The Girl in the Wall (4 page)

Why did he even come over if he wants to ignore me? Then I realize he’s probably just acting like this because the one person he knew here was killed.

“I’m sorry about your bodyguard,” I say awkwardly.

“I didn’t really know him, he was new, but he sure didn’t deserve that,” he says bitterly.

“None of them did,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything, just sits and looks broody. That’s fine, it’s not like I want to talk anyway, not when I’ve made this huge problem for myself. Just then I notice two agents walk in and head for the group of folding chairs. I watch them walk through the aisles, looking down as they go. Then they head back out.

“What do you think they were looking for?” I ask Hudson. My voice sounds squeaky, like I just inhaled helium.

“I don’t know,” he says, running his hands through his hair in this way that makes it stick up. “I guess it could be anything.”

I tell myself the two agents weren’t doing anything and try to respond in a normal way. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“This party was supposed to be so safe my manager didn’t even bother to send my usual security team,” Hudson says. “He said the guy throwing the party was going to take care of it all.”

“You should probably fire your manager,” I say.

Hudson laughs and I find myself relaxing just the tiniest bit. Maybe it’s good he sat down. I can talk to him a bit, calm down, and then figure out what to do with the phone, which has now warmed to my body temperature where it’s pressed between my sweater and inner upper arm.

He leans back against the sofa. For the first time he looks more like a guy instead of a rock star. “What do you think they’re going to do now that their plan got wrecked?”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I’ve been so obsessed with the phone I haven’t even thought about anything else.

“It was Ariel and Mr. Barett they were taking out of the room,” he says. “So it must have been Mr. Barett’s money they were after. Now that they’re dead, the guys in charge have to be scrambling to figure out how to get a paycheck for all their work. They really screwed up and they’re going to have to fix it somehow.”

He’s right. I look at Hudson, who is frowning again, all broody. This time I have a better idea why.

“You think they’ll go after you?” I ask.

He shrugs, not looking at me. “They might,” he says. “They did kill my bodyguard. But I’m guessing there are people here whose parents are a lot richer than me. They could go after one of them too.”

This conversation has done nothing to calm me down, in fact it’s made everything worse. The one thing even more dangerous than being in a hostage situation has to be being in a hostage situation that’s gone wrong. I look out the window and in the lavender hue of twilight I can see figures posted around the yard, each with a gun. What are they going to do when they realize Ariel isn’t dead? I move my arm to press it against my stomach, to soothe it, but then the phone slides against my skin and suddenly I am wondering what they would do if they knew I had it. I look away from the window but panic is squeezing my lungs in an iron grip.

“Are you okay?” Hudson asks. “You’re really pale. Do you want water or something?”

His concern, how genuine it is, makes me spill it. “I did something really stupid,” I blurt out.

He looks surprised. “What, tonight?”

I need to keep my mouth shut and figure out what to do on my own but the panic is threatening to suffocate me and I can’t keep it in. “I took a cell phone,” I whisper.

“What?” Hudson’s eyes darken.

“It gets worse,” I say. “It’s Mr. Barett’s phone. It was on the floor and I picked it up a couple of minutes ago, after they collected the cell phones.”

“So you have it on you now?” Hudson is looking at me like I just revealed I have a bomb strapped on under my sweater. Which is kind of what it’s starting to feel like.

“I don’t know what—” I begin, but I am cut off as The Assassin storms into the room. He raises his gun and fires a shot at the ceiling. A few people scream.

“Everyone over here!” The Assassin shouts, gesturing to the folding chairs.

They found out about the phone. They are going to start shooting people until they find it. Unless Hudson just stands up right now and tells them I have it. Terror feels like an animal clawing to get out of my belly.

And then I feel Hudson grab my hand. “Let’s go,” he says quietly.

I’m not sure my legs will hold me up but they do. The phone feels like it’s burning into my arm and I turn it so that the rectangular outline isn’t visible. Then we walk over and sit.

The Assassin waits until everyone is sitting, then he points the gun straight at us. “You’ve kept a secret from me,” he says. “And I really do not like secrets.”

I stumble backwards, whacking my head against the edge of the fireplace which hurts so much I practically see stars.

“Are you okay?” the agent asks, actually sounding concerned, which is so absurd I laugh.

This scares him—he probably thinks hitting my head made me temporarily insane.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he asks, waving toward my king-sized canopy bed that looks like something out of a princess castle and totally not part of any story where people are taken hostage. When he says it he steps out of the shadow and I realize I know him. He’s one of the gardeners, Milo or something. He’s from some country in Central America, like the other gardeners, and he’s a year or two older than me. He’s not much to look at: short and muscular with thick dark hair and blunt features. He’s the kind of guy you’d walk by on the street and barely even notice. I can’t believe he’d backstab us like this and if he wasn’t in a position to have me killed I think I’d smack him.

“I don’t need your invitation to sit in my own room,” I tell him. I chose every piece of furniture, the pale blue carpet, the cornflower silk bedspread and curtains, and the books piled on three different oak bookcases. He and his friends may have taken over the house but this space is still mine.

The guy laughs. “Only you would say that under such circumstances.” He sounds almost admiring, with his soft accent and careful way of speaking English.

“What do you know about me?” I ask coldly.

“I work here,” he says uncertainly.

“Right, before you were involved in the plot to take my birthday party hostage you were employed here,” I say bitingly. “I know.”

“It’s not… ” he says, faltering. “It’s complicated.”

I snort angrily. “They offered you more money than we did. It doesn’t seem particularly complicated.”

His eyes flash. “No, that’s not it at all,” he says, and I’m surprised by how angry he sounds. “I’m not without honor.”

I roll my eyes. Who says stuff like that? “Real honorable to be part of killing an unarmed man.”

It suddenly occurs to me that I should probably shut up. As far as I know the people in charge haven’t realized that I’m not dead yet and Milo, or whatever his name is, is in a great position to earn some points with them by turning me in. This is my problem; whenever I’m angry, which is a lot, I say whatever I feel like saying instead of thinking through actual consequences.

But Milo shakes his head, his eyes suddenly going soft. “It was a terrible accident,” he says, real sorrow in his voice. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Hard to swallow that when you’re part of the whole thing,” I tell him.

I walk over to my desk and lean against it. This desk used to belong to my grandmother—it’s an old-fashioned roll top with all these compartments and little drawers and I love it.

“It wasn’t my choice,” he says, his eyes pleading with me to believe him. “I would never be part of something like this if I weren’t being forced. And I’m not going to hurt anyone, no matter what.”

“Whatever,” I say.

“I would never hurt you or anyone else in this house,” he repeats.

“Tell that to my dad and Bianca,” I say, the words biting into me. I look away for a moment and when I look back he is staring at me, his eyes shining with sympathy I don’t want.

“Truly, I am sorry,” he says, in his formal way.

His gaze is practically melty. I sigh irritably. Of course. He has a crush on me. I’m guessing he’s had it for a while, totally not bothered that it’s a complete cliché to be into your rich boss’s blond daughter. I should be thankful though. His pathetic crush on the person he imagines me to be is probably what’s going to keep him from turning me in.

“How did you get here?” he asks, looking at the fireplace behind me.

I so don’t want him to find out about the tunnels but a moment later he’s looking in. “Wow,” he says when he backs out. “Do these go all over the house?”

“Just between a couple of rooms,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But it saved your life.”

“Yeah, that part is cool,” I admit.

“I won’t tell anyone about it,” he says, so earnestly I have to look away.

I don’t know if I believe him but it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it either way.

“So who’s the mastermind behind this takeover?” I ask, deciding to see if he can be useful to me.

He laughs, a surprisingly jolly sound. “I am a grunt, not someone trusted with information. I don’t even know what happens past this shift.”

“What’s your shift?” I ask. Anything he can tell me could turn out to be useful.

“We all monitor different segments of the house,” he says. “I’m to be covering the upstairs study, your room, the bathroom, and hallway, being on the lookout for anything unusual.”

“So what are you doing hanging out in my bedroom?” I ask, arching a brow.

His tan cheeks begin to turn a dusty rose, which amuses me. “I was thinking about you,” he admits. “You always seemed so sad and to die alone like that just seemed wrong.”

My head snaps back as though his words were a slap across my face. How dare he make assumptions about my life. Especially assumptions that are spot on.

“I was hardly alone,” I sniff. “I was with my best friends.” And my father but I’m not going to say his name again.

Milo shakes his head. “Those people are not your friends,” he says, all serious and wise and incredibly annoying.

“What do you know about it?”

His cheeks begin to turn pink again. “Nothing, I’m sorry.”

He’s like the kind of guy who would write love poems and cultivate roses, not take part in a hostage situation. Actually he does cultivate beautiful roses, though I bet any poems he writes are drowning in clichés. In any case, I am done with this conversation.

“Can you give me some privacy?” I ask.

Milo runs a hand through his thick black hair. “Yes, but you should not stay here long,” he says. “Once they find out you are alive they will hunt you.”

That word makes a shiver travel across my skin. “I’ll be careful.”

“I am here if you need me.” With one final, soulful glance, he is gone.

I let out a sigh and collapse on my bed, the goose down of my comforter cuddling me. I know I need to think about Abby and my uncle and what to do next but for one second I close my eyes and just breathe.

Then suddenly, from downstairs, I hear shots.

The room is dead silent as The Assassin pauses. The bright light hurts my eyes, or maybe it’s the lingering smell of gunpowder, smoky with a hint of salt. Or maybe it’s the phone, which feels like it is going to sear my skin off.

“We have learned that Ariel is not the girl who was killed,” The Assassin says, his voice iced fury. “Something that you knew but chose not to tell us. And now she is somewhere in this house and we must find her, which is your opportunity to make up for your mistake. Who here can help us with that?”

I am suddenly able to breathe for the first time since The Assassin came in. He’s not after the phone! At least not yet. But then his words fully sink in and my belly feels heavy, like it’s full of stones. I know where Ariel is, at least I think I do, but how can I say anything? To do so would be as bad as picking up a gun and killing her myself. I hate her but obviously not in a murder kind of way.

The Assassin walks toward the first row of chairs and pauses at Mike Schmidt, a soccer star who’s probably the biggest guy in the room after Hudson. Mike has blond hair that he wears long, European style, and it’s usually artfully arranged, even when he’s tearing down the field. But now it’s falling in his face, which is red, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal.

The Assassin reaches out and grabs Mike so fast I gasp.

“Where is she?” The Assassin demands. His face is close to Mike’s, the gun pressed against Mike’s chest.

“I don’t know,” Mike squeaks, a sound I’ve never heard him make.

I am nauseous.

“Are you sure?” The Assassin shoves him and he stumbles. The Assassin raises the gun and releases the safety, cocking it like he is about to shoot Mike.

People gasp, a few girls cover their faces. I think my heart has officially stopped beating.

“I don’t know anything, I swear,” Mike says, tears making his voice ragged.

The Assassin reaches for him again, this time shoving him back toward the seats. Mike falls wordlessly into a chair and puts his face in his hands. I exhale loudly, my chest light again. Hudson squeezes my hand and I can’t believe how reassuring the tiny gesture is.

The Assassin watches Mike for a moment, then whips around and presses the gun to Cassidy’s head. “What about you? What can you tell us about your missing friend?”

“Nothing,” Cassidy says.

She is extremely polite and her eyes are downcast, but she’s not terrified in the way Mike was, or the way I’d be if that gun was pointed at me. Cassidy is made of tougher stock than the rest of us. Her father is a senator who weathered not one but two political scandals that crucified the entire family in the national press. I guess if you can get through that when you’re ten and twelve, a few armed agents aren’t going to scare you.

“I mean, it’s Ariel’s house so she probably knows hiding places we don’t,” she adds.

“But you’ve been here before, no?” he asks, gun aimed at her temple.

“Yes, I think most of us have,” Cassidy says. “But we just hang out and watch movies or go swimming. I don’t know anywhere she’d hide. If I did I would tell you.”