It doesn’t last, of course. Blood starts to seep out of the edges immediately, so I keep rolling, faster now, enough that I can actually smell the tape starting to get warm, see tiny fibers floating through the air as I spin and spin, patching myself up with the only thing I’ve got.
I’m sweating when I finish, patting down the end with my nose. My left arm is pure tape from elbow to wrist, and I wound it too tight; I can feel my pulse in my hand. My fingers will be blue sooner rather than later. But I’m not bleeding anymore, and that was my main concern. The situation was that I was going to bleed to death; now I’m not.
“Problem solved,” I say, trying to put more confidence in my voice than I actually feel. I toss the empty tape roll in the direction of the sink but miss by a long shot. It hits the wall, leaving behind an indentation in the plaster, and falls down behind an ancient fridge.
It’ll be here forever now, after the bulldozers leave and the walls have come down. Once the bricks collapse and the studs bust and the nails fly and the concrete crumbles, that little something that I put here will be a permanent part of the Allan house ruins.
I’ve got the chance to bury everything I’ve done wrong, right along with it. Leave Felicity Turnado to die, and move on with my life like nothing ever happened, same as she did to me. But I can’t get the sound of her voice out of my head. Not when she screams fuck you, or tells me that I’m living off her charity whether I like it or not. Not when her words come out nasty because her mouth is twisted the way her mother’s always has been. No, it’s how she sounds when she says my name.
She says Tress Montor like it’s a name that still matters.
She says it like we’re still friends.
I told the cat I could do it, could kill someone. And I don’t think that’s a lie. I just don’t know if I can kill Felicity Turnado.
I set my jaw, grab a chair, and pull myself to my feet.
Chapter 53
Felicity
I’m not good at staying still, and Tress knows that. This has not always been true, and Tress knows that, as well.
I roll my head to the side, trying to find a spot on the rock behind me that doesn’t grind against my skull. That place doesn’t exist.
“Shit,” I mutter, letting my head fall forward again. It’s like a sunflower that’s grown too heavy for its stalk, and my neck screams against the weight.
I can’t move, and while I know Tress thinks the steadily growing brick wall in front of me is what’s going to make me come clean, the true power in her plan is that she’s forcing me to be still. To be quiet.
Tress Montor is forcing me to think about shit.
We camped out in our backyards a lot, lying on our sleeping bags and looking at the stars, Goldie-Dog tucked between us. We talked, pointing out shapes we saw, trying to differentiate stars from satellites, planets from planes. But mostly . . . we were still.
Still and quiet, and together.
I’m not still anymore. I haven’t been for a long time. My life is a rush and a whirl, running from one thing to the next, frantically planning the future and making sure—absolutely sure—that I will never be bored. That I will never be alone. That I will never have time to think.
Now, it’s all I’ve got.
I exhale, my breath sick and rotting in this increasingly small space. I can feel my lips, dehydrated and pocked, sticking to my teeth. I bite down, peeling off a strip of thin skin. I roll it around, get some saliva going, and spit, trying to clean my mouth.
My left foot slips in the mess at my feet, and I go down, my arm jerking hard at the wrist, scraping back skin. I cry out, my voice hoarse and lost as my throat swells, choked tight with tears.
“I can’t do this right now,” I say, like it’s a reasonable statement, like maybe we can reschedule my torture for another time. But it’s also true—I can’t do this. I’m going to lose my mind. I can’t be here.
But I don’t have to be, do I?
I went away for a little bit, earlier. Away to Tress’s yard and that night in fifth grade and an empty driveway and Annabelle Montor’s confused face and Lee coming back late, behind the wheel looking . . .
How did he look? I didn’t know then. All I could think of was getting home before I seized, the entire world shrunk down to the electrical currents in my brain and how they might undermine me at any minute.
But I’m older now, and I know some things. I know how men look when they’re caught.
“Uh-oh, Lee,” I say to myself, holding back a giggle. “What were you up to?”
I close my eyes and think of Patrick Vance. I thought I’d loved him. He went to college last year and on to better things. That had been his wording, but what he meant was, There’s a lot of pussy here and yours isn’t. I could still see his face when I surprised him, knocking on his dorm door only to have him answer it in his boxers, a brunette with sex-bump hair in his bed.
Yep. That face. Patrick’s face. Lee’s face.
The manacle pulls on my wrist, but it’s actually Annabelle’s fingers, tight, gripping, grinding my bones together because she doesn’t know where else to put her anger right now. Lee doesn’t even get the car in park before Annabelle throws open the back door, helping me inside even though I try to squirm away, try to escape the pinch of her hands. She tears open the passenger door, falls into her seat, her mouth a grim line.
“Drive,” she says.
“What’s going on?” Lee asks, voice wary, frightened.
Annabelle’s mouth moves, and I know there are words back there, words she wants to say right now, can hardly keep in. They’re going to roll out like boulders and crush her husband. She glances back, looks at me, considers her options.
“Felicity doesn’t feel good; she needs to go home,” Annabelle says. They’re tight words, harsh, bouncing off her teeth as she bites them clean, not wanting to let more out while I’m here. I shrink into the back seat, balling up my nightgown in my fists as the tension in the car elevates, along with a smell that’s almost overpowering me.
It’s like this when I’m about to seize—everything brighter, stronger, harder, faster, louder. It’s a cloying scent, heavy like flowers, maybe fruit, right on the verge of rotting. I take a deep gasp, searching for fresher air, a pocket somewhere in this car that the perfume hasn’t permeated.
Because that’s what it is. Perfume.
Annabelle Montor always smells like grass clippings and earth, woodsmoke and green things growing. Annabelle Montor does not wear perfume.
I know this. She knows this. Lee knows this.
Lee’s phone rests in the cupholder. Annabelle reaches for it as we back out of the driveway. He tenses up, every line in his body drawn with a straight edge.
In the back seat, I make myself very small.
Chapter 54
Tress
Ribbit is naked when I glance into the atrium.
I’m surprised it took this long.
The audience is getting more difficult to impress, and Hugh has begun taking the questions and suggestions that he skipped over in the comments before—the ones that he must have decided were too intense at the time. But times have changed, and the livestream is slipping. The views aren’t quite up to where they were before Gretchen charged in and broke the momentum with her announcement about something eating her dog.