Page 9 of The Death Row Club
I clickYES.
My phone buzzes.
Thank you for registering. Flight details will be sent to your email within the hour.
Another buzz.
Please note: All electronic devices will be confiscated upon your arrival and stored in a safe location.
I close the window on my laptop and head upstairs. My duffel bag waits in my closet, an old luggage tag from JetBlue still looped through the handle. I toss everything I could need for a weekend getaway inside. When I’m finished, another red notification circle hovers above my email icon. Waiting in my inbox is a round-trip ticket to Seattle, Washington, departing tomorrow morning. That’s when I realize I have a much bigger problem than my reunion with Greer Woods.
I need to get past the news vans surrounding my house.
Tonight of all nights, they’ll be desperate for a glimpse of me. How is Nicola Fischer handling the season finale? Is she on the brink of a nervous breakdown? Has the ambulance arrived to cart her away? (God, they’d love that.) If I leave through the front door, they’ll follow me straight to the airport. I need to find a way to disappear without them noticing.
I grind the heels of my hands against my eyes until they’re puffy and inflamed, then grab a canister of Vicks VapoRub, stamp my thumb into the waxy ointment, and smear it across my cheeks. Wait for the menthol to pry my tear ducts open. Holding my camera up, I press the livestream button on social media. “Hey, everyone.” Even though I haven’t been active since the arrest, the viewer count immediatelystarts ticking up. “Watching tonight’s season finale was really hard.” I sniff back the mucus building in my nostrils. “You’re getting one version of the story from the show’s producers, but there’s another version, mine, and it’s a lot different from whatever you think you know. I don’t know if you can see this—” I cross to my bedroom window and drag the curtain aside, aiming my phone down at the news vans that flash their cameras in response. “There are a lot of reporters outside right now. I’m going to fix myself up, then tell them the truth about what happened with my father.”
I end the recording, wash off my face, then throw on a gray hoodie topped off with a black leather jacket—something that says freelance photographer. An old camera waits, half-forgotten, at the back of my closet. I’ll need to bin it at the airport, since it’s too bulky to fit in my luggage, but it should do the trick. Hefting my packed duffel onto my shoulder, I exit through the back door. My heart’s pounding in my chest as I creep toward the front of the house. This is it. If I’m going to get caught, it’ll be now. I yank up my hood and hold my breath.
As I round the corner, I raise the camera and start snapping at the living room windows. Then I hunch down and scramble for the cavalcade of news vans. “Hey!” one of the reporters shouts, and for a terrifying moment, I think I’ve been made. But he just points at my camera. “Get anything good?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. All the curtains are pulled shut.”
“You know we’re not supposed to be back there, right? The cops already ticketed someone for trespassing. He was trying to jump the fence into the backyard. Not like the cops care about what happens to the Fischers, but with all these cameras around, they at least need to pretend.” He checks his phone. “Did you watch the livestream?”
“No, what happened?”
“She’s coming out here. Finally.” All around us, crews are readying their equipment; reporters, touching up their makeup in rearviewmirrors. “She better give us something good. Swear to god, if I have to spend one more night in this backward-ass town, I will—”
“Daniel!” One of his colleagues beckons him over; as soon as his back is turned, I seize my chance. I pretend to fiddle with my camera and work my way back through the crowd. Everyone’s so fixated on the front door, they don’t notice when I start meandering down the street, then slip away into the night.
4STEFFANI
The cigarette’s still burning on the table.
A thin wisp of smoke billows up, like creamer dribbled into a cup of coffee. The toilet flushes, and my new roommate—Gina, Gigi, Gee-something—steps out of the bathroom. She’s silent, staring at her still-damp hands, and, for a moment, I wonder if we’ll pretend nothing happened.
“Did you let him into the apartment?”
So much for that misguided hope. I shake my head.
“So, he broke in?”
“Yeah.”
“He the one who did that to you?”
She points to where my T-shirt’s slipped off my shoulder; I tug the fabric back up. I don’t answer, because what’s the point? We both know where this conversation’s headed. Or maybe she doesn’t, but I’ve pinballed around enough foster homes to know what comes next.
“How’d he get in here?”
“He’s really good at picking locks.”
“Jesus.” She rubs her palm across her forehead. “I can’t have someone breaking into my apartment.”
Myapartment. Notourapartment.
“Do you wanna call the police?” she asks, then course-corrects. “We should call the police. That man should be locked up.”
