The Girls I've Been(56)

I know my sister, but I don’t. Now I get to meet the real her.

“Lee,” she says. “Lee Ann O’Malley.”

Lee. Short. Matter-of-fact. It suits her.

I want to be brave when I ask the next thing, but I’m not. I’m right back in front of that mirror, Mom’s hands braiding my long hair as I repeat a name dutifully after her . . . and my voice shakes.

“And what am I called?”

“That’s up to you,” Lee says, and choosing like that is as unfathomable as safe and help and home. “What do you want your name to be?”

“I get to choose?”

Her thumb settles on the pulse point of my wrist. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

“You get to choose.”





— 43 —


11:57 a.m. (165 minutes captive)

1 lighter, 3 bottles of vodka, 1 pair of scissors, 2 safe-deposit keys

Plan #1: Scrapped

Plan #2: On hold

Plan #3: Stab

Plan #4: Get gun. Get free. Get Iris and Wes. Get out.



Duane slumps to the side, his hold on the pistol slackening, and I move. I don’t talk myself out of it or hesitate, because who knows if he’ll jerk himself conscious any second.

It’s awkward with my bound hands, but I manage to pick the gun up, though I can’t shoot it or hold it properly.

I set it down on the desk, turning back to him. His breathing is shallow. The blood loss got to him, maybe, but if he just passed out from the pain, he might come to fast. But I need my hands free.

I tug up his shirt with two of my fingers, exposing the waist of his jeans, and the knife is tucked against his back. I grab it, peel it open, and, with some maneuvering, manage to flip the blade to the right position and saw through the layers of tape.

The knife goes in my pocket, and the gun’s back in my hand, and I can’t hesitate, even though the weight of it is a free fall in my stomach, every muscle in my body telling me to put it down.

I move forward instead. Got the gun. Got free. Now I get Iris and Wes. Then we get out.

Cracking open the office door, I peer through the slit into the hall. There’s no one in sight. Red Cap’s still down in the basement. We might be able to avoid him altogether.

I slip out the door and into the hall, hurrying to the heavy steel table they dragged to block the office they were keeping us in. I set the gun on the table and yank the end of it.

“Stop.”

I whirl, grabbing the gun as I move, and it may look confident, but I’m not. I don’t want this. But I still point it at Red Cap because he’s got the shotgun pointed at me.

“Put it down,” he orders.

“Put yours down.”

He jerks his head to the side, and when Iris steps into the hallway, all the greedy joy of slipping free fizzes out in my chest.

“Down,” he insists, and I do it, because there’s no other choice. The knife’s still in my pocket, but if I reach for it, he’ll shoot me, so I stay stock-still. Iris stares at me as he hurries over and gets the gun. “What did you do to him this time?” he demands as he hustles us into the office where Duane is slumped against the wall.

Iris’s eyes widen as she sees my bloody flannel next to him.

“I didn’t do anything. He passed out on his own.”

Red Cap slaps Duane’s face a few times, but he doesn’t move. Iris looks from both of them on the ground to me, with a question on her face.

The scissors, I mouth, making a stabbing motion.

She shoots me a look that seems to be more disappointed I didn’t do it properly than horrified I did it at all.

“You’re lucky he’s still breathing,” Red Cap tells me when he finally gets up after tying my flannel against Duane’s wound. “He better wake up.”

Red Cap has a point, unfortunately. I kind of need Duane awake, because Red Cap is not the leader type and he’ll fall to pieces if he doesn’t have someone to boss him around.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say again, not liking how he’s straightened with the kind of intent that has my fists curling.

“You stabbed him.”

“Girl’s got a right to protect herself.”

“I am done with your shit,” he tells me as his grip on the shotgun tightens.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” Iris squeaks out. We both look at her, the tension suddenly broken.

“No,” he says, in such a frustrated way that I realize this is a worn-out argument between them. What has she been up to?

“I did what you told me,” she says. “I sat down there in that creepy basement and breathed in welding fumes forever. You said when we came up, I could. And now you’re not going to let me?”

“Just hold it,” he orders.

“I can’t,” she says. “I don’t need to pee. I need to empty my cup.”

It jerks his attention back to her. It’s brilliant, and I try to hide my awe as she continues. “You know, my menstrual cup?”

He starts shuffling as soon as she says the word menstrual. “Not gonna happen.”

“You don’t understand,” Iris says. “I have a condition.” She folds her hands together; she is so dainty and prim in her dress, and you can’t think anything diabolical about her when her cheeks are pink like that and her eyes are downcast just so. “A heavy bleeding condition. I need to change my cup. I’ve been waiting and waiting.”