Trust(5)

John licked his lips. “You didn’t want to get rid of Edie now?”

Frown in place, Chris turned his head. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Like you said, useless Green girl. We don’t need her,” said John, voice smooth, compelling. “Bet you she’ll panic and mess things up, make shit difficult for you. Might as well send her out, right?”

“Wrong!” Faster than I’d thought possible, Chris grabbed the younger boy. “What the fuck you playing at? You think I’m stupid?”

“No, no. Wha—”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Chris snarled, his fingers tightening around the gun. “She’s the only real hostage I’ve got. You think the cops would give a shit if I killed your drugged-up ass right now?”

“I won’t panic,” I said, not stopping to think. “I promise.”

Face lined, gaze angry and a little confused, Chris turned my way.

“We just have to wait for Joanna,” I continued, my breath coming fast. “Thank you . . . thanks for the beer.”

Slowly, Chris eased back, the fury falling from his face. “That’s right. We just have to wait for Joanna.”

I didn’t risk looking directly at John, to thank him for trying to help, to see if he was all right. Eyes down and mouth shut, that was safest.

“Won’t be long now,” Chris mumbled as if to himself. “It’ll all be over.”





I don’t know how long I sat there sipping beer. Long enough for my head to stop bleeding, if not to stop aching. The whole County Sheriff’s Office must have been out there by now, given the bright slivers of light shining in, the hum of a crowd.

A while back, Chris had started scratching, opening up sores. His trembling had also gotten worse. Calm as can be, John kept talking, telling stories he’d heard from his brother, asking after people they had in common. Empty beer bottles collected around us and his voice went on and on, husky and low. Probably on account of all of the smoking. The friend, Isaac, didn’t utter another peep.

“Chris, son,” said a man over a megaphone. “It’s Sheriff Albertson here. I’ve had a talk with Joanna—I know this was all an accident.”

“Jo?” Chris scrambled over to the front glass wall on his hands and knees, still gripping the gun. He peeked out from behind the safety of the magazine stands.

“Why don’t we talk this over, just you and me?”

“No!” cried the tweaker, pulling at his short hair. “She’s not . . . I can’t see her.”

John said nothing. His eyes were glued on Chris.

I couldn’t stop the shaking, first in my arms, then my legs. Please, please, please. Somebody get me out of here.

“Get up.” Chris rose to a stoop, standing over me. “Move, you fat bitch! Time to show these fuckers that I’m serious.”

“N-no. Please.”

He knocked the almost-empty beer bottle out of my hand, sending it spinning across the floor. Again he went for my hair, dragging me up to my feet. A cry caught in my throat, chunks of hair tearing out. I grasped for his hand, trying to ease the grip he had on me, the way he ripped at my scalp.

“Hurry up,” he said, and the flat of his hand smacked against my face.

Blood dribbled from my nose, putting the taste of copper on my tongue. The right side of my face was throbbing. He shoved me toward the door, the gun pressed hard against my spine.

“Open it.”

I squinted, staring out into the night. It was hard to see much. There was a lot of light, so many people out there, watching. No one doing a goddamn thing to help. All of me shook, tears, blood, and snot dripping down my face. My hands fumbled over the deadbolt, fingers numb. Then I flicked the lock, pushing the door outward. I held it open with one hand.

Chris’s arm came around me, his hold like a lover’s. Give or take the gun shoved under my chin.

“I want Joanna!” he said, yelling the words loud in my ear.

“Chris—” the sheriff started in his nice, calm voice.

“Now. Bring her out.”

“She’s not here, Chris. That’s going to take a little time.”

Behind me, Chris swore. “No. You get her here now.”

“If I bring her out here, you need to do something for me. Why don’t you let the girl go?”

Chris’s response was less than happy. I was sickened by the rancid smell of him, and the sound of him breathing hard and muttering to himself echoed in my head, through my hollow bones.

“You’re not listening to me. I’m in charge . . . I am. You need to see that.”

“Chris—”

“Shut up! I didn’t want to have to do this!” he shouted. “This is your fault.”

I swayed, and pee ran down the inside of my legs, beyond my control. It puddled in my flip-flops.

“Hold on. Okay,” rushed the sheriff. “I’m making the call right now. Let’s keep calm.”

Wonder if my mom was out there? I hoped not.

Something seemed to move in the shadows beside us. I couldn’t see. All of the lights were blinding, intensifying the pounding in my face and the pressure of the gun. Chris tightened his hold on my ponytail. Finger on the trigger and still hiding behind me, he pointed the gun out in the direction of the sheriff’s voice.