We Told Six Lies(25)

Her abductor lifted a heavy, squeaking flap over a slot near the top of the door and held out a glass of water.

It was in a plastic cup.

She walked toward it slowly, nervous he might have put something in it. She reached out a shaking hand and took it. Tried to tell herself to not lurch backward but did anyway.

She looked down at the water, hesitated a beat, and then raised the glass.

It tasted of rusted metal, as if the water had sat too long in unused pipes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Deep down, she felt as if she’d won a battle.

The guy moved closer to the door and leaned his head toward her. His face was cast in shadows, but she could see that he still wore the same mask—white plastic, with a pair of black eyes and a red, red mouth drawn across the front. A white band wrapped around the back of his head.

She inched closer, trying to gauge the size of him. Was he big, like Cobain? Or smaller, like her friend Nixon?

She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes, trying to get a better look.

He lifted a black device and held it to his mouth.

“You will call me Blue,” he said.

Molly’s heart jerked in her chest. His voice was deep and robotic and disguised by the contraption he held. It should make her feel better, should lend itself to the idea that he would eventually release her.

But instead, it sent chills over every inch of her body.

She lifted her chin, bit down to keep it from quivering. “Blue?”

He nodded, partially obscured by the door. More words through the device. “You will be quiet. You will obey.”

She licked her lips. Pulled in a deep breath. “And what will you do?”

He cocked his head, examined her. “Whatever I want.”

She scooted backward, needing distance. As the back of her knees hit the mattress and she sat, he took a step closer. Pressed his face to the door slot and leaned his head to the side until one black painted eye filled the space.

“You will wash yourself,” he said, and pushed through a piece of cloth. Something else followed the rag—a fluttering of paper and the pop of a ballpoint pen hitting the floor. “And then you will write.”





NOW


School is my own personal prison.

The eyes of wardens are everywhere, watching my every move. Judging me. Questioning me. Haunting me. But no one watches me as closely as Nixon.

I study him as he eats lunch, in the rare moments when he isn’t looking my way. I don’t like the way he devours his food, as if he’s unable to be satisfied. He waggles his fork between each bite. Waggles a foot that’s lying over his knee.

There hadn’t been a single shred of evidence in Nixon’s room that told me that he’d been seeing Molly. The whole thing had me twisted up inside. If I’d been able to find something, anything, I could fix all of this. Find Molly and bring her home. Run away with her the right way. But finding something would have also meant taking down the only guy who’d ever been nice to me.

I watch Nixon as he rises from his seat. He’s built like me, sort of. But I’m bigger.

I’m bigger.

Nixon dumps his tray in the trash and heads down the east hallway. He has a way of walking on the balls of his feet. He hops when he walks. Like a rabbit. Or a coyote.

I follow after him. I’m not certain what I’m doing, but I need to be 100 percent sure he had nothing to do with Molly’s disappearance before I cross his name off my list.

I jog down the hallway, keeping far enough back so that he doesn’t spot me, and push through the heavy door that leads to the locker room. It smells of sweat and mold and desperation. I walk past the rows of blue lockers, searching for him. Listening for the sound of him moving, though I don’t hear anything besides the dripping of the showers.

“I knew you’d follow me.”

I spin around and find Nixon sitting on a bench. He’s looking at me hard. The sympathy, the kindness, he radiated in the weight room has evaporated.

He stands up. “Wanna tell me why?”

“Why what?” I ask.

He walks toward me with the confidence of a guy who’s never been bullied. “Why the hell were you in my room?”

My face opens with surprise.

“That’s right,” he says, his lip curling upward. “I know you went in there. I saw you watching me in your truck. I almost called the cops, you know that? That was enough for me to report you. But I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he was lonely or some crap, and he lost his nerve to come in when he saw me.’ I didn’t want to embarrass you, so I didn’t say shit.”

My heart hammers, and my hands start to sweat. This isn’t how this was supposed to go. I was just supposed to follow him for a bit, make sure I wasn’t missing anything.

“But I forgot my phone and had to swing back by, and guess who I saw coming out my own front door?” Nixon steps closer. “Want to take a stab?”

“I had to know.” I hear how it sounds as those words leave my lips.

Nixon shoves me, and I let it go. I let it go once, but I may not a second time.

“Had to know what, man? If I knew where she went?”

I gnaw the inside of my cheek. “If you did something to her.”

“If I…what?”

“You liked her,” I say, as if that answers everything.