Someone Is Always Watching, page 5
Those words ping that déjà vu, but I shake it off.
“Gabrielle. Please listen to me.”
Running footsteps. Voices behind me. I’m at the bottom of the ladder, all my attention on Gabrielle, trying to figure out how to get that blade from her hand.
I dimly hear an adult voice telling her it’s okay, everything will be okay. But all I see is that blade, an inch from her neck, and I do not know how to get it away from her.
“No!” Gabrielle shouts. It’s an animal scream, high and frothing with rage.
I’ve heard that scream before.
Someone jostles me from behind. It’s Mr. Culp. His hand clamps on my shoulder as he tells me to get out of the way.
“Hey!” Tucker snaps. “Get your hand off her.”
The grip on my shoulder vanishes, and I turn to look at Gabrielle again just as blood hits my upturned face. I yelp, and I’m climbing the ladder before I even realize what I’m doing.
I see her above me. I see her look down. I see the nick on her throat, a tiny one interrupted by my yelp. Her hand rises to cut again. I grab her leg. Grab and yank, and we both tumble into the air.
SIX
I screwed up. Failed my friend.
Every time the thought surfaces, I feel worse, as if I’m denying Gabrielle’s pain by focusing on my own.
I need to get past the guilt and focus on Gabrielle. I could at first. Staying with her in the ambulance. Sitting in the waiting room. Determined to help heal her.
Heal her.
It’d seemed so simple. She had a breakdown, and she’d recover from it. How could she not?
But they’re saying it isn’t that easy, and I don’t understand. I just don’t.
It’s late Monday morning when I emerge to find Dad working in his home office. I rap on the door, and he ALT-Tabs away from his laptop screen lightning-fast.
“Watching porn again, Dad?”
“Ha-ha.”
It’s an old joke—one I use with Mom, too. They work in private medical research. In order to even bring their laptops home, we need to have a windowless office and two security systems—one for the house and a separate one for the office itself.
“I’m glad to see someone’s feeling better,” Dad says as he sets aside his laptop.
“I want to see Gabrielle.”
He exhales, that slow exhale I know well. “Only her parents are allowed to see her, hon.” He rises. “Let’s go get you some lunch. We have Vietnamese from a place Sydney says you like. She thought you might enjoy it when you felt better.”
“I don’t want—” Deep breath. “I appreciate Sydney thinking of me. Right now, I want to understand why I can’t see Gabrielle. Has she said she doesn’t want to see me?”
Pause. Pause. More pausing.
“If she has, I’ll understand,” I say. “But if she hasn’t, then I’m not buying that she ‘wouldn’t want me to see her like this.’ Not unless she says so.”
Dad drums his fingers on the table. Then he motions to Mom’s chair, asking me to sit, but I shake my head.
“I know you mean well, Blythe. You want to be there for her, but that isn’t a priority right now.”
I unravel what he’s saying.
This isn’t about you.
My cheeks heat, and he reaches for me, pulling me until I’m sitting on Mom’s chair, his hands enfolding mine.
“That sounded harsh,” he says.
I manage a strained laugh. “No, Dad, you did backflips trying to make sure it didn’t. You’re right. This isn’t about me, and I’m being selfish insisting on seeing her.”
“You’re never selfish, Blythe. You’re worried, and this all must seem vaguely ominous. Your friend is whisked off to a private psychiatric hospital, and you aren’t allowed to see her.”
“It’s tough,” I say quietly.
He squeezes my hands. “I know it is.”
“I’d like…” I try to look up at him, but I can’t do it. Not when I’m about to do something incredibly manipulative. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Washington when I can. About how I’m dealing with it.”
“That’s an excellent idea.” He reaches for his phone. “Let me send her a message.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes, I’d like that, but Dr. W has enough on her plate.”
“I’ll ask if she’ll speak to you when she has time. All right?”
I nod, and he pops off the text.
“Now, how about lunch?” he says and herds me into the kitchen.
* * *
—
Dr. Washington stops by after work. The fact that “after work” is past nine p.m. is a reminder of just how busy she is. Is that intentional? Hard to say. Nadine Washington is one of those people you can know all your life and still never be sure what she thinks of you.
She’s different around Mom. I’ve seen the two of them on the deck, Dr. Washington with her long legs folded under her, wine glass in hand, head thrown back in laughter. As soon as she sees me, she’ll straighten, brisk professionalism returning. Andre—with his quick smiles and easygoing chill—takes after his dad, who died when we were twelve.
As we take seats in the living room, Mom appears with a cup of tea. She passes it wordlessly to Dr. Washington, whose lips curve in a tired smile of thanks. Mom retreats, and that smile evaporates as Dr. Washington composes herself.
“Is Andre okay?” I ask. “He tried to help with Gabi. I know it upset him.”
Her expression softens, as it always does at the mention of her only child. “He’s struggling, but doing fine. I’m sure he would appreciate a call when you feel up to it.”
“I will.”
“Now, let’s talk about you for a bit.”
We do that, and I feel shitty, because she’s overworked and came because my parents are worried about me. Only that was a ruse. I don’t need to talk to Dr. Washington. Not about myself, at least.
When that part winds down, I ask the real question. “So, um, how is Gabrielle?”
“Mostly sleeping. When she’s awake, she’s highly agitated.”
“Is she still suicidal?”
Dr. Washington sets down her teacup, the china clinking. “Sometimes, when people threaten that, it’s a cry for help. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be taken seriously. But when mental or emotional stress reaches peak levels, the frustration also peaks, and it feels as if the only way to get attention is to threaten the one thing guaranteed to get it.”
“You don’t think she actually wants to kill herself. She just doesn’t know how else to express how upset she is.”
Her nod feels like a gold star. Buoyed, I press on. “Gabi is the least attention-seeking person I know. But she’s not herself, is she?”
“She’s not.” Dr. Washington sips her tea. “Has she ever expressed suicidal thoughts?”
“Never. It happened to an online friend last year, and it really upset her. Gabi kept thinking about how much pain the girl’s family must be in.”
“She’s an empathetic person.”
“Very.”
“Did Mr. Meeks’s death affect her?” Dr. Washington asks. “Did she discuss it with you?”
I shake my head. “I think, for both of us, it got twisted up with her breakdown. She was ashamed of what happened to her. Even though Mr. Meeks’s death had nothing to do with her breakdown, it felt like bringing up one brought up the other, if that makes sense.”
“The timing placed the two events in tandem. Did you get the sense anything was troubling Gabrielle last week?”
“No, she was back to herself. In a good mood, really.”
“Do you remember anything else about Friday? Have any memories returned?”
Gabrielle covered in blood.
I must flinch, because Dr. Washington leans forward, her dark eyes locking with mine. “Blythe?”
“The cameras,” I blurt, deflecting. “I still don’t remember what happened in class, but people said it was about the cameras. Gabrielle and I talked about it Wednesday. She was trying to figure out why she was obsessing over cameras.”
Dr. Washington leans back. “When the mind is troubled, it can fixate on random objects. Cameras can also be frightening, bringing with them the discomfort of surveillance.”
“It feels like they’re watching us. People talk about that when they have breakdowns, right? That people are watching them? Listening to their conversations? Hearing their thoughts?”
“It’s a common paranoid fantasy, and that could be what we’re seeing, but if you do remember anything else, I’d appreciate hearing it.”
I nod. Then I say, “I shouldn’t ask if she’s going to be all right, should I?”
Her face softens. “Gabrielle is getting the best possible care. When she’s able to have visitors, you’re at the top of the list. In the meantime, if you think of anything that might help, please let me know.”
It’s only after Dr. Washington is gone that I realize I gave more answers than I got.
* * *
—
I’m in my room when the email comes. It’s the same one as before. Exactly the same, as if I’d snoozed the email, and it reappeared in my inbox.
I’d forgotten about the first email. Not surprising, with everything that’s happened since. Now it’s there, with that link taunting me. I hover over it again. Then I copy the link and paste it into a document file and analyze it, looking for subtle signs that suggest it only seems to lead to a legit newspaper. Maybe the o is actually a zero, or what looks like an m is an rn.
Finally, I type the address into my browser, which should avoid any of those problems. An article pops up. It is, as the link suggested, from nine years ago. A thirteen-year-old boy murdered, apparently by a pedophile, his body found in a wooded area. Police were investigating all known sex offenders in the area and asking anyone with any information to call.
That’s it. A very brief preliminary report of an obviously horrible crime. What am I supposed to see here? I have no idea. It doesn’t even include the boy’s name.
I search on the very scanty information provided, and the only thing I get is an equally brief follow-up article that says the boy died “accidentally” with no sexual interference and no arrests are forthcoming.
Okay…
So, a kid dies in an accident, and someone panics and blames a pedophile. How does this have anything to do with me? I’ve never lived in Iowa. I don’t know anyone who has.
Weird.
I delete the email and turn back to my homework.
* * *
—
Sydney is having the nightmare, the one of flames and panic and grief. I sit on the edge of her bed, stroking her sweat-sodden hair. I tell her she’s fine. I tell her she’s safe. As she moans and thrashes, she mutters, too, but I only catch one word in five, and none of it makes sense.
I’ve tried recording her, my inner scientist tackling this problem the best way I know how. Analyze the data. Determine the root cause. Treat that cause. Yet all I get is muttering with the occasional intelligible word. I’m not sure it matters. What I hear is enough.
Fire. It’s always fire. Her voice starting as an awed whisper, and then rising with panic and an endless chorus of “No, no, no!”
Dr. Washington would say the cause of the nightmares is obvious. Sydney is pyrophobic, so she has nightmares of fire. Even my sister tells me I’m reading too much into it—looking for deeper meaning, digging through her memories for hidden treasure.
Sydney bolts upright, clawing at her throat, struggling to breathe. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this—in my gut, it is always the first time, and it takes all my willpower not to grab her. I know it’s a dream, but all I see and hear is my little sister choking.
“Sydney? It’s okay. You’re—”
She gasps like a drowning victim breaking the surface. I pull her against me, and she collapses on my shoulder, shaking so hard her teeth chatter. I rub her back and tell her she’s fine, everything’s fine, breathe, just breathe. I hold her tight, and the pounding of her heart calms my own.
“You need to let me tell Mom and Dad,” I whisper.
She stiffens.
“You can’t keep hiding this,” I say.
She pulls away, rolling her shoulders, throwing off my comfort.
“I’m fine,” she says, and thumps onto the mattress, her back to me.
That could be a dismissal, but she scrunches to the opposite side of the bed. I take the hint and crawl into the still-warm spot she’s abandoned.
She’s asleep within seconds. I lie there, staring at the darkness and thinking. I wish I knew the cause of my sister’s nightmares. I’m convinced there must be one. Maybe a scare at summer camp or a friend’s house.
Thinking about that reminds me of Gabrielle and the cameras. Is there something in her past that explains it? A trauma lodged in her subconscious.
Wouldn’t her parents know, though? I’m sure Dr. Washington thoroughly interviewed them.
My parents are dead. Dead and gone.
I rub my temples. That was the concussion, making me mishear her words.
It’s always possible that something happened, and Gabrielle’s parents know nothing about it. Children can keep secrets, especially if an adult tells them to. Did someone do something to her? Something they video-recorded? My stomach clenches.
I spend the night working through this. When morning comes, I reach for my phone to find a number I don’t recognize.
We need to talk.
It’s the only message I’ve ever had from this number, yet it’s in my contact list. As soon as it’s late enough, I send back:Who is this?
No one answers.
SEVEN
By mid-morning the next day, I’m poolside with a coffee and a bagel. Anyone seeing me would think I was chilling, taking advantage of a day off school. Yet my brain’s racing a mile a minute, working through those notes about the boy who died, trying to figure out what it means.
When my phone chirps with a text, I’m too lost in thought to even hear it until the reminder chirp has me lifting my sunglasses to squint at the screen.
Sydney: Did I leave my charger on the counter?
I sigh, text back “Hold on,” and head into the house.
Me: Yep. Still plugged in. You really need to get your phone fixed.
Sydney: No, I need a new one. Mine’s THREE years old.
Me: So’s mine. Just get the battery replaced.
Sydney: And leave it in the shop overnight? You need to ask Mom and Dad for a new phone. They’ll give you one, after everything you’ve been through. Then I can get one, too.
Me: You’re using Gabi’s breakdown to get a new phone?
It takes her a moment to reply.
Sydney: I didn’t mean it like that.
Me: I know. Take your phone in for service. You can borrow mine if you absolutely need one.
Sydney: What about my charger? I’m at 5%.
Me: Well, since I don’t have a car, I can’t help with that. Either borrow a friend’s charger or see if you can get a ride home at lunch.
Sydney: Fine.
I’m barely outside again when I get another text. I sigh, ready to tell Sydney that, no, I’m not asking any of my friends to come get her charger. Then I look at the screen.
Devon.
That’s the message. The entirety of the message.
Then I see the number. It’s the unknown one from earlier. I’d asked who’d messaged, and this is the answer. I wonder briefly why I’d have Devon’s new number in my contacts. Then I remember what he said last week, that I was supposed to update him on Gabrielle that Friday. He must have given me his number.
Me: Hey, what’s up?
Devon: We need to talk.
Me: Okay. After school?
Devon: Lunch. Is anyone at your place?
Me: No, but Syd’s trying to get a ride to grab her charger.
Devon: I’ll bring it back for her. Okay?
I’m about to text back when I get an email notification. Before I can reply to Devon, I see the incoming email address: veritas@cprep.edu.
I freeze until another text from Devon prods me, and I tell him yes, coming by at lunch is fine. Then I flip to the email.
Dear Blythe,
You clicked the link, right? After making absolutely sure it seemed legit, of course. Did you check the URL? Type it in? Be certain I wasn’t scamming you?
I’m not scamming you. I wish I was, but I’m not.
So, you read the article, and then you went looking for more, didn’t you? And the only thing you found was that second article. Whoops, it’s all a mistake! Poor kid just accidentally died in a field, naked, with his throat slit!
Yes, none of that was in the article. But that’s what happened. I can send crime-scene photos, but I’ll spare you that. For now, you need to take my word for it.
It wasn’t an accident. Wasn’t a perv, either. The police dropped it because they couldn’t very well say that the murderer was an eight-year-old boy. Clearly, the kid didn’t know what he was doing.
How do you slit a boy’s throat, strip him to make it look like a perv, and not know what you’re doing?
You don’t.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Killing a kid who had the nerve to be nice to the guy’s little sister. That was the dead boy’s crime. His only crime. He was an eighth-grader who was mentoring a second-grade girl, and her brother killed him.
She saw it. The sister, that is. Got there after the kid was dead, and she saw what her brother had done.
Can you imagine what that was like for her? How much it changed her? Damaged her?
Do you know any damaged girls, Blythe?
I think you do.
