I try to calculate, measure the distance that’s left. But there’s an echo in my head still, Tress’s words not letting go of me.
Cheaters gonna cheat. . . .
Cheaters gonna cheat and I know how it feels to drown. These thoughts hold hands in my head, forming a chain leading back into the dark parts of my mind, the ones I threw shadows over, in order to forget.
But that’s inside of me, and I need to concentrate on what’s outside right now. The wall in front of me is past my thighs; the layer Tress is adding will bring it halfway up my body. There’s still space between it and the ceiling, but the gap is closing. We’re over halfway there. I exhale, the sharp smell of my own breath filtering up to my nose. What the fuck am I going to do?
My mom is an eternal optimist, always looking for the bright side of things, even if they do tend to verge on being incredibly shallow. When life hands you lemons, put them in your hair for highlights is one of her favorite sayings. Global warming means better tans. The flu that laid her low at the beginning of the week was doing her a favor by trimming off at least five pounds. Her immediate reaction to the doctor diagnosing my seizures had been to proclaim, “Well, at least it’s not something with your face.”
What would she have to say about this? I wonder.
You’re going to die, but Tress Montor will still be a brunette.
I laugh a little, but it quickly descends into a sob, thinking of my mom. She’s not going to be okay, if this ends the way I think it’s going to.
“Something funny?” Tress asks. She puts the pail down, and rests on the chair, her skin sallow and sagging after the effort that went into adding the layer of bricks.
The truth is that nothing is funny, not a damn thing. I’ve been slipping in and out of consciousness, my mind hopping from the night her parents disappeared to this musty, dank hole I’m going to die in. I don’t want to be in either place, and what I’ve remembered is not going to make Tress any happier. I’m chained to a wall, facing down a girl who wants to entomb me. And I have to tell her something that’s going to kill her.
Then she’ll kill me.
I guess that’s fair.
“No,” I say. “Nothing’s funny.” Upstairs, a roar of laughter contradicts me.
“Tress . . . ,” I say, my words dry in my throat. “I need to tell you something.”
She hears the weight in my words, looks up. “Yeah?”
“Your dad was cheating on your mom.”
Her eyes, still blank, stare at me, and I think maybe I didn’t say it. Maybe I’ve spent so much time not saying the important things that when I finally tried, the words didn’t actually come out. Then she’s up, one bare foot sliding in the pool of her own blood as she comes at me, pointing the trowel in my face.
“That’s a fucking lie! You’re a fucking liar!” she screams, voice cracking.
I shake my head. “No. No, Tress, I’m not.”
I don’t have the energy to be scared, or upset, or angry in return. I don’t have anything left, and it must show, because she backs off, the outrage in her eyes dying a little as she considers the possibility.
Tress might not have had her parents her whole life, but she also didn’t have what I do—the experience of watching a marriage fall apart. She didn’t get to see the big fights, the small digs, the knowing glances, the laden words said in conversational tones. Maybe the Montors were careful not to let her see, or maybe she never knew, and she’s held on tight to just the good things, canonizing them in her memory.
Well . . . the Montors weren’t saints. I can say that, for sure.
Wait . . . I can?
I pause, digging deep, wondering where that came from. “Tress . . . I think—”
“Shut up!” She whirls, throwing the trowel at me. “Shut the fuck up!”
I can’t dodge it; can hardly move my head or keep my legs under me. Luckily, Tress is way too emotional to have good aim. The trowel bounces off the wall a foot from my head, ricocheting back at her to hit the lone light bulb. There’s a flash of light, a pop, a yelp from Tress.
And then . . . it’s utterly black.
Chapter 70
Tress
There’s a blue halo in my vision, a burn on my eyes from looking at the bulb when it blew. I can’t see anything, but I’m down on my hands and knees, feeling for my phone. I had it in my pocket, but it fell out, clattering to the floor when I jumped as the light exploded.
Shit, shit, shit.
My hand slides through my blood, already growing tacky in the coolness of the basement. I bump against the chair, and it screeches across the stone floor, unnaturally loud in the silence. Utter silence.
“Felicity?” I ask.
She doesn’t say anything, and I’m scrambling now. I need that phone. Need the light. Need to . . . Shit, what do I even need to do? Fix everything? Go back in time and undo it all? My fingers brush against the phone and I grab it, relieved when it lights up, despite the crack across the screen. The streaming feed comes on, the viewer number still healthy.
“Can’t get enough, can you?” I ask.
And from the darkness, comes my mother’s voice, echoing me.
“Can’t get enough, can you?”
Chapter 71
Felicity
Fifth Grade / The Night Of
“Can’t get enough, can you?” Annabelle says, her mouth tight as she flips Lee’s phone shut, putting it back in the cup holder.
“Do we have to do this right now?”
Lee turns in the driver’s seat. I know he’s looking back at me, can feel the weight of his gaze. But I’ve got my eyes squeezed tight, have made my body very small. It’s what I do at home—pretend I’m not there.
“No—do you have to do this right now?” Annabelle says, her voice low and growling. “When your daughter has a friend over?”
“Jesus . . .”
I crack an eyelid. Lee’s hands are tight on the steering wheel. His jaw muscles flicker.
“Just, seriously get a grip. You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m the ridiculous one?” Annabelle asks. She fights like Mom; repeating what Dad said but making it sound stupid.
“Annabelle—”
“Yes.” She cuts him off. “That’s my name. That’s who I am. Annabelle Montor. Your. Wife.”
I don’t know if she’s not bothering to control her volume, or if my seizure is close. Her voice breaks higher, to a level I can’t pretend to ignore. I jam my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes tighter. Pinwheels of color explode across black.
“First you were Annabelle Usher,” Lee says. His words are quiet, and dark. Heavy pebbles that I can tell have been thrown before. I feel her rage, radiating to fill the car.
“And I’m supposed to be endlessly grateful?” she asks. “You lifted me up, and I’m supposed to look the other way now?”
“No, that’s not—Shit, I missed her road. You made me miss the turn.”
“Of course, you made a mistake . . . but it’s my fault.”
“Can you just shut up for one goddamn second?” Lee yells for the first time, his patience exhausted.