Deadly Little Secret Part 26

"Please," I say, hearing my voice shake.

"Shhh," he hushes, kissing me. "Everything's going to be just fine. You'll see." He kisses me a couple more times and then sits back on his heels. "I hate to leave, but I have to go. People are going to be wondering about you."

"They probably already are," I say, hoping it makes him nervous.

"All the more reason to get back. We don't want anyone putting two and two together when they notice I'm not around, either. If you're the only one missing, everyone will a.s.sume Ben's the one who's responsible. Even if they can't prove it or find a link, he'll get so ridiculed he won't have a choice but to leave."

"And then what?" I ask. "When they can't prove it's him, they'll still keep looking."

"Hopefully by that time you'll realize what's good for you. We can say you ran away from home-that your parents weren't paying any attention to you and you wanted to get away."

"So, you don't intend to hurt me?"

"Not unless you do something stupid." He turns his back to me, starts sifting through the stash of food. "It was fun shopping for all your favorites. I've got yogurt-covered pretzels, corn chips, and granola bars."

"I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure? I can feed you something before I go."

I shake my head, keeping an eye on the knife. It sits underneath the bag of corn chips.

"You really should eat something," he says, "or have some water. I don't want you to get dehydrated." He twists the cap off a bottle, holds the spout to my lips, and watches my neck as I swallow.

"You're so beautiful," he repeats, wiping the dribble from my mouth. He brings the TV tray to my side and dumps a bunch of yogurt pretzels onto it. Then he fills a plastic bowl with water and sets that on the tray as well. "You should be able to eat and drink without too much of a problem. The lantern has fresh batteries, in case you were worried, so I don't expect it to go out. I'll be back just as soon as I can."

I nod and glance at the knife again. Matt notices and pulls it from beneath the bag of chips, runs it down the side of my face. "Dangerous enough for you?" he asks.

"I don't like danger."

"Sure you do. Deep down, it's what you crave." He holds the knife right below my jaw and presses it against my neck. "Sleep tight," he whispers.

My lower lip trembles. My eyes fill with fresh tears. Matt nibbles my lip to still the shaking and then gets up, stabbing the knife into the wood right above the door.

Finally, he leaves. I hear him lock the door from the outside. Meanwhile, I try my best to hold it together and to focus on the knife, but I can barely see through the blur of tears running down my face.

49.

Alone in the room, I listen for a car engine, wondering if Matt parked right outside, but it's eerily quiet. The scent of a burning campfire lingers in the air from the moment when Matt opened the door, giving me hope.

Maybe someone's nearby.

When I suspect he's gotten far enough away, I go to work at the knots. I run my fingers over them, searching for one with a bit of give. Adrenaline courses through me as I twist the rope, trying to pull at any b.u.mp or gather.

After just a few minutes, my wrists start to ache. The metal of the cuffs cuts into my skin and makes my fingers tingle and go numb. Still, I continue to work, trying to figure out where the knotting begins and where it might end. But it all feels the same. And my wrists are stinging now.

I try to slip the cuffs off until my bones ache and I can feel cartilage move beneath my skin, but it isn't working, even when I scrunch my hands to make them as narrow as possible.

I scoot forward on my b.u.t.t to see how much slack I actually have-it's about two full feet. I take a deep breath and pull with my wrists-so hard I think the bones might crack-seeing if I can yank the metal loop out of the wall completely.

But it won't budge, either.

Breathing hard, I tug some more, until I hear myself cry out in frustration-a loud, high-pitched scream that tears out of my throat.

My legs flail. My forearms burn. Sobbing now, I let out several more screams, until drool drips out of my mouth and my throat is raw.

But still, nothing happens, and no one comes.

After a couple more minutes, I notice the room begin to darken and swirl. I glance toward the lantern, but it's still well lit. Meanwhile, my head continues to ache. Bile creeps up into my throat, filling my mouth. I lower my head, and the room spins even more, making it hard to distinguish the floor from the ceiling.

I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. My stomach lurches. A whirl of colors bleeds over my eyes, turning everything black.

The room closes in around me, and I feel my body soften and fold. I'm pretty sure my head hits the floor. I'm pretty sure the piercing shrill inside my ears is a side effect of what I'm feeling. The room blackens and boxes me up. And I feel myself fade.

50.

Still slumped over, I open my eyes and sit up. My arms are asleep. My head throbs. I try to whisper the word h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo, but my throat is burning. And so are my wrists-a stinging, searing pain snakes down my fingers and crawls up my arms.

There's a spill of some sort beside me. At first I think it's a drink or some food, that I toppled something when I pa.s.sed out. But then the smell hits me-an odor like sour milk-and I realize I've thrown up.

The bowl of water still sits beside me on the TV tray. Half of it has spilled out onto the rug and my jeans. Did I do that in my sleep? Is it from all my thras.h.i.+ng around? I lean toward it, thirsty for a drink, but suspicious that it's the water that got me sick in the first place.

What did he put in there? How long have I been pa.s.sed out? What time is it now? I look up at the window, but the shade and curtains block out all light. I wonder if anyone's noticed I'm missing yet, and if they're on their way to save me.

My eyes fill up with tears again. I try my best to blink them away, to convince myself I'm going to get out of here. Glancing first at the knife still stuck above the door, I survey the room. It's actually not much bigger than a walk-in closet. I scoot forward so that my feet reach the side wall; then I kick against it, noticing that the interior walls are covered with fake paneling.

The room shakes with my kick. More water splashes out of the bowl on the TV tray. I kick harder, and there's more shaking, like the room doesn't have a solid foundation, as if maybe I'm not in a house, or even a building at all. I take a deep breath, remembering the trailer I saw in the woods earlier, wondering if that's where I am.

My pulse races. I continue to kick against the wall. The room bounces back and forth. And then I hear something outside-a screeching sound.

I strain to hear, and then I scream at the top of my lungs, until my voice breaks.

Still, no one comes. I can only hear the calling of birds outside now.

I close my eyes and kick harder, imagining the force of my blows actually toppling the walls over. But instead it's the knife that topples. It falls from above the door and lands in the center of the room.

Quickly, I reposition myself, scooting to the side and extending my legs. A cramp runs down my outer thigh. I do my best to breathe through it, to make my muscles relax. Meanwhile, the knife lies just beyond my foot.

I reach for it, but my leg cramp worsens, causing me to fall back. My shoulders ache. My left arm is numb.

I let out a breath and try a little harder. The handcuff squeezes against my bones, and I feel something snap. At the same moment, my leg muscles relax a bit, enabling me to move forward just a little farther.

My foot grazes the knife, and I'm able to slide it toward me. I scoot back and sit up straight, dragging the knife toward my hands with my foot. After several attempts, I finally manage to wedge the blade under my shoe, just inches away from my cuffed wrists. My arm still numb, I try to cut through the knots but end up slas.h.i.+ng my thumb with the blade. Blood trickles down over the rope, making it hard to see what I'm doing. Still, after several strokes against the knife, the rope is cut, and I'm free from the wall.

51.

Though my wrists are still cuffed behind my back, I get up and stumble toward the door.

Blood drips from my thumb, spilling onto the rug and making me queasy. I position my back against the door and try to turn the handle, but it won't budge.

My heart bounds up into my throat. Did he padlock the door from the outside? I look behind me, noticing a lock. I flip it open, hear a click, and reach for the handle once more. This time it moves beneath my grip-only I'm not the one turning it.

The door flies open, and Matt stands before me.

"Going somewhere?" he asks.

I let out a scream-as loud as I can manage, in spite of my dry and splintery throat. Matt pushes me, and I fall on my backside. I glance behind me to see if I can somehow reach the knife, but it's too far away.

Matt starts to shut the door, but before he can, I jam my heel into his s.h.i.+n, as hard as I kicked the wall. He lets out a grunt and comes at me. Teeth clenched, he grabs me by the jaw.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, trying my best to soften my face.

Matt's breathing is labored. His chest heaves in and out, but after a few seconds he softens, too.

A cool breeze filters in through the door, which is still open a crack. It's daylight outside.

He takes a moment to look around, following the trail of blood to the knife by the wall. "I'm impressed," he says, moving to reach for it.

At the same moment I draw up my leg and kick him in the gut. Matt lets out a wail and stumbles back. His head knocks against the wall.

I get up and hurry through the door. Outside in the woods now, I see that I'm in the middle of a campsite. There are trailers scattered around, but it looks as though they've all been closed up for the season.

I run as fast as I can, maneuvering through the undergrowth with my shoulders and legs. I can hear Matt somewhere behind me.

"Run all you want!" he shouts. "You'll never find your way out of here-not before I find you."

I scurry down a narrow path, hoping it eventually leads to the street. Panting now, I see a dark blue trailer in the distance with a car parked outside it. At the same moment, a long, pointed branch scratches at my face, drawing blood. I can feel my skin open up.

I hobble forward, the cramping sensation in my leg returning.

Finally, I get to the trailer. The car parked beside it is abandoned. It has no wheels, the grill is crushed, and there appear to be bullet holes in the side. It reminds me of my work-in-progress at the studio.

I crouch down behind it and try to catch my breath. After a few seconds, I venture to look out. Matt's nowhere in sight, and I can no longer hear him. My legs shaking, I manage to stand up again. I turn around to continue on toward the street.

But Matt's standing right in front of me. He smacks me across the face with the back of his hand-a stinging, biting pain-and then grabs my shoulders, shoves me again, and points the tip of the knife into my neck.

I try to bite his hand, but he jabs the knife deeper- until my teeth unclench.

He starts to drag me away. My legs flailing, I try to anchor myself, to kick his s.h.i.+ns, but he still manages to bring me to the front of the blue trailer.

And that's where we find Ben.

He lunges at Matt, tearing me from his grip. I feel myself fall to the ground. Matt comes at Ben with the knife, but Ben is able to grab Matt's wrist, twist his arm back, and grab the knife right out of his hand. He throws it deep into the forest.

Matt barrels into him, but Ben pushes him away, and punches him in the jaw. Matt lets out a groan and stumbles back, but still he rebounds. He comes at him again.

Ben punches him once more-this time in the gut. Matt goes reeling backward, tripping over a rock. He lands on his back, hard, against a cl.u.s.ter of rocks.

Finally, he pa.s.ses out. Police sirens sound in the distance.

"Are you okay?" Ben asks, making his way over to me. His expression is a mix of fear and fatigue.

I nod, and he grabs my forearm to help me up. Only he doesn't let go.

"Thank you," I whisper, on my feet now.

"You're welcome," he says. His lips curl into a slight smile, relieved maybe by what he's sensing-or what he's not sensing, more likely.

Maybe the danger is finally over.

52.

It's been five days since Matt's arrest and I'm off from school with the princ.i.p.al's permission. Word is he even called Ben's aunt to apologize personally for all the hara.s.sment Ben's had to endure, and to thank him for saving my life.

"I feel like such a s.h.i.+t for giving you a hard time about not being a good friend," Kimmie says.

She, Wes, and I are sharing a Peanut b.u.t.ter Barrel at Brain Freeze.