The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die Read online

  A minute later, I’m asleep.

  CHAPTER 16

  DAY 2, 7:05 A.M.

  In my dream, I’m playing with a little boy. I can’t see him, just hear his voice. Music is playing in the background, and he’s calling out which animal I should dance like. “Dance like an elephant!” he says in his high voice. I bend over and put my arms together and swing them like a trunk. “Dance like a hippo!” I stomp over the hardwood floor, and we’re both laughing and laughing.

  And then I wake up. This time I really wake up, rather than coming to, the way I did yesterday.

  Initially, I recognize absolutely nothing. I sit bolt upright, knocking over a stack of books. And then it all comes back to me. The voice telling Michael Brenner to kill me. The ruts my heels left as I was dragged into the woods. Brenner lying at my feet, his breath hitching. The girl in the mirror who turned out to be me. The people in the photograph who must be my family. Officer Dillow telling me Brenner was dead. Ty’s eyes going wide when he saw the gun. Coming in here last night, falling on Ty’s bed, telling myself I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  And now it’s morning.

  At least I still remember yesterday. I may not remember anything more than that, but it’s a start. Fourteen or fifteen hours of memory. If I can hold on to it and add more, if I can keep figuring things out about who I am, then maybe I can build a reasonable facsimile of the girl I used to be.

  When I reach for my clothes, it’s easy to tell that someone has washed them. Someone—and I sure hope it was James instead of Ty—has folded up my bra, sweater, and jeans, and even matched up my socks and made them into a ball. Only my coat is in the same heap where it was yesterday.

  A shiver dances across my skin when I realize whoever did it came in here at least twice last night, and I didn’t hear a thing. Didn’t stir. Good thing I’m safe here.

  I get dressed. My jeans are faintly damp, and the left thigh still shows the shadow of a bloodstain.

  When I go down the hall, the two of them are sitting at the dining room table with a box of Trix. The bowls in front of them are empty except for colored milk. Ty is just lifting his to his lips when he sees me. He puts it down so fast it sloshes on the table. I hide a smile. It’s the first time I remember smiling.

  “Hey,” he says. “How’d you sleep?”

  “I didn’t think I would, but I did.” I decide not to say thanks for washing my clothes. Too embarrassing.

  “And how do you feel?” He’s looking at me closely, and I wonder if he’s checking my pupils again.

  “Kind of achy, but okay. My fingers don’t hurt as much.”

  “Let me take a look at them. If they get infected, you could be in real trouble.” Ty gets up, and then for some reason grabs a box of tinfoil from a kitchen drawer.

  We end up crowded in the small bathroom—Ty and me over the sink, James in the doorway. Spot is underfoot, and I have to watch where I step. I try to pull off the Band-Aids, but they’re stuck. I blink back tears of pain.

  “I looked it up,” he says. “Bandages will stick until your nail beds have toughened up.” He fills the sink with warm water, submerges my hand, and begins to gently tug the Band-Aids free. His own nails are clean, short, and square. Finally, he pulls the last bit of brown-stained bandage loose, and I lift out my hand. My two fingers look oddly naked. The part that should be hidden by the nails is pink skin-colored and only a little puffy. They’re not bleeding anymore.

  James steps closer and then swears, softly. His upper lip curls. “Who in the hell could do that to somebody else?”

  “Whatever they wanted to know,” Ty says, “they must have thought it was important.” He looks at me. “How bad do they hurt now?”

  The water woke them up. “They’re pretty tender.”

  He leans over my hand, gently presses on my ring finger just below where my nail used to start. “The nail sulcuses don’t look infected. Or maybe it’s sulci. Like octopus–octopi.”

  “The what?” I ask.

  “That grove at the base of the nail is called the nail sulcus. It’s where the nail grows out. I was on an emergency medicine site last night. It said your nails should grow back in four or five months.”

  “He wants to be an EMT,” James says.

  Ty’s face reddens. “I’m taking an online class. After I graduate I’m going to go to Central Oregon Community to get certified.” From a drawer, he takes a small tube and squirts some yellowish goo on the bed of each missing nail. Then he tears off a piece of tinfoil and picks up the scissors. “I”m going to make you some artificial nails that won’t stick.” He uses my good hand as a model for the foil nails. It takes several tries. The silvery pieces need to be a lot smaller than you would think. He slides the edge of each one under a cuticle and then wraps each finger in a thin layer of gauze. He picks up a roll of skin-colored mesh bandage. “I figure this doesn’t stand out quite as much as white would.”

  “Look,” James says from the doorway, “I know you guys were having fun yesterday making your big escape and all, but you really need to go to the police. They can protect Katie and figure out what happened.”

  Maybe James is right. In daylight, yesterday seems crazy.

  I nod at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:17. “What about school?”

  Ty doesn’t meet my eyes. “I decided I’m staying home today.”

  “What will that do to your grades, young man?” James asks. He turns to me. “Somebody’s got to play mom around here. And speaking of moms, how do you want your eggs? Over easy or scrambled?”

  “Scrambled, please.”

  “What about you?” He looks at Ty.

  “The same.” We all head back to the kitchen. As James takes a carton from the refrigerator, I wonder if the eggs are only making an appearance because I’m here. Maybe Trix is really their normal breakfast, and the eggs are a little bit of a show. And what about me? How do I normally begin my days? With scrambled eggs, Trix, or a handful of colored pills doled out by a nurse?

  James starts cracking eggs into a white ceramic bowl. “I know you told Ty some of it, but could you maybe start from the top and tell me exactly what happened to you?”

  “Sure.” Some feeling I can’t name twists inside me, like I’ve swallowed a piece of glass and it’s slowly moving through my gut. But I start with waking up on the floor with my fingernails on the table. They ask an occasional question, like whether I ever saw more of the other man than just his shoes. I don’t leave out any of it, not even how Michael Brenner hit his head on the rock.

  While I’m talking, James finishes the eggs and splits them between Ty and me. He’s mixed in some shredded cheddar cheese, and it’s so good. My tooth doesn’t feel as loose as it did yesterday, so I can chew on both sides of my mouth. In between huge bites, I describe how I drove off and met Officer Dillow, the phone call he got, and how I locked him in his own security car and took his gun.

  “It sounds like this Dr. Nowell—if that’s his real name—used a spoof card,” James says.

  “What’s that?” Ty asks.

  “Once you buy the card, you call a special phone number, enter a PIN, and then you put in the name and number you want to show up on the caller ID. So your guy Nowell could have called from any place in the world, but when this Officer Dillow answered the phone, it would have said Sagebrush Mental Hospital.”

  “Wait, Katie,” Ty says. “Going back to what you said earlier. How do you know this other guy’s name? This Brenner?”

  I explain about Brenner’s wallet, which Officer Dillow took. “I still have his phone though.” I push back my empty plate, get the phone from Ty’s room, then turn it on. “The battery says it’s at seven percent. Do you guys have a charger for this kind of phone?” They look at the bottom and shake their heads.

  “Here,” Ty says, “let me see what’s on it.” He starts to hold out his hand, then pulls it back. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch it. It’s got that guy’s fingerprints on it.”

  “T
oo late for that. I’ve already touched it all over.” I hand it to him.

  He grabs a piece of paper and a pen and starts scrolling back through the phone with one hand and writing down numbers with the other. “I’m making a list of all the numbers he called and that called him.” After he’s written about eight numbers, he pushes some more buttons, holds the phone up to listen to it, shakes his head, and lowers it. He looks at us. “There’s nine messages in the voicemail box, but it wants a password.” He presses some more buttons. “Lots of text messages. The most recent one says, ‘Call me ASAP.’ The one before that says, ‘Where are you?’ And before that it was, ‘Have you taken care of things?’ They’re all from Nowell.”

  Nowell, the doctor who works at Sagebrush? Or Nowell, the man who wants to kill me?

  The last one was sent about the time I was jumping into Brenner’s car. My scalp prickles. “Things” must mean me. From the looks on their faces, James and Ty know it, too.

  James pushes his chair back and grabs a silver laptop from the coffee table in the living room. He sits back down next to me. “Let’s see who this Michael Brenner is.” Ty gets up and stands behind us. James opens the computer, and Yahoo.com loads onto the screen. He starts to type in “Michael Brenner” into the search bar, then turns to me. “Was that B–R–E or B–R–U?”

  “Wait,” Ty says. “Where did you say that security guy was?”

  “Newberry Ranch. It’s like a resort.”

  He points, his finger shaking. “Look at that.”

  It’s the part of the screen that shows national and local headlines. Halfway down, one reads, “Newberry Ranch Security Guard Found Shot to Death in Patrol Car.”

  CHAPTER 17

  DAY 2, 7:50 A.M.

  As I stare at the headline, I can’t breathe. James clicks. The page opens, and we all lean in closer to read it.

  NEWBERRY RANCH SECURITY GUARD FOUND SHOT TO DEATH IN PATROL CAR

  Newberry Ranch, Ore. (AP)—A security officer was found dead in his official vehicle at the Newberry Ranch and Resort near Bend, Oregon, late last night. Police are investigating the death as a homicide.

  Authorities say that the body of Newberry Ranch security guard Lloyd Dillow was found in his patrol car around 11 p.m. last night. The body was discovered by a person staying at the resort. Dillow, 44, had been shot in the chest. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

  His body was taken to the medical examiner’s office in Bend for an autopsy, but the death is being considered a homicide. Authorities questioned nearby residents who reported hearing no signs of a struggle.

  A source familiar with the case says that authorities are investigating the possibility of a link between the homicide and a teenage girl who may have been the last person to see him alive. The girl is described as having blond hair and wearing jeans, a red sweater, and a man’s brown canvas coat.

  Dillow, who had been employed by Newberry Ranch for five years, worked the evening shift alone. “It’s just a big loss,” said Mel Clark, the head of the Newberry Ranch Residents’ Association. “Lloyd was extremely dedicated to his job.”

  The police are still investigating. Anyone with information related to the shooting is asked to call Crime Stoppers at 541-555-8588.

  Two pairs of eyes swivel to me. It’s hard to speak. The air feels trapped in my lungs. “Officer Dillow can’t be dead.” My voice sounds strangled. “I left him locked up in the back seat of his car. He was perfectly fine.” I think of how his face paled when I told him about my missing fingernails, how he promised to listen to me even when I was pointing a gun at him. As terrible as it is to think of Brenner’s death, I can sort of deal with it because it was an accident and I didn’t have a choice. He was going to kill me. But Officer Dillow—all he wanted to do was help me. He just wanted to do what was right.

  “You said your memory’s gone,” James says calmly. “What if you just don’t remember what you did to him?”

  “No! I remember everything after I woke up on the floor of that cabin. It’s before the cabin that I don’t remember. Not after.”

  But how do I know that’s true? Maybe my memory still has holes in it. Maybe the reason I don’t remember things is because they’re bad things. I mean, I don’t remember having my fingernails pulled out, and that would obviously be a terrible memory. Maybe I don’t remember shooting Officer Dillow because that would be a terrible memory, too.

  But with Officer Dillow, I remember everything else that happened—driving to Newberry Ranch, talking to him, the phone call he answered, locking him in the car, driving away, meeting Ty. If I shot him, then the shooting part is the only thing I don’t remember. So it’s not the same.

  Could my mind be playing a different trick on me? Giving me false memories instead of no memory at all? But it’s too hard to believe I’m remembering an alternate version of events.

  “Why would I shoot him?” I look at Ty as if he really has the answers.

  “So you wouldn’t have to go back to the mental hospital.” He runs his hand through his hair so it stands up like a rooster’s comb. “Who else would have a reason for shooting him?”

  “Well, someone had a reason for trying to kill me, and I have no idea what that was. And the only reason to believe I was in a mental hospital was that whoever called Officer Dillow said that.” I’m thinking out loud now. “And they said they were coming to get me. So they must be the ones who did it. Maybe he asked too many questions. So they killed him. And if whoever called about me killed him, it proves that their story isn’t true. They must have done it to shut him up.” Something occurs to me and I let out a little moan. “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?” Ty asks.

  “I took his gun. He couldn’t even defend himself. I took his gun, and now he’s dead.”

  “You couldn’t have known that was going to happen.” Ty touches my shoulder.

  “Too bad all your fingers weren’t bandaged,” James says. “Or you weren’t wearing gloves.”

  We both turn to look at him.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because your fingerprints have got to be all over that guy’s security car.”

  The few facts I know shift and fall into a different pattern, like twisting a kaleidoscope. “Maybe they didn’t kill Officer Dillow for asking questions. Or maybe that wasn’t the only reason. Maybe they did it so that they could blame me. I can’t go to the cops now. Why would they ever believe me? After all, I really was there and I even took his gun.”

  “Okay,” James says. “Back up a little. So you were with this Dillow, and he got a call from someone claiming to work at Sagebrush and saying you were a patient there.”

  “That’s right.” I hope he’s not going to try to start proving or disproving my mental health.

  “But how did they know you were there?”

  “Maybe they just started calling all the places nearby where they thought I might go for help.” I have the nagging feeling I’m overlooking something.

  Ty’s eyes go wide. “Then how did they know you were at the mall?”

  In my panic last night, I hadn’t thought about that. Now the three of us think of the answer at the same time.

  “The phone!” I grab Brenner’s phone and turn it off. Is that enough? I take out the battery and slip it in one pocket and the phone in the other.

  James gets up and goes to the window that looks out over the parking lot. He presses his face up to a gap between the blinds. “Oh crap.”

  My heart leaps in my chest. “What?”

  “Guys in suits. It looks like they’re going door to door.”

  “How many?” Ty asks.

  I’m too scared to even speak. They’ll find me, and when they do, they’re going to kill me.

  “Two,” James says, then turns his head from side to side. “No, make that three.”

  “Is there a back door to this apartment?” I already know the answer before Ty shakes his head.

  James steps back. “They’re knocking
on the neighbor’s door.”

  We can hear the raps through the thin walls, then his neighbor’s voice. I’m glad we came here late at night, when nobody was outside. When I might have slipped in unnoticed.

  But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Because in the next couple of minutes someone is going to knock on this door. I look around for a place I can conceal myself. But this place is so small, I already know the answer.

  There is no place to hide.

  CHAPTER 18

  DAY 2, 7:58 A.M.

  I run to the back of the apartment and peek through the vinyl blinds. Are men out there, too? The window is mostly covered by a bush, but past that all I can see are tree trunks, bark dust, and more bushes. The ground rises up, so I can’t see very far. But no men in suits.

  My head filled with panicked thoughts of escape, I reach through the slats and thumb the catch shaped like a half-moon. Then I start to slide the window up. Halfway up, it sticks. And worse than that, I see the fine black mesh of a screen behind it. But I can’t see any clips holding it in place or a way to slide it out of the way. The only way to go out it would be to cut it first. And we don’t have time.

  I hear a soft sound repeated over and over and realize it’s me. Whimpering.

  There’s a knock on the door. James gasps and turns toward us. Ty grabs my wrist. His lips are pulled back from his teeth. The three of us stare at each other wordlessly, then Ty pulls me down the hall toward his room.

  “Just a second,” James calls out. “I’m coming.”

  In his room, Ty pushes me toward the closet. I lean down, snatch my coat, then step through the closet door. My ankle turns as I step on one of his shoes. Ty crowds in next to me.

  “Who is it?” James calls out.

  Softly, softly Ty closes the door. It makes a snicking sound when it catches. His breathing is loud and fast. At least I think it’s his. We’re crouched underneath the closet rod, facing each other, trapped in this tiny space, breathing the same air, our hearts knocking on our chests.