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  Locked.

  I drive my teeth into my lower lip, trying to keep my expression neutral. Something must give me away, though, because Darren glances at the rearview mirror.

  “Your mother insisted on the child locks, Miss Gruen,” he explains, flashing me a sad smile. He says this like it’s normal for a woman to lock her teenage daughter inside a freaking car. I suppose Mother pays him not to ask questions.

  I press my lips together and go back to staring out the window. Dammit. With the child locks on, there are only two ways out of this car: I can either crawl out the window, or climb into the front seat and go through the passenger door.

  I tap my fingers against my knee. Getting through the door would be easier, but I’d have to get into the front seat first, and that presents a challenge. Darren would have to stop for gas or something, and he’d need to be distracted enough that he wouldn’t notice what I was doing. I glance at Darren. The slim muscles in his arms are visible, even through his work shirt, and his legs are so long that he looks cramped and uncomfortable in the front seat. He’s probably fast. He’ll catch me, even if I make it out.

  That leaves the window, which is impossible. I examine the frame. I’m sure I could wiggle my way through, but stopping at a light doesn’t give me enough time. Maybe if we were in an accident—

  I sit up straighter. An accident. Even a little fender bender would mean that Darren would have to stop the car and talk to the other driver. He’d need to exchange insurance information and wait for the police to make a report. He’d be distracted, probably distracted enough that he wouldn’t notice me climbing out the window, or crawling into the front seat. An accident would give me plenty of time to get away, and then I can hitch a ride back to Weston.

  I run my tongue over my teeth. I’ll need to distract Darren for a moment, get him to swerve or stop quickly. There are plenty of cars on the road. He’s bound to hit something.

  Ariel’s voice whispers in my head. Is this something normal girls do?

  Something painful twists inside me and, for a moment, I hesitate. Someone could get hurt. Really hurt.

  But if I don’t get out of here, people will die.

  I reach for that cold place inside me and let it sweep my concerns away. I scoot down in my seat, keeping my eyes on the window so Darren will think I’m sulking.

  I peek at the rearview mirror to make sure my reflection isn’t obvious. I bend my legs, my feet aimed at the back of Darren’s seat. He slows to a stop behind a line of traffic. For a long moment we’re still. I take a breath and hold it in my lungs, counting the seconds ticking past.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi …

  The light changes, and the car inches forward. Darren hits the gas, making the engine purr beneath my feet. We start to pick up speed.

  Three Mississippi. Now.

  I slam my legs into the back of Darren’s seat. I kick too hard, misjudging my newfound strength. Darren’s body flails forward, like a rag doll, but he doesn’t let go of the steering wheel and it jerks to the left. The car doesn’t slam into the station wagon in front of us, like I’d expected. It veers out of our lane, into oncoming traffic.

  Things happen very quickly after that. Horns blare, and headlights flash. I look out my window and see a truck speeding toward us. I imagine it slamming into the side of my mother’s car, metal crumpling like paper around it.

  Then Darren hits the gas and we zoom forward. The truck clips our back fender, making us spin. Tires screech against the asphalt. We crash through the barricade at the side of the road and tumble over the shoulder. There’s a crunch of metal, and the entire vehicle shudders as we slam into a tree.

  Darren lurches forward again, and I hear a sickening thud as his head slams into the steering wheel. I wait for him to groan and sit back up. But he doesn’t.

  He doesn’t move at all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Darren?” I whisper. His body is slouched over the steering wheel, his seat belt straining to hold him upright. The air bags didn’t inflate. A trickle of blood weaves down from a crack above his eyebrow.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and crawl forward, placing two fingers on his neck, just below his jaw. His skin feels cold to the touch. For a long moment, I don’t feel anything.

  And then—

  A vibration against my fingertips, a bomp bomp bomp just below the skin on Darren’s neck. He groans, and shifts against his seat belt. I yank my hand back. He’s alive, then. Okay.

  A few cars have pulled to a stop by the side of the road. People stand beside them, shading their eyes to peer down at the wreckage of the crash, but no one has approached us yet. I check out my two exit options. The passenger-side door faces the street, so that’s out. I try the window, praying the button still works. I push down, and there’s a dull buzz as the glass slides from the frame.

  “Charlotte?” Darren moans.

  I don’t answer. The window is completely open now, so I prop my hands against the sides of the car and wiggle through. My hips clear the sides easily. The car’s tilted to the left, and my window is only a few feet away from the ground. I lean forward until I can catch my weight with my hands, and then I pull my legs outside, tumbling onto the icy dirt.

  “Charlotte?” Darren says again. His eyes are open but unfocused. It takes him a long moment to find me. I hesitate. He’s awake, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay. I should call an ambulance. I should wait until the EMTs get here. I’ve known Darren practically my entire life. He and his wife just bought a puppy. I think they’re trying to get pregnant.

  Something flickers in my chest, and I recognize the emotion as guilt in the second before it vanishes. I’m the reason Darren’s hurt. I caused the accident. I’ve spent most of my life feeling guilty about something, whether it was failing to live up to my mother’s impossible expectations or lusting after Ariel’s boyfriend. But now, when I’ve finally done something truly unforgivable, I feel nothing.

  Sirens sound in the distance. An ambulance will be here soon.

  I cast one last glance at Darren. His eyes are closed again, but he’s still alive. His breath fogs the glass in his window.

  I send Zoe a text—I’ll be there. As soon as I press Send, another text pops onto my screen, this one from Jack.

  What time should I pick you up tonight?

  I stare at the words for a beat. I forgot I’d told him I’d be his date. I start to write back and cancel—then hesitate. I’m going to need a ride. And being on Jack’s arm will make it easier to get through the door.

  Seven, I write back. I’ll meet you in front of the school.

  I press Send and then pocket my phone, starting the long walk back to school.

  At five minutes to seven, I’m standing just inside the school doors, the hood of my winter coat pulled over my head to hide my face. Mother’s probably called the dean by now. Maybe even the police. I glance over my shoulder, anxious, but nobody seems to have spotted me.

  Jack’s car pulls up to the curb. I push the doors open and hurry down the stairs without glancing up. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat.

  “Hey,” Jack says. “What’s the—” He stops talking when I push back my hood. “Oh. Wow.”

  “How do I look?” I ask. Jack stares, stunned, but my voice seems to jar him out of his stupor. He clears his throat and turns back to the steering wheel.

  “Different,” he says. He puts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb.

  “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

  I snuck into the locker room to take a shower. It was the one place I could think of where I could scrub the blood and dirt away without being seen. I keep some makeup and beauty products in my locker, and I used them to slick my short hair away from my forehead and behind my ears. It looks chic and French, nothing like my normal messy bob. I smudged eyeliner around my eyes and drew on deep ruby-red lips.

  It’s not a perfect disguise, and anyone who knows me will be able to see
through the layers of makeup and recognize my face. But I’m hoping that, from across the room, in dim light, I might fool enough people to get through the Med Center doors.

  I glance at Jack’s tux as I shrug my coat off. Black tie, stiff shirt, slim jacket. “Nice duds.”

  “They were my dad’s.” Jack steers the car out of the school parking lot and onto the main road. I stare at the silhouette of his face as his drives.

  Jack casts another look my way, and his gaze falls on my beaded cocktail dress. “And that was Ariel’s, right?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I had to risk sneaking back to my dorm to get Ariel’s beaded cocktail dress out of our closet, but I didn’t have another choice. I couldn’t go to the gala wearing my ruined school uniform. “How did you know?”

  Jack is quiet for a moment. “It smells like her.”

  The serum must be increasing his sense of smell and hearing, like it did to me. For a moment, I consider asking him about the phone call I overheard. But he already lied to me once. And I can’t risk him mentioning something to his dad. Breaking into my mom’s office is going to be hard enough without Senator Calhoun watching me all night.

  Jack turns back to the road. “You look like her,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  Silver lights twinkle from the trees as we pull into the Med Center parking lot. Two giant vases of white flowers stand to either side of the main entrance.

  I climb out of the car and push the door shut behind me. Ariel’s dress falls around my thighs, the lacy black fabric hugging my waist and skimming the skin just above my knees. The dress fits snug around my chest and dips low in the back to show off my pale skin. Rows of tiny golden beads glitter from the skirt. I feel like I stepped out of a silent film.

  Jack offers me his elbow. “Shall we?”

  “Thanks,” I say, looping my arm through his.

  The gala seems to be in full swing. I see the flash of the chandelier through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and a crowd of glittering, dancing people.

  “Excuse me?” A small woman in a short black dress steps in front of us, blocking our way inside. She has one finger poised over an iPad. “Are you on the list?”

  “Jack Calhoun,” Jack says. He glances at me. “And date.”

  “Oh. Of course.” The woman shuffles out of our way. “By all means.”

  Music envelops us as soon as we step through the doors, first a haunting snatch of cello, followed by the sharp blare of a trumpet. Talking, laughing voices fill the room, and I catch a whiff of food: skewered meats and something fried. My stomach rumbles. I can’t remember the last time I ate a full meal. But then I think of what Mother said about putting supplements in the food, and my appetite vanishes. I wonder if the Med Center drugs the appetizers, too.

  I glance at the elaborate grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. It’s twenty minutes after seven. Zoe may have shown up, seen that I wasn’t here, and hightailed it to the train station already. I pull my phone out of my clutch, my other arm still linked through Jack’s.

  Where are you? I type with one hand.

  “Looking for someone?” Jack asks.

  “My mother,” I say, putting the phone back into my clutch. “I told her I’d say hi when I got here. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Jack looks disappointed, but he releases my arm. “Find me when you’re done?”

  “I’ll see you soon.” The lie comes easily, and it’s then that I understand why Ariel lied so well and so often. When the truth is crazy, lies can feel almost real.

  I duck into the crowd before Jack says another word. Women in gowns sweep through the room, followed by men in expensively tailored tuxedoes. The oversize chandelier glimmers from the ceiling, and the golden light catches on champagne glasses and serving trays, on diamond-studded bracelets and rings. I almost have to shield my eyes. The Underhill memorial fountain twinkles from the corner, a string quartet playing in front of it.

  I hurry across the room, grateful for the low lights and crowd. My mother will never spot me in this. I sweep a glass of champagne off a serving tray, for camouflage, and scan the room for Zoe’s black hair and pointed face.

  One minute stretches into two, and then five. I don’t see her. I tap my fingers against the side of my champagne glass.

  “Come on, Zoe,” I whisper. “Be here. Please be here.”

  “Miss?”

  The voice shocks me so much that I jerk and whirl around, the champagne glass slipping from my fingers. A waiter in a black tuxedo grabs the glass before I drop it.

  “My apologies, miss,” he says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to know whether you’d like more champagne.”

  I blink, and my eyes land on my empty champagne glass, now sitting on the waiter’s tray. I don’t even remember drinking it.

  I flash him a tight smile. “I’m okay.”

  A familiar tinkling laugh rises above the other voices, sending a chill down my spine. I swear under my breath and turn my head, studying the people behind me from the corner of my eye. Mother stands at the center of the crowd. She’s telling a story I can’t quite hear, and a circle of eager party guests has formed around her to listen. She has her head turned away from me, so I turn all the way around.

  Her gown is new. It’s black satin, sleeveless, the sweetheart neckline coming to two sharp points just below her collarbone. She looks sleek and vicious. Like a predator.

  A man makes his way over to her and taps her on the shoulder. She moves her head toward him, and he whispers something in her ear. She takes a sip of champagne as he talks, her expression never wavering. But I see the stone set of her eyes, the way her jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. He’s given her bad news. She says something back to him, and he scurries off.

  A hand circles my wrist, yanking me away from the crowd.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Zoe whispers. She’s hiding in the dark alcove below the stairs, where it’s unlikely that anyone from the party will notice her. I duck into the shadows next to her.

  “Looking for you,” I explain. “I got here late. I thought you already left.”

  “I should have,” Zoe says, frowning. She’s wearing her homecoming dress from last year. It’s bright red, with spaghetti straps and a chiffon skirt.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. I cast one last glance at my mother. She’s still standing in the middle of her group of admirers, telling some story that makes them all throw their heads back and laugh. At least she’s occupied. Her office will be empty.

  “Come on,” I say, taking Zoe by the arm. I don’t want to risk climbing the main stairs—it’ll draw too much attention—so I lead her down a back hallway, hoping it’ll connect with another staircase farther on. I don’t know this part of the hospital well, and twice I lose my way and have to retrace my steps to take a different turn. Zoe follows silently, like a shadow.

  “Where did you get that?” she asks after a few moments.

  She’s looking at a jagged cut twisting from my elbow to my wrist. I noticed it in the shower after the car accident, but I can’t remember when I got it. It was barely visible under the dim lights of the party, but the hall lights are brighter. Out here, it looks garish.

  “Accident,” I explain.

  Zoe lifts an eyebrow. “Can you feel it?” she asks. I shake my head. “What about hot or cold? Can you tell the difference?”

  “Not really,” I say. “Sometimes I notice a breeze, but I can’t feel temperature anymore.”

  Zoe whistles through her teeth. “You’re almost as bad as me.”

  I dig my teeth into my lower lip. I focus on the sharp edges driving into my flesh, and I imagine nerve endings going off, sending warnings to my brain. Pain! This is what pain feels like! Stop doing that! When that doesn’t work, I bite down harder. But I taste blood on my tongue before I feel even the briefest glimmer of hurt.

  “I just took the serum,” I say, licking the blood from my lips. “This is happ
ening too fast.”

  Zoe shrugs. It’s one of her slow, lazy shrugs that seem to involve her entire body. “Devon, Ariel, and I all took the serum at the same time. Ariel and Devon only lasted a few months, but for some reason, I’m still here. It doesn’t seem to follow a schedule.”

  This seems violently unfair to me, but there’s nothing Zoe can do about it. I nod at the staircase at the end of the hall.

  “My mother’s office is just up there,” I say. “Come on.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Moonlight drifts in through the window, lazily illuminating Mother’s desk and bookshelves. A car drives past, its headlights arcing across the room before it disappears into the woods. I find the switch on the wall beside the door and flick it on.

  “Come on,” I say. “Someone might see you.”

  Zoe steps into the office, pushing the door closed behind her. I drop my clutch on Mother’s desk and head for the file cabinet. I fit the smallest key into the lock and turn, but it doesn’t catch.

  Zoe hovers behind me. “That’s the wrong key.”

  I wrench the key to the left, like I can make the drawer open through sheer force of will. No luck. “I figured that out myself, thanks.”

  Zoe opens her purse, and removes the pink pocketknife I saw hidden in her drawer weeks ago. She opens the blade and gently threads the pointed, metal edge into the lock.

  “That’s not going to—” I start, but I’m interrupted by the sound of a click. Zoe pulls the drawer open.

  “It’s not going to what?” she asks, snapping the knife closed.

  “Never mind.” We crowd around the cabinet, Zoe standing on tiptoes to see inside. Dozens and dozens of files fill the drawer, each meticulously labeled in Mother’s small, tight handwriting.

  “Look.” Zoe grabs a file and holds it out so I can read the label: “Ariel Frank.” She points to the date scribbled beside her name. “That’s when they gave us the serum,” she says, flipping the file open.

  A photograph of Ariel lying on a metal table stares up at us. Her eyes are open, and her hair billows around her head in lazy, tangled curls. Both the green of her eyes and the red of her hair look duller than I remember them. Like death has made her ordinary.