He Started It(54)

She’s here. I knew it. I always knew it.





MONTANA


State Motto: Gold and silver

Today is the longest single-day drive of our trip—both times. Nikki wanted to get out of Wyoming to have some real fun, and not the kind you have at tourist sites and odd museums.

Screw history, she said. It’s all boring.

Roller coasters were a much better idea. The biggest theme park in the area was over nine hours away and we couldn’t wait to get there. On the other hand, nine hours was a long time to be cooped up in a car. All kinds of things could happen in that amount of time.

Grandpa was still drugged, though neither unconscious nor sick, and he always looked like he was watching TV. Even in the car, he stared out of the window like he was watching an episode of JAG.

I gave him his breakfast, which came from a drive-thru. He used to like breakfast sandwiches, or at least he acted like it, but now he was a zombie who couldn’t taste anything.

I couldn’t look at him without thinking of what he’d done to Grandma. Everything I remembered about her was warm and sweet and filled with apple juice. She always gave us apple juice. Even if you could hit her, why would you?

However, as mad as I was, he looked pathetic. He was drinking a constant stream of pain pills and that made him woozy enough to slur his words. When he wasn’t trying to talk, he stared off into space, and he looked terrible. Unkempt hair and clothes, days of stubble on his chin.

“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

He turned to me, his eyes dull, his skin so very white, and he laughed. It was so unexpected it made me jump. Grandpa laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. No one else saw, or heard, because Nikki had the music up so loud.

“Why are you laughing?” I said.

That made him laugh all over again. I waited until he stopped.

“I can’t believe you asked if I was okay,” he said, wiping his eyes. “You’re holding me captive.”

I shook my head, gesturing to his body. “You aren’t tied up.”

“You’re right, I’m not tied up.” He sighed so hard it made the seat rumble. “But I’m still a captive.”

Well, yes. He was, I’ll give him that. Our threats about Portia were keeping him here instead of running whenever he had the chance.

“There’s something wrong with your sister,” he said.

My first thought was Portia, who was in the seat in front of us, playing with an Etch A Sketch. She looked fine.

“Not her,” Grandpa said.

Nikki. Up in the driver’s seat, singing along to the music, bouncing around in her seat trying to dance. Seemed normal to me. “She’s not sick,” I said.

“She’s sick in the head.”

This was all a little vague for my young mind. Nikki was my sister. She was wild and fun and a little crazy. And pregnant. But not sick. There’s a difference, and I knew it even then.

He lowered his voice and said, “Do you know about the camera?”

I nodded. We had been taking a lot of pictures with that disposable camera.

“Not that one,” Grandpa said. “The other one.”

“The second camera? We haven’t used it yet.”

“She has.”

I shook my head. He was wrong, because I just saw the first camera earlier in the morning. It still had pictures left. There was no reason to start another one.

“So you don’t know about the other pictures,” Grandpa said.

I did not. “Tell me.”

“They’re . . .” His face scrunched up into a ball of wrinkles. “They’re vile.”

Vile. The word made me think of vomit, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I knew, or thought I knew, but even I couldn’t believe it.

“Are they . . . Are they pictures of Portia?” I asked.

He nodded once, closing his eyes as he did.

“She took them,” I said, thinking out loud, working through what he was saying. Vile pictures of Portia were what kept him here, what kept him from trying to get away or get help.

That’s what he said, anyway.

It took me a few seconds to process what he was saying, to assess it, and then to remember that this was the man who hit Grandma.

“Liar,” I said.

“Beth, I swear I’m not lying. Your sister . . . She isn’t right.”

I shook my head at him, at every word he said. “You’re the one who isn’t right.”

“Please—”

“Shut up.”

I went up a seat, to where Portia was sitting. “Let me,” I said to Portia, grabbing the Etch A Sketch. It wasn’t really hers, anyway. Originally it had belonged to Nikki.

“Hey,” she said.

“Just wait.” I spent quite a while with that thing, creating a bad replica of our house back home, including the imaginary dog I had when I was little because Mom didn’t allow pets. Portia sat right next to me, her arms crossed and her bottom lip pushed out. The girl could pout.

She eventually got tired of waiting, because she leaned forward and poked Nikki on the arm. Nikki turned down the music and said, “What?”

“Beth took the Etch A Sketch,” Portia said.

“So?”

“So I was playing with it.”