Authors: Stacey Kade
But no, that’s not going to happen. I
refuse
to let that happen.
With a bellow of rage that comes from deep inside me, I close my right hand into a fist, thumb on the outside just as Chase taught me, and drive it straight at her face with every bit of my weight.
My knuckles collide with her cheekbone with an impact that reverberates up my arm. But she falls back, clutching at her eye.
I shove my shoulder into the door, slamming it shut and locking it. Then I lodge my foot against the base of the door to keep it shut.
I’m panting, my legs are shaking so hard I don’t think I can walk, and blood is dripping off my elbow, but I’m keeping this door closed no matter what.
Twisting my head so I can see Mia, I say, “9-1-1. Now.” I’m bracing, expecting the thud of Sera’s body against the door, her howl of frustration and rage.
But it’s eerily silent out in the hall. For now.
Sobbing, Mia finally tugs free of the bonds around her wrists and fumbles her phone out of her pocket with a shaking hand. A few seconds later, I hear the reassuring beep of the numbers being dialed and then the beautiful sound of a connection going through and ringing on the other end.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” the operator asks in a crisp voice.
“Help us! Please!” Mia shouts.
That’s when I smell smoke and look down to see the first curls of it drifting underneath the bathroom door.
Chase
My phone has been vibrating off and on all morning, ever since I stopped on my way back from set and announced to the waiting photographers, reporters, and fans outside the hotel that I would be making a statement in a couple hours.
It wasn’t long before Max, Leon, Rick, even George, Elise’s boss, were calling. I didn’t listen to the messages, but I could easily imagine what they thought of the idea.
With the texts, I didn’t have to imagine.
Don’t do this. Call me.
You’re being an idiot. Call me.
Call me. You’re going to ruin everything.
All variations on the same theme.
But none of the messages, voice or text, was the right one, from the right person. So I ignored them all until after my statement, when it would be too late for any of them to do anything.
Standing out there, telling the truth, in my own words, was the most exhilarating and terrifying thing I’ve ever done.
Then I heard from Leon.
Now, forty-five minutes later, my phone is buzzing again insistently in the cup holder of my rental car.
I glance down at the screen. Karen.
I’m only about fifteen miles from my destination now. She can yell at me then.
But as soon as the call drops or goes to voicemail, she calls back immediately.
On the third attempt, worry worms its way into my gut.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, I reach for the phone with the other, answering it and hitting the speakerphone button. “Karen? What’s wrong?”
“Where are you? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she demands.
I hesitate. No matter how I explain it, it’s going to sound bad. I’m going to leave Amanda alone. I won’t bother her; she’s made it clear with her silence that’s what she wants.
I told the truth this morning because it was the right thing to do, because it was what I needed to do for myself. But my whole reason for announcing that I would be making a statement instead of just doing it was to lure Sera out and keep her attention focused on me instead of Amanda.
But according to Leon, the last confirmed Sera sighting was still when she took a crowbar to the squad car. A whole day ago. She could be anywhere. Including somewhere near Amanda.
I hung up on Leon right then, grabbed my keys that I’d taken back from Karen, and headed straight for my crap-ass rental car.
“I’m busy,” I say to Karen now. “Can you yell at me later?” Five minutes of research on my phone before I started driving gave me the name of the officer who found Amanda in Jakes’s basement. Beckstrom. Even if no one else in the Springfield PD takes my concerns about Sera seriously, I’m betting she will.
Karen makes an impatient noise. “I hope that’s your cagey way of saying you’re doing the dumbass thing and going to Springfield.”
I frown, confused. “What?”
“Are you or are you not on your way to Amanda?” she demands.
“I’m going to the police in Springfield,” I say cautiously.
“Skip the cops; go to her house.”
I take my eyes off the road for a second to stare at the phone as if it will give some clue to Karen’s bizarre behavior on this call. “Karen, I’m not just going to show up and—”
“They’re already there,” she says. “The cops.”
A chill rises on my skin as the heavy weight of dread settles over me. “What?”
“It’s all over television.” She swallows audibly, and in the silence, in her reticence, I can hear genuine fear. “I guess the photographers and the reporters … they were going to try to get a reaction to your statement, but then they got this…”
“What, Karen? What did they get?” I demand, my hands tightening on the wheel.
“I don’t know.” Her voice grows more distant. “It’s hard to tell, exactly.”
“Karen!”
“I don’t know, okay? They haven’t said, but her house is on TV. It’s live. Police, ambulances, everywhere.”
“Ambulances?” I ask weakly.
“And fire trucks.” She hesitates, then adds, “There was a fire at the house, Chase. They’ve got footage of it.”
Oh, Jesus
.
* * *
The smell of smoke, of wood burning, is thick in the air, even through the vents in my car. Normally, that’s a happy scent, one of fond memories of bonfires in high school.
But not now, not this.
The front of Amanda’s home is blackened, especially near the door. Firefighters are moving around inside. I catch flashes of yellow, their protective gear, through the front windows.
Two ambulances are backed in by the garage. Police cars block the lawn and part of the driveway, and yellow crime scene tape flaps in the breeze, tied to trees and the mailbox, to keep people back. Clusters of paparazzi and a few reporters with full camera setups are standing as close as possible to the tape line.
I’m sick with dread.
I jerk the wheel to the side of the road and shove the gearshift into park. Grabbing my phone, I bolt from the car, not even bothering with shutting the door.
But as soon as I reach the tape, a cop is in front of me, his hand up. “No.”
“But I’m—”
“I don’t care who you are.” His glare tells me he knows exactly who I am and that pretty much anyone, including the devil himself, would have a better shot of getting through.
My pulse is rattling in my throat. I need to see Amanda, need to see that she’s okay.
I move along the edge of the caution tape, looking for a chance to duck under, but there are too many cops blocking the way. I have no problem challenging them, but getting arrested before I find Amanda is the very definition of an impulse control problem.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I turn to the closest group of photographers, all of whom are focusing their cameras on the house and the ambulances.
“What happened?” I demand. “Did you see anything?”
The closest guy, with shaggy hair sticking up all over the place, lowers his camera with an annoyed look until he recognizes me. “Chase Henry,” he says with a broad smile. “Well, all right, then.”
“It’s Chase Henry,” someone else whispers.
“Get it, get it!” another voice yells.
Cameras start going off all around me.
I put my hand up. “I’ll give you whatever pictures you want; just tell me what’s going on.”
“Don’t know, mate.” The shaggy-haired guy shrugs. “We got here and Emergency Services was already on it. Smoke was pouring out of the house, but they’ve got that down now.”
“What about people? Have you seen Amanda? Have they said anything?” Multiple ambulances means multiple injuries. Or worse. The fact that ambulances haven’t left yet makes me afraid there’s no reason to hurry.
“No, sorry.” And he almost looks like he means it, even as he snaps another photo of me.
With shaking hands, I lift my phone and hit her number again. But it goes straight to voicemail. Again.
Frustration and fear get the better of me then. “Amanda!” I shout toward the house. “Can you hear me?”
“Hey, Amanda!” someone else nearby yells.
“Amanda Grace, Chase is here!” the shaggy-haired paparazzo shouts.
They all take up the call, in various forms, shouting my name and hers until the noise is louder than the engines running on all the emergency vehicles.
The Australian looks at me and shrugs with a rueful grin. “Either way, it’s a good story, mate.”
After a moment, I see movement around the side of the garage, and I catch my breath.
It’s Liza, the older sister. Her glasses are shoved up on her head, and her face is streaked with soot and tears. Most alarming, though, is the blood on her pale blue sweater, in a large splotch shaped like a handprint. Her arms are locked around her waist against the cold or shock or both, and she’s peering out at us, like a rabbit cornered by wild dogs.
I press against the tape and wave wildly at her, not caring if I look like an idiot.
“Back up!” the cop shouts at me.
I ignore him. “Liza!”
“He’s over here,” my Australian friend shouts to Liza on my behalf, pointing at me with one hand and snapping pictures with the other the whole time.
Liza’s gaze finds mine, and she jerks back in shock. Or anger—it’s impossible to tell.
“Wait!” I shout as she disappears from view behind the garage.
Damnit.
“I just want to know if she’s okay!” But there’s no way she can hear my words now.
My heart sinks.
A moment later, though, there’s movement on the same side of the garage.
It’s not Liza.
Amanda’s moving slowly, barefoot and splashed with soot. The right side of her shirt is covered in brownish-red blotches and splatter.
Blood.
The sleeve on that side is slashed and flapping open. Bright white bandages stand out against the pale skin of her wrist. Her eyes lock with mine, and her hand flies up to cover her mouth. Then she’s running toward me.
I duck under the line over the nearest cop’s protest—fuck that guy—and run for her.
She collides hard with me, her arms going around my neck as I wrap my arms around her waist and lift her up. Her feet are bare, and it’s so cold out here.
Burying her face against my neck, she shivers, and I feel the heat of her tears against my skin.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice muffled in her hair.
“I’m fine,” she says, but the words make her cough so hard her whole body shakes with it.
Carrying her over to the edge of the driveway, where at least the ground is dry, I set her down and shrug out of my coat to put it around her shoulders. I think the coughing is from the smoke, but it’s still really cold out here.
When she catches her breath, her eyes are watering. “I … need stitches, I guess.” She waves her left hand vaguely toward the bandages on her other arm. “But I wanted to answer their questions first.”
“What happened?”
“Sera…” She coughs again. “She came to the house. Mia … Mia didn’t realize and she opened the door. Sera had flowers. Gasoline in the vase, though. I think Mia thought she was a delivery person.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m so sorry, Amanda. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“She wanted me to leave with her, to talk. She had a knife. She cut Mia.” Her face crumples, but she struggles against it and maintains her composure.
“Is Mia okay?”
Amanda nods slowly, dazed still. “Scared. Cut on her throat. She doesn’t need stitches, but they want to take her in to check her out, and she won’t go without me.” She pauses. “Sera tried to set us on fire.”
My eyes are watering fiercely. “Jesus, Amanda, I—”
“I stuffed wet towels under the door and kept most of the smoke out, and they got us out pretty fast because Mia was already on the phone with 9-1-1.” She shakes her head. “They caught Sera because she stayed around to watch,” she says, with a dry, painful-sounding laugh. “How messed up is that?”
I lean my forehead against hers, tears rolling down to join hers. “I’m so sorry. For this, for everything.” I’ll never be able to say it enough, so I’m going to say it as often as she’ll let me in this moment. Because I don’t know what, if anything, comes after.
She nods, and we stand there together, touching but barely, for a moment.
“I made a statement this morning,” I begin, “and I—”
“I saw it,” she says, her gaze on the ground.
I swallow nervously and wipe at my face. “You did?”
“Mia showed me, right before.” She glances up then, a weary smile creasing through the dirt and soot. “It was good.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I gnaw on my lower lip before releasing it to speak. “When they couldn’t find Sera in Wescott after, I was worried. I was coming to talk to the police here, when Karen called and told me.”
Amanda’s forehead creases in a frown. “You shouldn’t have taken the risk.”
“That’s not why I did it,” I say softly. “I meant what I said. Every word of it.”
“I know,” she says. “But it was still a risk.” She pokes me sharply in the shoulder.
“Had to do it. Some risks are worth taking.” I reach up to push her hair back away from her face, but stop, not sure if it would be welcome. I want to touch her, want to pull her against me and feel her chest moving against mine and her heart beating.
“I did it, you know,” she says after a moment. She sounds distant, almost thoughtful.
“Did what?” I ask cautiously.
“I fought back. Hit her.” She holds up her right hand, displaying bruised and swollen knuckles. “Apparently, I have a mean right cross, according to the EMT.” Her mouth curves in a small smile.
I suck in a breath at the sight of her hand. “You need X-rays,” I say. “Trust me. Fractures aren’t always so easy to—”
“I froze. But just for a second. I didn’t need someone else to protect me, to tell me what to do, even an imaginary someone else,” she says.