All Eyes on Us, page 26
Then Ben says something I have no trouble making out.
“This gun isn’t a toy, Amanda. Make the fucking call.”
35
AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23
Ben’s hand is shaking so hard I’m not convinced he could shoot me if he tried. But I am definitely not prepared to test that theory. I’ll call Carter. I’ll do whatever Ben says and fix it later. This stopped being worth fighting about the second there was a gun pointed at my head.
“I’ll make the call.” I twist my wrists against the ties. “If you were any kind of gentleman, you would press the call button for me. In case you haven’t noticed, my wrists are bound together.” I wonder if he can see my glare through the darkness. All I can see is the pale stream of moonlight from the windows glinting off the gun.
If they were better criminals, they’d just make the call and press the phone to my ear. If they were better criminals, they might have found a place to stash me that wasn’t so obvious. If they were better criminals, they’d’ve cooked up a revenge plot slightly more interesting than making me break up with my boyfriend over speakerphone. As freaked out as I am, I can’t help noticing how bad they are at all of this.
David lunges for the phone. “I’ll dial.”
Just then, there’s a noise outside, right in front of the door. It’s stones or bricks. Something falling. We all jump. Ben spins around, aiming the gun at the door. “The fuck was that?” His hands are shaking even harder than before.
“Wait here.” David slips the phone into his pocket and starts toward the door.
“Take this,” Ben says.
“Hell, no. Put that thing away, I’m serious. It’s probably just an animal. We get raccoons at the site all the time.”
Ben lowers the gun but follows David toward the door.
“Stay here with her,” David growls. “I’ll be right back.”
He opens the door slowly, and moonlight mixed with the glow from the streetlamps on Foster floods in. David props the door with a brick and slips outside. I think about running. My wrists are tied, but my ankles are free. I slide my feet silently out of my heels and press them against the unfinished floor. It would take maybe ten seconds to get to the door, tops. But this place is littered with bricks and nails and trash. And I’d have to run past Ben to get out. I wonder if he would really try to shoot me. Before I can make myself stand up, I know I’m not going to test it.
“Where’d you get the gun, Ben?” I ask instead. Now that he—and the gun—are bathed in light, I can see it’s longer and skinnier than the little black handguns you see on cop shows. The handle is brown wood, and there’s some kind of carving on the barrel. I don’t know much about guns, but this looks like a collector’s item. Maybe it really is a toy.
He jerks his head toward me. “Borrowed it from a friend. It’s a real gun, Amanda. I know how to shoot.”
“I bet you do,” I sneer. I should probably be more careful, but anger and fear are duking it out inside my brain, and right now, anger is winning. Ben takes a step forward.
“You’re really going to shoot me and spend the rest of your life rotting in jail because you’re pissed that my mother is allegedly enabling Carter’s dad to fuel his antique habit?” I ask, a challenge. My mind stutters back to the email I found in her purse and promptly forgot. N or V. Always V, my dear. In the end, always V. I’d considered the possibility of an affair, that Winston was my mother’s backup plan. But this . . .
“I don’t buy it, Ben. I just do not—”
But before I can finish, Ben is crumpled in a heap on the floor and the gun is spinning across the ground in a slow arc toward me.
36
ROSALIE
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23
I lunge for the gun, which is reeling across the floor toward Amanda, and snatch it up. Then I spin and point it straight at the black silhouette of the driver in the doorway. “Get over next to him, and keep the door open.”
He does as I say. My headlamp shines on Ben’s slumped figure on the floor. I didn’t even hit him that hard. There’s a fine line between knocked out and dead, and I was not trying to cross it. Ben’s breathing, but he’s definitely unconscious. I drop the shovel and kick it toward Amanda.
The gun feels warm in my hand, and really heavy. It’s some old wild west model, a revolver I think? Whatever it is, this thing is an antique. Amanda leans down to grab the shovel, and I can see her wrists are tied with some sort of plastic binding. I have a pocketknife on my keys, but I can’t hold the gun and slice her ties at the same time.
“Listen, the gun isn’t loaded,” the driver says. “This all got really out of control.”
“You didn’t even know Ben had a gun,” Amanda spits. “How do you know it’s not loaded?”
“I know my brother, okay? He’s not like that.”
So they’re brothers. My brain flashes back to our suspect list. I should have been more open with Amanda about my Paulina doubts. And she should have told me that her number one suspect had a brother.
“Just to clarify,” I say, the gun in my hand making me brave, “your brother’s not the type to kidnap a girl and tie her up? Or he’s not the type to shoot her now that he’s got her here? Or was this all your idea . . . sorry, didn’t catch your name.”
“David,” he and Amanda say at the same time. Ben’s still breathing deeply at his brother’s feet. David holds his hands in the air and crouches down to check on him.
“Fine, David, let’s test that not-loaded theory.” I turn away from everyone and aim the gun at the ground about five feet to my right. Shouldn’t there be a safety? Or maybe not. They probably weren’t too concerned with gun safety in the Wild Wild West. I shine my headlamp on the handle, but all I can see are the trigger and a little lever up top. I pull it back with my thumb and it makes a small click. That seemed to do something. Then I point firmly into the ground and pull the trigger as hard as I can.
A loud bang. The gun jerks back in my hands, and the floor erupts into an explosion of dirt and grit. Definitely loaded.
“Fuck.” For once, David, Amanda, and I are on exactly the same page.
“Please hand it over,” David says from the ground where he’s crouched down with his brother. Ben’s starting to stir. Guess the sound of a firearm going off in a building with bad acoustics would be enough to wake up your average head injury case. “I know how to unload it, okay?” David says. “I promise that’s all I’m going to do.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Amanda hisses.
“Hell, no.” I swing the gun back to face the guys. The person with the gun has the power, and a rush of it surges through me. One of these guys was the creep in the woods, and at my house. One of them threatened to out me to my dad. There’s no way I’m handing over this gun. “I know what I’m doing now. Lever thing, aim, fire. You two put Amanda and me through hell and back over the last three weeks, and now you’re going to talk.”
“You’ve got this all—” David starts to say at the same time Ben says, “It wasn’t supposed to be loaded.” He’s sitting up now, rubbing slow circles against the back of his head. “Rosalie?” he asks, recognition dawning. “How did you get here?”
I glare at him, ignoring his question, and turn to David. “So you’re Private? Or you two are some kind of stalker tag team?”
“Who?” David asks.
“The private number,” Amanda cuts in. “Anonymous texts? Time to talk, David. Or have you forgotten there’s a gun aimed at you?”
“Chill, okay? I promise I will tell you everything you want to know, but I didn’t send any anonymous texts. Ben?”
Ben shakes his head. “Not me.”
Amanda and I glance at each other. What the actual fuck?
“The gun is Carter’s,” Ben says slowly. “Well, his dad’s, from his antique collection? It’s so old, I didn’t even think it worked. Swear to god.”
“Ben Gallagher.” Amanda sounds calm. Dangerous. “Are you telling me you took this gun from the Shaws to kidnap me? Carter’s going to have your head when he finds out.”
“Amanda, he knows.” It’s David this time. He stands up slowly, one hand still in the air, the other gripped under Ben’s arm, helping him to his feet. “This is all because of Carter.”
“Yeah, I get that this is about Carter,” Amanda snaps. “What do you mean he knows?”
“I mean he hired us,” David says.
I turn to Ben for an explanation. “Carter offered to pay me to keep an eye on Amanda,” he says. “At first, that was it. Then things kind of . . . escalated. David didn’t know anything until today, I swear. I asked him for help a few hours ago.”
David looks at Amanda. “The plan was to drive you around for a while, scare you, and then you’d give in and make the call. You were supposed break up with him on speaker in front of everyone at the party, and then we’d all get out of here. No harm, no foul. WVU isn’t going to pay for itself. And there wasn’t supposed to be a gun.” He glares at Ben.
My hands are steady, but my mind is reeling. In the gym’s dim light, I can see the same realization start to burn in Amanda’s eyes. These guys aren’t Private. They’re just Carter’s puppets, doing what they’re told, because it’s been Carter behind every threat, every anonymous text. Carter desperate to get what he wants—a brand-new future without Amanda or Shaw Realty or rigid family expectations; a future he thought he’d found with me. Guilt wrings my gut like a limp rag. To say I’d underestimated Carter doesn’t even begin to capture it. It’s been days since he first said those three little words, but for the first time, I really understand. I love you, Rosalie. I’d been so sure Carter saw me as a temporary outlet, because it’s how I wanted him to see me. But he saw me as a way out.
I close my eyes, and I’m jolted back to that day in the clearing. The deep winter chill. The soft crunch of pine needles and limp, dead leaves beneath my feet. Then, a flash of black and white through the trees. This time, I understand what I’m seeing. Not Trina or someone from the Fellowship or even the Gallaghers—but Carter, all dressed up in a suit and tie, spying on Pau and me before heading off to yet another ubiquitous Logansville social function. I’m sure, now, that it was Carter at my house. The yawn of his shadow made willowy in the dark. Carter other times I didn’t even know I was being watched. Carter who sent the pictures to Amanda, knowing how deeply she despised me, banking on the fact that she’d send them on to my dad, do his dirty work for him. Then Carter demanding I confess when Amanda wouldn’t comply. Carter desperate to know the truth about Pau and me, but too spineless to ask me to my face.
My mind reels ahead to the two of us at Eat’n Park, how he tried to convince me it was Amanda who had trashed her own locker.
To the day in his car, right before I broke things off. The concerned look on his face when I said someone had been following me.
To his conviction that the car accident was a sign from God, that we should be together. Was that even real? Or was he using my religion to play me?
I try to puzzle it out, get inside his head. He must have thought Pau was some fling, an “experiment” that my deeply religious parents would nip in the bud, pushing Carter and me closer together. That as soon as Paulina was out of the way, we would be Carter and Rosalie, happily ever after. And me none the wiser that it had been Carter who’d come between us. My gut twists harder, but it’s anger this time, not guilt, doing all the wringing.
“David, get over here.” I dig my keys out of my pocket with one hand, still holding the gun toward him with the other. “There’s a pocketknife on my key chain. You’re going to cut Amanda’s wrist ties.”
He walks over to me and accepts the keys. These guys aren’t dangerous; I get that now. But just to be safe, I say, “Don’t even think about trying anything. Gun, remember?”
He nods. In a minute, the ties are severed and he’s handing my keys back. Amanda’s just standing there, rubbing her wrists, looking kind of dazed. For a moment our eyes meet, then we turn to David and Ben, who are both staring at the ground, hands shoved in their pockets. They don’t bear much family resemblance, but they’re both washed in the same shame.
Amanda’s eyes flicker to the gun. Slowly, I lower it so it’s pointing at the floor. “I think you should get out of here,” I say to the guys.
“There is nothing I would love more,” Ben says, “but we kind of can’t. I have to call Carter. Phone’s on silent, but he’s been calling nonstop.”
37
AMANDA
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23
“Hey, man. Look, there’s a problem.”
Ben’s on the phone with Carter, but I’m not really listening. I’m not really feeling much of anything, which probably means I’m in shock. Not gun-to-your-head shock, although that happened. But Carter-is-Private shock. Carter-is-dangerous shock.
I grab Rosalie’s hand, pull her aside. I have to say the words out loud. “Carter is Private.”
She nods slowly. “Why did these guys get involved?”
“David just needs the cash. I’m sure Ben thought he was earning a bump up the social ladder by doing Carter’s bidding. Or repaying him for all his goodwill.” My mind is still reeling, but everything’s starting to pull together. “Carter gave Ben that gun,” I say. “On purpose.”
Rosalie frowns. Her headlamp is shining right in my eyes.
“He’s coming here.” Ben’s off the phone, standing in front of us. “I told him the deal was off, that Amanda knew, and he kind of freaked.”
“Let’s get out of here.” David holds up the keys to his truck. “I’ll drive you girls home.”
“You’re bat-shit if you think I’m getting back in your truck.” No chance. I slip my feet back into my heels, but I’m not going anywhere.
“Look, I don’t blame you for not trusting me, but believe me you don’t want to wait around for Carter. You can drive. Okay?”
“No, thanks,” Rosalie says. “Amanda’s car’s two blocks away. We’ll be fine. But we need your phone.”
“What?” Ben asks.
“Phone.” She holds out her hand. “We don’t have one, so give me yours. And clear your password.”
David nods toward Ben’s Android. He adjusts his settings, then extends it out to Rosalie. “Now get out of here,” she says.
“Can I, um . . .” Ben reaches toward the gun, which Rosalie’s still holding in her other hand.
“Get out of here,” she snaps. He pulls back his hand. Ben and David stare at each other, clearly at a loss.
“Look,” Rosalie continues. “No promises that we’re not reporting this. But you need to leave. So get in your truck, and go home. Understood?”
A minute later, the guys are gone.
“Thanks. You’re kind of my hero.” And I mean it. Rosalie Bell is the most bad-ass person I know.
She smiles. “No problem. Now let’s go.” She slips the phone and gun into her messenger bag and holds her hand out toward me.
“Hold on.” Things are moving too fast. “I need some air. I just need a minute to think.”
At first, I think she’s going to protest, grab my hand and drag me back to CVS. But I must look as messed up as I’m feeling because she nods and lets me step outside, into the moonlight. I draw in a big gulp of cold night air and try to clear the fog out of my brain. The truth is in there, submerged, and I need to claw my way through, drag it into the light.
I squeeze my eyes shut and start with New Year’s. Wouldn’t you look better without a cheater on your arm? Carter sent that text. A piece of truth. I hold it up to my mind’s eye, examine it. Carter was warning me about himself. Because he thought . . . I try to see that night through his eyes. He thought history would repeat itself, that I’d break up with him again, just like I had after the apple-cheeked freshman. That night, Carter must have thought this would be easy—I’d dump him, he’d be free, and I’d be the one to shoulder all the Kelly-Shaw blame. The thought makes something inside me collapse, a table crashing to the floor. All this time, Carter was setting me up.
Did he ever really love me?
Almost as painful is the realization that he assumed winning would be a snap. When the anonymous texts didn’t work, he stepped it up. One by one, snapshots of truth emerge from the fog, show themselves for what they are: The bloodbath at my locker. Carter. The January 24th ultimatum. Carter. The photos he’d grabbed from Trina’s memory card, scattered in the rock garden. All Carter.
But why? I breathe in and out and wade deeper into the fog. Examining the past three weeks is like staring at one image superimposed on another. On top, there’s the boy he let me see: Carter with his arm around me, pulling me close, smiling wide. Carter punching the whiteboard after someone messed up my locker. Carter brimming with promises at Verde, making me believe we could really have a fresh start. Blameless, Loganville’s golden boy. If I’d given in, he would have stayed that way. Flawless and charming, betrayed by Amanda.
The first image is an act, a mirage. The fog parts, and underneath I see the true Carter for the first time: liar, coward. A trapped animal, desperate to escape from his life and keep his reputation intact.
I let my thoughts travel then to Ben, and the fog lifts a bit more. You’d have to be really down on yourself to do Carter’s dirty work, and I have to admit I’m more than a little to blame for Ben’s banged-up self-esteem.
I press my fingertips into my temples, and Ben’s role comes into focus. It probably started that day at the track—Carter wasn’t getting anywhere, so he brought Ben on board, just to keep tabs on me. I was distracted by David, brain sluggish with pot, but if I had thought hard about it, I would have remembered Ben was there, inside the school. Saturday debate practice. I can see him now, breaking away from mock trials to look out the window. Texting Carter, letting him know. Amanda’s on the field—looks like she’s taking a nap?
Then Ben behind the wheel in the snowstorm—because I was right about that, I’m sure of it—but not because he had it in for Carter. Because Carter paid him, told him to stage the accident so he could play the victim. He thought Rosalie would come crawling back to him out of pity, not that it worked. Ben buying the second burner for Carter while he was in the hospital. Ben spying on me at the gala, drugging my drink. Ben doing it for Carter.
