The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die Read online

  Officer Dillow still hasn’t started the car. I push myself up on one elbow. “Is something wrong?”

  He turns and looks at me through the Plexiglas. In the dark, his face is a dim shape, his eyes black holes. He takes a deep breath. “Katie, I know what really happened. I talked to your doctor.”

  My mind snags on the first word he said. Katie? Is that my name? My lips move as I try it out. Katie. But there’s no real echo inside me. It falls flat.

  Then the rest of what he said catches up with me. “What are you talking about? What doctor?”

  He sighs. “You’re an inpatient at Sagebrush. You attacked a counselor there—Michael Brenner—and fled in his car.” Officer Dillow’s not making any sense.

  “Sagebrush? What’s that?”

  “An inpatient mental health program for teens.”

  Does he mean a mental hospital? “And that’s who I’m supposed to be?” I push myself to a sitting position. “A mentally ill teenager?” I make a sound that’s kind of like a laugh. “The only thing wrong with me is that two men are trying to kill me.”

  “They found the place in your room where you’ve been hiding the pills you spit out.” His voice is soft. “Katie, I know you think you know the truth, but you’re imagining it. Dr. Nowell explained to me that without your meds you have vivid hallucinations that are more real to you than even reality is.” He sighs. “But the truth is that nothing and no one is chasing you.”

  “What about my hand?” I raise my bandaged fingers.

  “Dr. Nowell said you hurt yourself before you left. Michael Brenner was trying to talk to you about your self-injuries, and you attacked him. You pushed him and he fell and hit his head.”

  I want to pull off the Band-Aids, but I know that even if Officer Dillow sees my mangled fingertips, he’ll still believe that I did it to myself. That he won’t believe me and my crazy story. And it’s true that the story from that doctor—what was his name again? Dr. Nowell?—makes a lot more sense than mine.

  Maybe it is even the truth. Maybe the cabin and everything that I remember happening there was a hallucination. How did they track me down so quickly? Or is my version of what happened wrong down to the level of how long I was driving?

  I realize Officer Dillow hasn’t started the car. “We’re not going to Bend, are we?”

  “No. I just said that to keep us both safe.”

  “But why are we out here in the car?”

  “It was the only way I could think of to keep you confined until Dr. Nowell gets here. Since I don’t have a cell I can put you in.” Officer Dillow sounds sad. It’s like no one really wants to do bad things to me, but they have to do them anyway. Michael Brenner didn’t really want to kill me, but he had his orders. Officer Dillow didn’t want to trick me, but Dr. Nowell told him to. “Dr. Nowell told me that because of your mental illness, your paranoia, you would get into the car with me if I told you I was worried about being followed.”

  I yank the handle. The door doesn’t budge. I realize there must be a way to lock it to keep the people in the back—the prisoners—inside.

  Officer Dillow’s voice fills with sadness. “And, Katie? Dr. Nowell told me that when they found Michael Brenner, he was dead.”

  CHAPTER 8

  DAY 1, 6:49 P.M.

  The man in the woods is dead? I remember the slight smile he wore in his driver’s license photo. He looked like a nice guy. Was he actually a counselor at Sagebrush? Or is he really the guy who dragged me out into the woods?

  No matter who he is, I did this thing. I killed a man named Michael Brenner. Who was either trying to save me or kill me.

  Depending on whom you believe.

  So, do I believe what this Dr. Nowell told Officer Dillow? Or do I believe my own memories, which go back only a few hours? Did I just hallucinate the cabin and what happened there?

  Then I think of something. “I’ve got proof that what I told you is true,” I say, sliding my hand into my coat pocket until it touches the glass of the frame. “I’ve got a photo of my family that I took from the cabin. That proves I was there.”

  “A photo?” Some emotion edges Officer Dillow’s voice, but it’s not surprise. Instead, it sounds like exhaustion. “Katie, when you’re in a mental hospital, I’m pretty sure they allow you to have family photos.”

  I try to imagine that what he’s saying is true. To picture a hospital room with white linoleum floors and a single white bed in the middle. To remember the scent of disinfectant, the fluorescent glow of overhead lights. To visualize Michael Brenner, not dragging me through the woods but earnestly talking to me in an office as he hands me a tissue.

  Only the pictures I conjure up are fuzzy and flat, unmoving. My body still remembers his hands dragging me through the trees. In my ears, I still hear the sounds of his ragged breathing.

  Officer Dillow is right. I don’t have any way to prove what I’m saying. The photo could have come from a hospital bedside table as easily as the cabin mantel. The cell phone, the wallet, the keys, the car, and even the coat can be explained away. In Dr. Nowell and Officer Dillow’s version of the story, I took them all from a counselor at Sagebrush who was only trying to help me.

  Is that who I am? A crazy girl in a mental hospital? So crazy that she killed a man and then made up a story for herself so she wouldn’t have to think about the ugly reality?

  Would I even know if I was crazy? Maybe that’s impossible. But I haven’t heard any voices or seen any visions. Don’t schizophrenic people hear commands from dogs and TV sets and their own fillings? In the past hour, the only person I’ve heard talking to me is Officer Dillow, and I think he’s probably real.

  And then I think of one thing that doesn’t fit Dr. Nowell’s story. And it’s also the thing that will get me out of here. Because I don’t want to wait until Dr. Nowell shows up. Whoever he is, I’m pretty sure that what he wants won’t be good for me. In my version of the story, he’ll probably kill me. In Officer Dillow’s version, he’ll just lock me up for a long time.

  Neither idea sounds like a winner.

  I slide my hand behind my back and into the waistband of my jeans.

  “Look, I do have something else that I took from the cabin. Something that will prove to you I’m telling the truth.”

  “What is it, Katie?” Officer Dillow says with a sigh.

  I slide over and press the barrel of the gun through the mesh, angling it right at him. “This.”

  He turns his head and gasps. My eyes have adjusted enough that I can see how he freezes, not moving so much as an eyelash. If I wanted to, I could pull the trigger right now and blow him away.

  “I took this gun from Michael Brenner. He was going to shoot me with it. That Dr. Nowell—whoever he is—told you that Michael Brenner was a counselor. So if he was a counselor, why was he carrying a gun?”

  “I don’t know, Katie.” Officer Dillow takes a deep breath. “All I know is that the caller ID showed Sagebrush. But maybe you’re right. Maybe this Dr. Nowell wasn’t telling me the truth. Or not the whole truth anyway. Look, why don’t you put that down and we can talk about things. And I promise to listen.”

  I think it’s likely that Officer Dillow is telling the truth.

  At least, the truth as he knows it.

  The weird thing is that I almost trust him. But he doesn’t trust me. And doesn’t believe me.

  “I don’t want to shoot you,” I tell him, trying to sound tough. “But I will if I have to. I need you to unlock my doors and then get out of the car and trade places with me. And if you don’t do exactly what I say, I will be forced to shoot you.” I wonder if I actually can. If he doesn’t let me out, will I really shoot him?

  “You’re making a mistake, Katie. You need me to help you figure out what’s going on. Put the gun down on the seat and I’ll help you.”

  He has no idea how much I want to do what he says. “Just do it,” I bark. Or at least I try to bark, but in my own ears my voice sounds whiny. Like I’m a li
ttle kid. Like I’m on the edge of tears.

  But Officer Dillow does what I say. He unlocks my doors, lets me get out, and leaves the car only when I tell him to. He puts his gun on the ground. Then he gets in the back seat, and I lock him inside. And I pick up his gun and run back to Michael Brenner’s SUV and I drive away as fast as I can.

  Not knowing where I’m going.

  I only know I can’t trust anyone.

  Maybe not even myself.

  CHAPTER 9

  DAY 1, 7:02 P.M.

  On the way out of Newberry Ranch, I hit the yellow speed bumps so hard that my teeth clack together at each one. I have to get out of here. Dr. Nowell might turn down this road at any second. Or someone out walking a dog could find Officer Dillow locked in the back of his own patrol car and sound the alarm.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until I hear my shaky breaths punctuated with little indrawn sobs. I feel totally alone. All I know is that I’m in big trouble, and it’s just gotten a lot worse. I’m sure Officer Dillow memorized the license plate number on this car. It won’t be long until every cop in the county is looking for me. Looking for the girl who killed Michael Brenner.

  I think of how his breathing must have dwindled, folded up on itself, and stopped. Does he have a family, like the family in my photo? I remember the contents of his wallet. Gas cards and credit cards but no snapshots, at least not that I saw. I killed another human being. Is it because I hit him in the throat? Because of the rock his head hit?

  I tell myself I didn’t mean for it to happen. He tried to kill me, and I didn’t try to kill him. It was an accident. Right?

  Where do I go now? What do I do? Is there any place I can go where people might actually believe me, someplace where they might think twice before turning me over to the man who claims I’m a mental patient? Someplace where they might actually demand some proof? I think back to the map I saw on Google Maps. My choices are Bend, which is about forty minutes to the east, or Portland, which is the nearest big city, a little less than three hours to the northwest. Either way, I could go to the police station or maybe a lawyer. Security Officer Dillow, dressed in his polyester uniform and reading his People magazine, believed Dr. Nowell. Or the man who called himself Dr. Nowell. But a lawyer or a real cop might be more suspicious.

  I’m shaking, and it’s more than just fear. I’m exhausted. My stomach is a hard ball of hunger, and someone is hammering a steel spike into my left eye. There’s no way I can drive three hours. Especially not when every cop in the vicinity will soon be looking for me. So Bend it is. When I reach the highway, I go east.

  I need to find a place the car will blend in. Something with a big parking lot, like a large grocery store. Maybe I can lie down in the back seat, pull this big coat over me like a blanket, and go to sleep, at least for a few hours. I can’t stay any place where security or police might get curious, might run the plates or ask to see my driver’s license. If anyone questions me, I’m screwed. I don’t have ID, and I’m sure this car will be reported stolen.

  Maybe I should get rid of it. But then how will I get any place? How will I get away if someone comes after me? My thoughts run through the same maze over and over again, never finding any answers. And my headache gets worse.

  Finally I see the signs for Bend. I get off the highway and drive up and down until I find a crowded shopping mall. I cruise around in the full middle rows until I see a van’s reverse lights come on, then I pull in the space they’ve just left.

  All the stores seem familiar—Gap, Victoria’s Secret, REI. I know which one sells bras and which one sells backpacks. So why do I know the names of stores and what’s inside them but not my own name and what’s inside me? Am I crazy? Am I really a killer if I didn’t mean to be one? In the dim light, I look down at my shaking hands. How can I know how to drive a car or how to knock a man out and have no idea how to help myself?

  The questions echo inside me. My brain feels as empty and painful as my stomach. But my stomach is one thing I might be able to take care of. There’s a McDonald’s here, and I think that they have a dollar menu. I check all my pockets, but all I have are the photo and Michael Brenner’s cell phone and keys. Brenner had plenty of money in his wallet, but I don’t have even a crumpled dollar bill, just two guns on the passenger seat.

  I open the glovebox. It’s as neat as the car, which doesn’t have a single stray receipt or clump of mud marring a floor mat. It holds a tiny first-aid kit, a travel packet of tissues, the manual for the SUV, registration and insurance cards (both for Michael Brenner), sunglasses, a tire pressure gauge, wet wipes, and maps for Oregon, Washington, and Portland.

  But no money.

  I sit back, defeated. And then I realize the bump my hand is resting on is the console, tucked between the seats. I lift the lid. The console holds a selection of CDs, two pens, and a long row of quarters in a specially shaped plastic holder. I count eleven. Then I count again, hoping for twelve. But I still get eleven. Two items off the dollar menu it is, then.

  I decide to hide one gun under the seat. Brenner’s, because it’s bigger. Dillow’s gun goes in my left-hand coat pocket. I slide the first-aid kit into my right-hand coat pocket, next to the photo. After I eat—because now I feel almost nauseated with hunger—I can rebandage my fingers in the bathroom and check out how bad they are. I also take one of the pens. I need to figure out what’s happening. Maybe if I write things down, it will help.

  Before I get out of the SUV, I turn on the overhead light, angle down the rearview mirror, and look at myself. My face is all shadows and angles, and my eyes look tired and old. My eyes. I realize I’m starting to own this face, the one that scared me so bad in the cabin when I thought it belonged to someone else. I flick off the light, then look around the parking lot. I see a couple about my age holding hands, an old man with a walker, a mother pulling a dawdling toddler behind her. I wonder if it’s a weekend or a weekday. The lot’s not completely full, even though it’s not quite eight p.m., according to the clock set in the dash. So a weekday, I think.

  I look one more time. No cops, nobody who looks like they’re searching, no men by themselves.

  I take a deep breath and get out of the car.

  CHAPTER 10

  DAY 1, 7:56 P.M.

  When I walk into McDonald’s, a handful of people are seated in the bolted-down swivel chairs. I count one older couple, a guy dressed in a suit, and two parents with a young girl and a baby in a carrier. Even though the girl looks only about nine and the baby’s younger than the toddler in the photo, I wonder if that’s what my family looks like when we go out to eat. Do we go to McDonald’s? When the mom gets up to get more napkins, the girl dangles a tiny stuffed black-and-white zebra above the baby’s face. The baby laughs and the girl giggles. Is that the kind of thing I do? Did?

  When the dad looks at me with narrowed eyes, I realize I’m staring and turn away. I lean against the counter where you get ketchup and straws and try to figure out what to eat. On the dollar menu, there are a couple of burger-like things—a McDouble and a McChicken. The McDouble looks bigger, so I’ll get that. Even though a side salad would probably be healthier, I decide to get a small order of fries with my last full dollar. I wonder what the real me would have gotten. Maybe I’m a vegetarian.

  The only cashier has been standing behind the register the whole time, waiting for me. He looks about my age, with short black hair and long sideburns that end near his earlobes. When I walk up, his thick brows pull together, and his brown eyes narrow like he really sees me.

  His name tag says TY, and under that is a little ad for a Filet-O-Fish. I’m so hungry that even the tiny photo of a fish sandwich with processed yellow cheese and what looks like mayonnaise glopping out the sides looks good.

  “Can I have a McDouble and a small order of fries?” I look down at the quarters in my hand and then back up at him. “And is it possible to get a cup of water?”

  When he notices me checking my money, Ty’s lips press toge
ther. He looks over his shoulder at the cook, a big guy wearing a too-small uniform who’s busy lowering some fries in the hot oil. “I’m supposed to charge you for the cup,” he says in a low voice, “but let’s pretend I forgot, okay?”

  I nod. The tears, which weren’t very far away, threaten to come back. “Thanks. I appreciate it. I’ve had a bad day.” Which is such an unbelievable understatement that I snort and start to smile.

  He gives me a weird look, like What’s wrong with this crazy chick? then comes back with my burger and fries and an empty cup. At the counter, I grab napkins and pump out four little plastic cups of ketchup and put them on my tray. Then I fill my glass halfway with rattling ice and then to the top with water. It comes out of the same dispenser as the lemonade and looks faintly yellow. Picking up my tray, I find a spot where my back is against the wall and I can watch the doors.

  The food smells so good that when I open my mouth for the first bite, I have to suck back drool. And it is good. Hot and crunchy and greasy and, above all, salty. And most of it is soft enough that I don’t even need to worry about avoiding my loose tooth. I know I should probably eat slowly, but after about ninety seconds, it’s all gone and I’m chewing the last hard brown runt of a fry and licking the salt from my fingers. I even circle my index finger around each of the little plastic cups and suck down the last of the ketchup. When I look up, Ty is watching me, his face expressionless.

  Well, maybe a few days ago I would have watched me, too. But so many terrible things have happened today that I’m not going to worry about what I look like to some cashier at McDonald’s. I rest my chin on my hand, careful not to touch my bandaged fingers, and half turn in my seat so that I won’t notice if he keeps watching.

  Taking the pen from my pocket, I pull an unused napkin toward me and spread it out. In the middle, I write, “Who am I?” and draw a circle around it. I make another circle and write in the middle, “Is my name really Katie?” and then draw a line that connects it to the first circle. I make more circles that say, “Am I crazy?” “Was the cabin real?” “Where’s my family?” “Why do people want to kill me?” and “Who pulled out my fingernails?” Some of the circles connect to others, like the ones about my fingernails and the cabin being real.