I take that as him moving on now that he and Kimberly are done. Time for me to zone out again. Another hour and I’ll have fulfilled my obligation.
Chapter Three
I meetSpence at the gym. He and Dad have known each other forever, and he’s been training Rhys and me on and off for the past ten years in mixed martial arts. At first, I didn’t get why our parents were so adamant for us to learn self-defense. I had gymnastics and didn’t want to do anything else. But it only took a few sessions for me to fall in love with it—like, I-want-to-do-this-every-day in love. When we moved to North Carolina, I missed it so much that Spence would come down once a month to train us. Since we’re in gymnastics season, I only have time for one session a week until March, and I make sure I don’t waste a single second of it. Spence pushes me for the whole two hours, without a break, and I’m drenched from head to toe when he announces we’re done.
He chuckles. "You look like you took a dip in the pool. You did great today!"
He’s right; my hair is plastered against my scalp like I just stepped out of a shower. Despite being completely exhausted, I feel exhilarated, adrenaline from our last round still rushing through my body.
His praise makes me grin from ear to ear. "I have a decent trainer."
Spence winks, giving me a quick side hug. "I’ll see you next week, kiddo."
I grab my things and wave goodbye on my way to the locker room.
Walking to my car,I see Wes’s red 4Runner in the parking lot, and sure enough, two spots down is Rhys’s black Defender. What are they doing here? They usually work out at the school’s gym on Saturdays—something else Rhys started doing after he moved his sessions to Sundays.
Dad has had the Defender longer than we’ve been alive, and to everyone’s surprise, he gave it to Rhys for his eighteenth birthday this year. Not that I was jealous—well, maybe a little bit. I love my white, four-door Wrangler, and despite thesituationbetween Rhys and me, I was happy for him. He’s been in love with that car since he could see over the steering wheel, and he spent hours sitting in it, pretending to drive. It matches his personality; they both dominate their surroundings wherever they go—or drive. I sigh in relief as I get into my Jeep, glad I didn’t run into either of them.
Determined to work on my paper and find out more about this case, I make my way home.
By Sunday afternoon,my eyes are burning from staring at the computer screen. I have no idea where my glasses are since I rarely use them. Note to self: find glasses or get new ones. My eyes are killing me. I’ve cataloged each article by victim and am making good headway on my paper. Every reporter has his or her theory, and it’s making the assignment almost laughably easy. What keeps me glued to the screen, however, is the tightness in my chest. I don’t understand where it comes from, and even though it makes me shift in my chair every few minutes, I keep reading and researching. The facts are almost the same for all the girls. They are taken during a brief moment of distraction on the caregiver’s side. The families receive some sort of footage of the girls every day, showing they are well, but the authorities are unable to trace the footage back to its source. Then, the girls turn up in a different part of the state; all have been given something to keep calm, but they are well cared for. What is even more disturbing is that, despite being held against their will, all the girls say the man had only been kind to them. The websites talk about five victims; however, I can’t find any decent information about the first. My paper is done, but I have an overwhelming urge to keep looking. Ihaveto find out more.
I spendmost of the week at home, doing one of two things: lounging on my bed with my favorite books or doing more research on the case. I get to see Denielle for a few hours on Tuesday. Shegracesme with her presence after Charlie got called home so his mom also gets to see him during break. She catches me up on Charlie’s college life, how busy his classes keep him, and we watch several episodes of our favorite TV show. I don’t mention the case to her. Something keeps me from sharing it with my best friend.
The day before Thanksgiving, I stumble across a video this Lancaster guy recorded after the fourth victim. It’s only available on his personal website; I’m not sure it was ever officially broadcasted by a news outlet. He recaps the kidnappings, and what he says next makes my blood run cold.
"After Ava Conway and Meredith Scagliotta, Chloe Lynn is the fourth victim of the unknown perpetrator. After extensive research, I have concluded that these three girls were used as placeholders by the offender for the first victim. The unknown six-year-old girl was recovered at a hospital in Northern California after she was dropped off anonymously at the emergency room with a potential drug overdose and was unconscious for several days. The hospital staff was unable to identify the girl, as no missing person reports were found matching the description. After the girl’s recovery, she was removed from the hospital without leaving a trace. The name of the girl was never released, nor was the hospital staff able to give us any further information. I believe the overdose was not intentional by the kidnapper and was the reason she was brought to the emergency room. He seems to have revised his method since, as the other girls were monitored very carefully and have shown no signs of extensive sedation."
I pause the video and let the information sink in. Placeholders? But why? That doesn’t make any sense. I peer over at my six-year-old self in the photo and, without warning, feel like someone is shoving shards of glass in my eyes.
Accompanying the stabbing pain, I see a white bed canopy hovering above me.
Why am I on my back?
By the time the agony subsides, I am bent forward in my desk chair. My head is almost between my knees, and I’m clutching it with both hands. Something is definitely wrong here—with me.
Thanksgiving comes and goes,and we all watch football most of the day. Dad and Rhys are in deep discussion about the games—Rhys actually bothered coming home. Mom and Natty are playing Monopoly, and my little, ten-year-old sister is draining Mom’s money fast with all her hotels. I try to pretend to be interested in all of it when, in truth, I want to hide in my room and figure out what’s happening to me.
By the timeI am back at school on Monday, I have had two moremigraines, as I call them now. The thought of calling them memories scares the crap out of me. I mean, I don’t actually remember any of it. And visions? I’d rather think that I’m going plain old crazy.
The first happened when I walked out of the bathroom Friday evening. I was on my way to the closet to drop my gym clothes in the hamper when, mid-step, my head exploded. That time, I saw a white bergère chair with pale-green cushions and a well-loved stuffed bunny sitting in one corner.
The second one blindsided me in the kitchen on Sunday when Rhys walked in from the garage and stopped in the doorway. He was dressed in black sweats and a matching hoodie that emphasized his broad build. With his chocolate-brown hair recently buzzed short for wrestling season and his permanent scowl, he could scare the shit out of anyone who didn’t know him.
We rarely run into each other because we internalized the other’s routine a long time ago and do everything possible to avoid a confrontation. But I was downstairs later than usual to make myself a cup of herbal tea with the hope it’d help me sleep.
Seeing him standing there, I experienced the most disturbing migraine yet: the silhouette of a man standing in a doorway, staring back at me. Because of the light coming from outside, all I could make out was that it was a man, but no face. My heart was beating in my throat.
As my vision cleared and the invisible glass shards disappeared from my eye sockets, I saw Rhys was right in front of me. His hands lifted up as if he were going to touch me, but then he stopped himself. His head cocked to the side, and he looked...concerned? Something I hadn’t seen directed at me in a long time.
"Are you okay?" He even sounded worried.
Interesting.
I shook my head, taking a step back. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just a headache."
Before he could call me out on the lie, I sidestepped him and made my way to the sink to fill up the kettle. He was too close, and I needed to put distance between us. When I turned back around, Rhys was standing in the same spot, shoulders slumped, and I almost felt guilty for brushing him off. Almost.