucet, silence. Just me. Someone on the other side of the door. And then another new noise, which was the ripping off of the top sheet of paper from the pad, followed by the scratching of pencil on paper. The pad appeared again, sliding down the inside of the toilet door.

OKAY THEN. I’M GOING TO PLUG IN THE CURLING IRONS. TRUST-FUND MONEY WON’T PROTECT YOU HERE
.

The pad disappeared.

I heard footsteps on the tiled floor. The extension cord at the end of the curling-iron cords wiggled slightly. I heard a clicking sound at the far wall, the noise of prongs going into an electrical outlet. Thirty seconds later, I felt the metal of the curling irons in my fingers begin to get warm.

TWO

Trust-fund money.

That’s what I was born into. The interest my trust fund earns each day is more than most people make in a year. That doesn’t make me special. It’s not like I chose to be born into that kind of money.

I’m not that fond of trust-fund kids myself. Because they think I’m one of them, I have to endure those kids who think they
are
special because of where the womb dumped them. Occasionally, when stuck in their yacht clubs, private golf courses, private schools, etcetera, it’s convenient to pretend I’m one of them.

I’m not.

Nor do I feel special.

For years I watched my father treat my younger brother like crap, disappointed that he didn’t live up to the name they gave him: Bentley. That should tell you what my father is like. First, spending nearly three hundred grand for leather and steel and polished-walnut trim on one of only thirty-seven special editions of a Bentley ever produced. Second, being pretentious enough to give my brother the name of one of the world’s most exclusive production cars. And third, heaping bitterness upon my brother all his life because he wasn’t capable of living up to the name or being a showroom model that my parents could brag about to their friends.

I was in this gym because I did not want to be a trust-fund kid. This was my other identity. A place where I wasn’t seen as special because of the trust fund, where my reputation depended on my guts and my willingness to work.

Until now, I’d thought I’d kept this identity a secret from everyone in my trust-fund life.

WHO SENT YOU TO THE DETECTIVE TO LOOK INTO THE HOSPITAL FILES?

The pain in my hands was growing unbearable. That was good. When I stopped feeling pain, it would mean the burns were third-degree, searing the nerve endings so badly that they stopped functioning.

I spoke, my voice sounding harsh and scratchy to me.

“You want answers?” I said. “Unplug the curling irons.”

The pad jerked up and out of sight. The sound of the Converse shoes moving across the tiles again was a promise of relief that brought tears to my eyes.

I heard the click of the plug being pulled from the electrical outlet.

The pain in my hands didn’t end immediately. I would have needed to run cool water over my hands to relieve the agony.
But it seemed like the heat was becoming less intense.

My tears ran down onto the top of my lip, and I licked away the salt.

The shoes shuffled back and reappeared outside the cubicle door. I memorized the scratch on the toe of the left shoe.

“If this is one of you two freak girls…” I said, thinking of Jo and Raven. And really, except for my brother Bentley, they were the only ones who knew I’d hired a detective to look into my father’s past. And it wasn’t Bentley on the other side of the door. The strides were too long.

So who could it be but the two of them, who knew what I’d done? I said, “This is a crappy test of loyalty. No way would anyone give up the use of their hands to prove they’re on your team.”

I heard the sound of another sheet being ripped from the pad, of the pencil scribbling on paper, and then the pad pushed over the top of the cubicle door
and slid down again on the fishing line that held it.

GIVE ME THE NAMES OF THE GIRLS. THEN TELL ME WHY YOU WANT THE DETECTIVE LOOKING FOR THINGS AT THE HOSPITAL
.

Naturally, I thought, if it was Jo and Raven doing this as a test, they would pretend not to know their own names. On the other hand, if it wasn’t them, it was also a logical question from the unseen stranger in the Converse shoes.

“Amber Whitmore,” I lied, thinking of a girl who sat in front of me in math class. And then of her friend. “Danielle McGowan. I hired the detective as a favor to them. I don’t know what they expected to find out. I hoped it was something horrible. I don’t like my father, and I was happy to help.”

In case it wasn’t Jo or Raven on the other side, the lie was a necessary protection for them. And for me. The only thing
that wasn’t a lie was the part about my father. I detested him.

Silence greeted my answer.

The pad of paper disappeared. Rip. Scratch. The pad appeared again on the end of the fishing line. Someone didn’t even want me seeing his or her hands.

WHAT INFORMATION ARE YOU TRYING TO OBTAIN?

The truth was that I’d received an anonymous email informing me that my father had done something illegal at the hospital at the time of my brother’s birth, and that it would help my brother if I found out what.