The Girl in the Wall (20 page)

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I don’t know, I just feel really woozy,” I say, closing my eyes for a minute. He lays me down on the ground. “I think it’s the not eating and then the puking and now the whole getting shot thing.” It’s also the fact that I can’t shake off the feeling of having stabbed The Assassin but I don’t feel like talking about that.

He doesn’t answer and when I open my eyes I see that he’s gone. I lift myself up on one elbow and then I see him. He has crept over to the lilac bush next to the garage where he carefully snaps off a twig, then comes back over.

“These are your favorite, right?” he asks.

“Well, yeah, when there are actual flowers on them,” I say to disguise how happy I am that he remembered such a small thing about me.

“Yeah, it would be better if this was spring and I could give you a real flower. But consider it a promise of future flowers. Future flowers that you can only get if you can get us out of here.”

I reach out my hand and he hoists me up. Then he wraps my arm around his shoulders, being careful not to jar my injured one, so he can bear some of my weight. The feeling of him being so close is intoxicating.

“Okay, so where do we go?” he asks.

I consider for a moment. The backyard is something like half a mile long plus the woods at the back are really dense and hard to get through. Our best bet is to make it to the front gate and try and flag down a car there. If we go back behind the garage there is a ridge that would shield us a bit. We’d have to move fast but with most of my classmates bunched in front of the house, it’s possible the agents won’t even be looking that way.

“Behind the garage,” I say. “And then—”

I stop midsentence and Hudson freezes at the exact same moment. I can feel his heart rate accelerate as my breath gets trapped in my lungs. Leaning out the window, his chest still dripping blood, is The Assassin. A gun rests in his arms, a gun he raises to point straight at us. There is no time to run and no place to run anyway. He is less than twenty feet away with nothing at all to block his shot.

We are sitting ducks.

As The Assassin releases the safety and takes aim, Hudson tries to move so that he’s standing in front of me, blocking my body with his.

And then, just as I am preparing for another bullet to rip into me, my whole body steeled for the pain, The Assassin’s head explodes. His brain splatters over the rose bushes, his blood soaking the grass. The gun falls from his still fingers.

I jerk backwards, wrenching my injured shoulder and crying out in pain. But it’s good because pain means that I am still alive.

“We’re okay,” Hudson says, astonished. “Someone saved us.”

I look toward the porch to see who had our backs and standing there is Ariel, gun steady in her hands. I start toward her but she shakes her head.

“Go!” she shouts.

And we do. We race around the back of the garage, then streak across the yard, partially hidden by the ridge. I hear gunshots but neither of us looks back. My head is pounding but Hudson is half-carrying me at this point and I put every ounce of my will into keeping upright, keeping my feet moving forward. It feels like time has stopped, like we are in this space of racing forever. There’s just the ache in my chest from running, the uneven lawn beneath our feet, and Hudson’s arm around me as the gunshots grow fainter.

Finally, we reach the gates and sprint through to the road beyond. A car is coming and Hudson lets go of me to step out in front of it, waving his hands like a madman.

The car slams on its brakes and pulls over to the side of the road. A woman sticks her head out the window.

“What’s wrong with you?” she yells. “I could have killed you.”

“Ma’am I apologize for startling you but we need the police, there’s an emergency at the Barett home,” Hudson says. “Could we trouble you to call 911?”

Her face softens at his charming Southern manners. “Of course,” she says, picking up her phone. “What kind of emergency?”

“A hostage situation,” Hudson says.

Already it doesn’t even seem real, not here on this pretty stretch of highway, a Mercedes gliding by, the sun just coming up in the sky casting a golden glow over everything. You can barely smell the gunpowder here.

The woman looks at me, her eyes on the blood oozing the tiniest bit from my shoulder, and she punches in the numbers fast.

Hudson turns to me. “We did it.”

I feel like we should be yelling or cheering but all I can do is look into his eyes, the eyes that have seen all the terrible events of the past twelve hours, the eyes that are now looking at me like I am more than just some flat-chested high school girl. A lot more.

He reaches out and tucks a stray lock of my hair behind my ear, then lets his fingers slide slowly down my cheek. Sparks crackle across my whole body as he leans down and kisses me, his lips deliciously soft against mine. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him closer as we kiss and kiss and kiss.

“They’re on their way,” the woman says, getting out of her car.

We break apart as she comes over. Despite the lack of sleep, the blood stains, and the way I probably smell, I know that I am glowing.

“Hey, aren’t you Hudson Winters?” she asks.

“Actually,” I say, grabbing his hand and lacing our fingers together as I hear the first sirens in the background. “It’s Hunter.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to wait?” Sera asks. We are standing at the top of the driveway near the porch steps. Hudson is a few feet away chatting with the driver of the car his manager sent over as soon as he heard about what happened.

Sera’s shoulder has been wrapped by one of the paramedics and is now encased in neat white bandages. Her cheek has a streak of dirt, her clothes are sweat-stained, and her hair is falling out of its bun in loose tendrils. Despite all this her face is radiant and I have a feeling the reason for this is the same reason a horde of reporters and photographers are bunched just beyond the yellow tape at the end of the driveway. Hudson Winters.

“I’m sure,” I tell her. “But thanks.”

After the police arrived everything happened quickly. Most of the agents were quick to surrender and the few who didn’t were taken out sniper-style. The paramedics took care of the injured, from splinting Cassidy’s broken finger to strapping Ravi up on a body board. It’s unlikely he will ever walk again but he is alive, which is more than Ella or Lulu can say. Some of us came away physically unscathed, like me and Carson, our injuries tucked away on the inside. Franz, whose eyes were vacant, could not stop biting at the skin around his fingernails, gnawing until they bled. Him they lead gently into the back of the ambulance, talking the whole time in soothing tones.

Now the police are doing a sweep of the house, going room to room to root out any hidden agents and to break into the office where John has barricaded himself. When they are done I will be allowed back into the house that was once my home.

“I don’t want to leave you here alone,” Sera says.

She looks out over the yard that is torn up from the cars. Ribbons of blood are spilled across it. The cars themselves are now crumples of metal, one wrapped around a tree after Ravi was shot and crashed into it, the other destroyed when Franz drove it into the side of the garage. I think he might have been trying to kill himself but he came out of it without a scratch on him. Piled neatly in the driveway, next to the ambulance, are the body bags.

“I know but I just, I think I need to be alone right now,” I tell her. It’s kind of hard to talk. My throat feels coated with syrup and words keep getting stuck there.

She sighs, then hugs me hard. “Okay, but you’ll be over soon?”

The plan is for me to go to Sera’s for the night, and maybe for the nights after too, until I figure out where to go. I’ll certainly never spend another night here.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to hug her back but not really managing. My body feels stiff, like it’s not quite mine anymore.

Sera walks over to Hudson and when I see the glow on his face as he looks down at her, I have to turn away. I walk up the porch steps and sit on the top one, staring out as the car with Hudson and Sera in it winds down the drive, not really seeing it. Not really seeing anything.

“Ms. Barett?” a voice behind me says, startling me.

“Yes.” I struggle to my feet because I can tell from his anxious expression that there is news.

“We got into the office suite and it seems that Mr. Avery has taken his own life.” His voice is subdued, like this information will be less harsh to hear if it is delivered gently.

“I have to go up there,” I tell him.

He recoils slightly, like I have said something inappropriate and maybe I have. Maybe there is something wrong with me for needing to see John Avery one last time, even if he is dead.

“That might not be such a good idea,” another officer says, resting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You did say you believed he was the one behind the hostage situation?”

I shake off his hand. “No, I said I
knew
he was the one behind the hostage situation,” I say, thinking how absurdly civilized the term “hostage situation” is—it doesn’t evoke panic and death and the smell of blood, it sounds more like a mishap with a seating chart at a dinner party. “And I do need to see John.”

The cops exchange a look but I don’t bother to wait and hear their decision, I just walk into the house. The smell inside the doorway, the residual gunpowder, the blood, and then the slightly sour scent that I know is terror still hovering in a thin mist stops me for a moment but then I keep going. The first officer catches up with me but he doesn’t say anything, just stays close as I walk up the blood-and-flesh-spattered staircase, stepping carefully around the chards of a crystal vase.

The door to the office is open. A policewoman just outside steps forward when she sees us.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asks the officer shadowing me. “It’s pretty gory in there.”

This makes me laugh, which is definitely inappropriate but I can’t help it. “Do know what I’ve been through in the past thirteen hours?” I ask her when I manage to control myself. “Do you know what I’ve seen?”

The officer with me starts to speak but she holds up her hand. “If you’re sure then go ahead,” she says to me.

I do.

John is still wearing his suit, which still looks neat and pressed. His shoes are still polished to a shine and his hair is still the same salt and pepper comb-over. I look at the hands that wiped away my tears when my dad missed my tenth birthday, the hands that taught me how to tie lace-up shoes. They are the same as well. The only difference is that his body now hangs several feet over the desk, dangling from a noose he made out of electrical wire. His eyes bulge, white foam is on his lips, and his neck bends at an impossible angle.

This is the man who was a second father to me my whole life and the man who killed my dad and tried to kill me. I will probably never be able to reconcile those things, but at least I now know one thing: John Avery is gone.

I realize I am holding my breath and I let it out in a whoosh.

“Have you seen what you needed to see?” The policewoman’s voice is kind.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m ready to leave this room and John behind.

She walks out with me. “You said he is the one behind the hostage situation?”

“Yes,” I answer as we head back down the stairs.

“I hope we can find the proof of it,” she says. “So far it seems he’s done a good job at covering his tracks, but of course we’ve barely started the investigation.”

I clear my throat. “I have something that might help,” I say hoarsely. “Just give me a second and I’ll get it.”

I’m not sure it will mean very much but maybe it’s a starting point for them, a reason to make John the top suspect. Which shouldn’t matter much since he’s dead but it does matter, at least to me.

I walk out the front door, into the bright fall day, the clean smell of falling leaves and mowed grass almost covering up the other smells that have soaked into the lawn. But they will always be there, even when they are hidden deep in the earth.

I head over to the body bags and go to the second-to-last one on the left side. I kneel down and close my eyes for a second, trying to draw breath into my wooden lungs. Then I unzip the bag.

Nico’s skin is a sickly yellow and his cheeks are sunken, making his face slightly distorted. I rest my hand on his stiff hair for a moment but even that feels wrong, sticky, probably from the blood that soaks his chest and shoulders. I slide my hand into his jacket pocket, my fingers fighting the heavy, wet fabric. I pull out the phone, which has a thin sheen of blood on it but lights up when I press it, before quickly shutting back down. The link between John and the security is right here, just a recharged battery away.

“Thank you,” I whisper to Nico. It’s not just for keeping the phone safe or even just for saving my life, but he will know that. Just like he knew me.

This night has gouged out my insides, leaving a ragged wound so deep it will never heal. I know I need to zip up the bag but I can’t. All I want to do is crawl in next to him, close my eyes, and go with him, leaving the ravages of my life, the loss of my dad and my friends, the suffocating guilt, behind. I am ruined by this wound, there’s nothing to keep me here, not now. My body gives out under me, my face now on the driveway. I can’t imagine ever moving from this spot.

I am distantly aware of a car pulling up but it doesn’t really register until the door slams and someone is calling my name in joy. Abby.

I pull myself up to hands and knees and look down at Nico. My sister’s voice is light in my ears and I know that I am looking at a choice that is bigger than just standing up or staying curled in a ball on the driveway.

I look at his face one last time and I know what he would choose and what he would want me to choose. So I reach deep for every last bit of strength I have and I stand up.

Abby is running toward me and I meet her halfway, grabbing her up and holding her close, drinking in the feel of her sweet little face against mine, her fingers curling in my hair, her sigh of delight as I kiss her temple.