Pretend She's Here(58)

“I’ll help you,” he said. “Are you afraid your parents will be mad?”

“No,” I said. “Not at all. It’s something else.”

“Then let’s call them, right now. Tell them you’re okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He handed it to me. My hands were shaking. I was too overwhelmed to think straight. My fingers dialed our house number.

This is what I’m not sure about: Would I have gone through with it if the call had actually worked? I heard the line ring—I was sure of that. But then it went dead. I looked at the bars on Casey’s phone—two verging on one, one verging on zero. We were too far from any cell tower for the call to be completed.

“No reception,” I said.

“Then let’s go back to the barn,” he said. “We can call from there.”

We stood up, started pulling the toboggan up the hill. Carole and Mark zoomed by, going the other way. I barely noticed them. Bare branches overhead scraped in the wind. They clawed at the stars. I felt menace in the universe.

We crossed the clearing, entered the trail heading back to the farm. Casey held my hand.

“Why are you living with the Porters?” he asked. “Calling yourself Lizzie?”

“It’s complicated,” I said.

“Chloe acts like you’re really her sister,” he said.

“We’ve been close for a long time,” I said. How could I explain it to him? Did I even want to? The emotion of our kiss, of night sledding, of him telling me how his mother had died, then seeing the real me, had overcome what I’d known all along, what I’d been committed to do—maintain the facade, keep up the lie, not only for my survival, but for my mother’s.

“Why haven’t her parents called yours to let them know you’re okay?” he asked.

“They … the Porters … are taking care of me,” I said.

“It seems weird,” he said. “They have to know your family is going crazy. And your mother …”

“The Porters …” I began, searching for words to justify what the Porters had done, but I lost it. I heard a voice shrieking in the woods. Then I found myself holding Casey—not in a romantic way but clutching him for dear life, as if I was being swept away by a mad river. The voice was mine, crying with all the panic and despair I’d kept bottled up for sixty-seven days.

“They don’t take care of me. They kidnapped me, forced me into their van,” I said. “On my way home from school, in October. They locked me in a basement; they’re making me pretend to be their daughter.”

Casey frowned. “Lizzie?”

“Yes, she was my best friend, and she died of cancer, and her mother lost her mind from grief; that’s why she’s doing this …”

“I don’t care why she’s doing it,” Casey said, holding me so hard I could barely breathe. “She’s a kidnapper. They all are.”

I started crying harder then, because what he said was true, and hearing someone say it out loud made me realize what I’d been going through.

That might sound strange; you think when you’re actually experiencing something, you know it and are keeping track of what it’s doing to you. But I’d turned into stone along the way. I’d blocked out the worst just to live.

“We can call the police,” he said.

“But that’s just it,” I said. “We can’t.”

“Why? They’re criminals, L …” He started to say Lizzie, then switched to Emily and it came out Lemily.

“Even so,” I said. “I have to go along with them.”

“You can’t. You don’t belong with them. They’re hurting you already, and it could get worse.”

“Yes, much worse,” I said. “She’s told me what she will do. I’ve seen it, how close she’s come.”

“She?”

“Mrs. Porter.”

“What can she do that’s half as bad as kidnapping you?”

“Kill my mother. She has a knife … she’s going to use it.”

“What?” Shock filled his voice and face. I wondered if he even believed me. Why would he—how unreal was this to someone who didn’t live it every day?

“There’s a video,” I explained. “Mrs. Porter at the marsh with my mom. The blade is right there, pointing at my mom’s back. And I’ve seen the knife itself—she showed me that day at Jeb’s, when we first met you. She was afraid I’d talk.”

“You almost did,” he said. “I felt you wanting to say more.” Extra-sensory Casey.

I nodded. “That’s why we can’t tell anyone. She’ll go straight to my house.”

Casey shook his head. “She won’t have time. The police will arrest her right now, put her in jail. There’s no way she’s hurting your mom.”

“If I do what she says, everything will be fine,” I said, almost pleading with him. “All I have to do is go along with her. That’s all. I’m getting used to it; it’s not even that hard anymore. She feeds me; she’s letting me go to school. Even tonight—it’s a big step, letting me come here with you.”

“Do you hear what you’re saying?” he asked. “You’re making it all right. They’re criminals, and who knows what part Chloe’s playing, and you’re defending them. It’s Stockholm syndrome, Emily.”