Page 28

28

SHELBY

When I wake up, I’m on a bed. I’m not restrained, I’m just locked in a room. I instinctively leap up and rush to the window, and my heart drops when I see it’s boarded up. The whole house is in the middle of fixing up, and it’s a construction zone. I turn and start to scan the room for another way out, and that’s when I see it. Photos of myself, candles, small items that I didn’t know were missing. Oh my God. What is this? I still don’t know where I am until I hear the door click open.

A figure slips into the room and I don’t know what I was expecting but it takes me a moment to register that it really is Evan. I’m not delusional. This is happening and it’s Evan. Evan fucking Carmichael is standing in front of me. How is that possible?

At first I think, my God, Florence is somewhere here, and now Evan has been taken hostage too, and I think we must all be in some nightmare—some serial killer kidnapped all of us, and I see he has a wound on his thigh. Blood seeps through the bandages wrapped around it, and I think they’ve hurt him. And then I know. I remember when he smiles the most unsettling smile I have ever seen.

“Hello, Shelby. You’re up.” I stare back, still trying to absorb that I’m really looking at Evan—of all people on earth—but I can’t make sense of it. My head spins trying to piece it all together. He puts a small gun on the dresser and pulls up an ottoman and sits. He gestures at the bed for me to sit and, in a stunned silence, I slowly obey.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says.

“I don’t understand. What is all this? What do you want with me?” But of course, seeing myself in every image hanging from the walls tells me exactly what he wants from me.

“Do you remember that night you went out with me right before senior year? It was hot. We went to Dairy Queen and sat in the back of my pickup looking at the stars.” He smiles and grunts as he shifts his injured leg, repositioning himself.

“Of…course,” I stutter, paralyzed with fear and so incredibly confused.

“Best night of my life. The crickets chirped, we had Dixie cups of peach Boone’s Farm wine. It was like a country song, wasn’t it?”

“It was a great night,” I quickly agree, not knowing where he’s going but trying to keep him calm.

“Not great . I mean, you left me for Clay two weeks later,” he says, a shadow falling across his face. “And you couldn’t even stay true to him. On again, off again. Even got engaged to someone else at one point. Beer belly Riley. Slut.”

And I try to understand what exactly he’s doing. I have known him since we were little and I thought he was a nice boy. And when he asked me out it was exciting, but I do remember that night and it felt like he was my kid brother, so even though I remember liking him in a weird school crush way so long ago, it just seemed off. He’s bringing all this up now ? He’s been obsessed with me this all this time? I realize, suddenly, all of this has been him. Jesus Christ. Him. Him stealing my phone, putting the cameras in Clay’s truck, the familiarity I felt—like I knew who it was behind the counter that night last October when it all started. All the attacks. This can’t be happening. How could I not have seen any clues? My eyes dart around looking for an escape, even though I know there isn’t one. I am not getting out of here. His phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and looks at it.

“Oh, your buddy Mack is calling me. I guess she’s looking for you,” he says with the confidence of someone who isn’t even worried at all that she’ll find me.

“You’re upset I ended up with Clay. That can’t be what this is about,” I say, but maybe it is. Maybe he’s so deranged… I stop in the middle of my own thought. Of course he’s that deranged. Look around, Shelby! He’s lost his mind. He could do anything to me.

“This is your fault,” he says and I just blink at him, still in such shock I can’t formulate the best way to respond to keep him happy, to buy time.

“I mean, you didn’t even check my records—see how long I was locked in a psych ward—that I was let go from the force for…what did they call it? Violent outbursts. That I’m unemployable and potentially a danger to others… I think those were the words. I’ve been behaving for a long time now, though. I mean, there are records you could have accessed, but you didn’t even ask . You were supposed to protect the residents, and you just…let me in,” he says with a grin, and I feel sick. I feel like I could actually vomit. He’s right. I was supposed to protect them. But I thought I knew him. I feel shame mixing with terror, and I don’t know what to do. I look at the gun, and back to him.

“Nice little weapon, eh? You recognize it?” he asks, and I look again. I hate guns. Clay has a collection and he’s gifted me a couple for protection over the years, but they all look the same to me so I don’t know what he’s asking, what answer he wants.

“Well, never mind, and don’t you worry. The cops can’t access any of that information without a warrant, and I’ve made sure there is no reason for them to ever suspect me enough to order anything like that. When I bury you, they won’t find you, or ask me any questions. Can I get you a drink? Vodka? I got it special for you because I notice you getting martinis at happy hours with your girlfriends sometimes,” he says, and I feel the panic pushing in. I can’t have a panic attack. I cannot let myself. I make myself continue to talk—to keep him talking. Maybe someone will find me if I buy enough time. It’s my only hope.

“Why…if you were…” I don’t know the right words, so I say something stupid. “If you were so fond of me, why do you want to hurt me?” I say, shaking so bad I push my hands under my thighs so he doesn’t see.

He stands, painfully, and goes to the dresser where a little minibar is set up next to a collection of fuzzy handcuffs and condoms. He pours two glasses and hands one to me. I shake my head because I know I couldn’t even hold it in my trembling hand if I tried. He shrugs and pours the contents of my drink into his glass.

“Fond of you. That’s funny. Cute. I loved you. And you rejected me and destroyed my fucking life. You and Leo and Otis. You had these happy lives, and you just pushed me out of it all. We could have been together,” he spits.

“I didn’t know,” I say, because what else can I say?

“You’re a liar. But the whole town knows that now, don’t they? Fun to watch everyone turn on you. Little taste of your own medicine. Anyway, I tried to move on with my life for a long time and then I saw you at my father’s funeral and I knew…it wasn’t over,” he says, and it’s becoming clear. Like any rapist or abuser who kills their wife or girlfriend, the line between love and just wanting power and control are indistinguishable to them in their fucked-up mind. I’m dead. I’m not getting out of here.

I can’t control the hiccuped sobs that begin to rise in my chest. I try to breathe, but I’m starting to hyperventilate. He watches me with a gleeful look and then hands me his drink. I force myself to calm down—to not let him enjoy my pain. I sip from the drink because I don’t know how he’ll react if I don’t. Then he takes it back and sits again, crossing his arms over his chest and smiling.

“This is fun, isn’t it? I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Watching you be terrorized over these weeks has been the time of my life, but this…this is the pièce de résistance.”

“Please, Evan. Tell me what you want? I’ll…go with you somewhere. It doesn’t have to be like this. I didn’t know you felt this way, but we can—” I try so hard in this moment to appeal to anything he wants, but the whack of his hand on the dresser next to him stops me midsentence.

“No, you won’t. Maybe. Maybe you’d mean that if it weren’t for the damn kids. But that’s how I know you won’t, so don’t fuck around with me,” he says, and of course he’s right. Of course he knows every last detail of my life, because it’s been him all along, stalking me, watching me.

“The irony of it all is that you told me everything—well, you told US everything. ‘The gang,’ as you so annoyingly call them. Mack finding bank paperwork I didn’t know Leo had hidden. Of course, I had to put a stop to that. You told us she found Leo’s phone, so I had to text it and scare her off. You always told ‘the gang’ where you were going all the time, so I was always right there . It was so easy. You’re not careful at all.”

“So you were the one stealing the money through Leo’s account you accessed, not him. You were the one putting us under. But you were friends with…with the gang, I thought you…” I almost say: “cared about them.”

“Oh, fuck the gang! I was there for you!” he shouts, spit flying out the sides of his mouth, and then he stands and he starts to move toward me, and I hear something.

Is it sirens?

There are sirens coming closer. He stops cold, then rushes as much as he’s able, hobbling on one leg. He takes duct tape from the dresser top and rips off pieces, taping my mouth and hurriedly taping my wrists to the mirror post on the dresser, and then he rushes out of the bedroom. He takes a moment to stop, turn, and look me dead in the eye.

“If you move even one inch before I get back, your girls are next. Sadly, they’re going to suffer a freak accident. You know I’m capable. It will be tragic, and maybe even look like Clay’s negligence. It’ll be fun. Don’t. Fucking. Move. Or that will be my life’s mission,” he says, and I feel my body heave in fear and disgust.

Then I hear Florence! It sounds like he’s pulling her into the kitchen. I hear her scream at the sirens. “I’m here! Help!” Oh my God. Why does he have her too, if I’m his target?

After a brief minute or two, I hear Evan open the door to the police, and what sounds like medics talking, the sound of boots on hardwood and male voices shouting.

“Thank God,” Evan says to them. What? What is he doing?

“I don’t want to hurt her, but she broke into my house, screaming about trying to find Shelby, and she attacked me. She shot me,” he says, and I have a brief moment of excitement knowing that it was Florence who actually shot him, even though my mind can’t wrap around the scenario or why she’s here or how that could be.

“He broke my arm!” I hear her cry.

“I’m so sorry, Florence,” he says, putting on a sweet voice—a pathetic show for the cops. “She came in here waving a gun around. I was just trying to get it from her before she hurt someone,” he says.

“No,” she whimpers.

Shit. Then the reality hits. He’s setting her up, just like he did to me. He’s making her look like the intruder—the attacker. I bet he even placed the gun next to her, gave her her phone back—made it all look the way he needs it to. I’m starting to get into his head, see the extreme and calculated manipulation he’s capable of. They won’t trace that gun to him. I don’t know who, but not fucking him , because he really does have this all planned out. They won’t order a warrant on her accusation. She’s lumped in with me and they think we’re crazy, fame-hungry, and delusional.

I try to scream, but I can’t. If they think she intruded and shot Evan and he hurt her somehow in self-defense, they will take them into the hospital and she’ll be questioned. And so will he, but he’ll win. And they won’t see any of this . Me, this room, the broken window, any of it, because they have no reason to search. In moments they’ll all be gone and I will be trapped here, just waiting for him to be released and come back.

He’ll make his statement, get bandages and pain meds, and be back here to bury me before anyone knows where I am.

I try again as hard as I can to scream, but the tape over my mouth muffles the sound. I pull with all my might to free my hands and the dresser creaks, but it’s ancient and heavy and I can’t make it budge. I’m trapped.