Page 46 of The Death Row Club
Greer’s arms tighten around me. “Zach’s dead.”
“Dead,” Imogen says. “What do you mean, dead?” She turns toward Connor. “What does she mean, dead?”
“In the water. He must’ve drowned early this morning.”
Drowned? What’s she talking about? He didn’t drown. She didn’t see him; she didn’t see how mangled he was. Someone did that to him.
Imogen shakes her head, backing away from the water. “That can’t be right. He was there, last night, at the bonfire. He can’t be—” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Dead.”
Connor unties a canoe from the side of the dock, its paddles wedged under the seat. “Greer,” he says.
Whoever killed him must’ve used a knife. How else to explain all those lacerations? What kind of knife? I wonder. A small one, like the ones we kept under lock and key at the hardware store? Or a larger one that you’d purchase from a specialty dealer? My father kept both types in our house. I’ve handled them, know their weight in the palm of my hand—
My head’s tilted up by gentle fingers until I’m looking straight into Greer’s eyes. “Nic,” she says. “Nic, we’re going to bring him back. Will you be all right here? Just for a few minutes?”
I inhale, breath shuddering in my throat, before nodding my head.
The hull wobbles as the two of them step into the canoe, then they slowly start rowing toward the spot where we’d been swimming.
“I’ll go…” Imogen shakes her head, having momentarily lost her train of thought, then starts again. “I’ll get the others. They should know.”
I stare at my bare thighs, at the way my muscles are juddering just beneath the skin. My whole body is shaking. Shock. I’m going into shock. What I wouldn’t give for my phone right now. I’d call my father, for the first time in months, just to reassure myself that he’s still locked up thousands of miles away.
Connor breaks the surface, and I can tell he’s hauling something through the water with him. He grabs ahold of the canoe, catching his breath, and then he and Greer start pushing and pulling the body over the side. It tumbles in, and she looks like she might retch. Nothing can ever prepare you for seeing one of your friends dead.
Paddles skim the water as the two of them drift back toward the dock. One of Zach’s hands didn’t make it all the way in; his lifeless fingers drag across the surface.
It’s only then that I remember: He wasn’t alone when he left the lodge.
Where did Steffani go?
19STEFFANI
I wake up slowly.
At first, I think I’m still in the car, drifting down the highway, but whatever’s pressed against my cheek doesn’t feel like upholstery. Splinters snag on my T-shirt as I roll onto my back; my nose itches with the dry, mealy smell of sawdust. I squint my eyes open, letting them adjust to the brightness.
Fuck.
Above me are the bare rafters of a shack; beside me, bare walls; beneath me, a bare plank floor. I push myself onto my elbows, which is harder than expected because of the angry throbbing in my temples, and use the wall as a crutch to get my feet under me. It’s only then that I realize my soles are bare. Why would someone want my ten-dollar Kmart sneakers? Not because they couldn’t afford a pair of their own, that’s for sure, but more likely, because they wanted to make it harder for me to run.
Fuck, fuck,fuck.
Don’t panic, Steff. You can’t know anything yet—not for sure. I stagger to the door and, already expecting the worst, try to push it open. It doesn’t budge. Taking a few steps back, I charge forward and, with a guttural cry, throw all my weight against it. A chain rattles on the other side. He’s locked me in. “Fucking bastard!” I scream as loud as I can, rammingmy shoulder against the wood, again and again, until it feels like it’s been pummeled with a tenderizer.
The padlock holds.
I flatten my ear against the door and listen. No traffic sounds. I shift so my eye socket is wedged against the crack. Evergreens—lots of them. Wherever I’m being kept, it’s far out in the wilderness. Where’s he taken me? California? Washington? Maine? I have no idea how long I was passed out. The only thing I know for sure is who’s trapped me here.
My dad.
He must’ve found someone—the gas station attendant, the long-haul trucker—who recognized my photo and pointed him in the right direction. Stupid. I should’ve spent some of that refunded rent money on a box of dye when I first hit the road. Bleached my hair in a bathroom sink, maybe even chopped it off with scissors borrowed from a cashier.
I should’ve told the man that we were being followed, as soon as we left the McDonald’s. But if I had, he probably would’ve pulled over and ditched me on the side of the road. No one needs that kind of trouble in their life. If there’s one thing my revolving door of foster families taught me, it’s that if you want help—a free bed or a free ride—you need to make it easy for people to give it to you.
I wonder what happened to that man. If I’m here, imprisoned in a shack, there’s a good chance he’s somewhere even worse. I rest my forehead against the door. The room keeps spinning, and my skull keeps vibrating like a snare drum working overtime during an arena rock song. Did my dad drug me? How did he manage that?
The door’s not going to open, which means I’ll need to find another way out. I start probing the walls for loose boards. It’s not until my third go-round that I notice a nail half sticking out. I drop to my knees, start wiggling it back and forth. “Come on,” I mutter. “Come on.” Finally, it slides free. I appraise the sharp end, which isn’t anywhere near as sharp as I’d like it to be. Still, it’ll do the job.
