Chapter Five-Reni

I push aside the lace curtain and peer down to the front lawn. The small-town ambush of paparazzi waits outside the chain link fence. A handful of paunchy reporters, old and rookie alike, cameras and mics ready to disfigure my public image and twist my words. To mold me into guilty.

They've wasted three days staking out my house and harassing George at his job, even though the cops' official statement named me as a person of interest rather than a suspect. Three days they could've spent looking for that black SUV, for the boy who took her.

The boy. That's hardly the word for him though. I've never seen him before, I'm sure of it. I would have noticed a boy with such purpose, with such mechanical calculation in his eyes. And I would name him and put an end to the red carpet outside my gate. I would tell the police where he lives, where he's keeping Leah, why he would take her. Wouldn't I?

I guess that's what's bothering me the most—I don't know, not for sure, if I would turn him in. Because during the state of blackout, I've never run from anyone before. And if my victim runs from me, I chase them down. Every single time. Yet, this time, with this boy, they say I'm the one who ran. And I remember none of it.

Why did I run? Who is he? What did he do to me? To Leah?

But it's been three days. Three days since I blacked out, three days since I woke up on the other side of the football field, three days I've been asking myself these things. They say after a person is missing for forty-eight hours, the chances for finding them are cut in half. The chances I'll remember anything from that day are slimmer than that.

I need to get out of this house.

I whistle for Dozer, Margaret's meaty blue pitbull. I hear him bounding up the stairs, and note that his claws probably need a trim. If he marks up the hardwood floor again, George will make me get rid of him. At least, that's what he threatens. But I think he wants Dozer around just as much as I do, even if for different reasons. To George, Dozer is protection. To me, Dozer is a brother, of sorts. He's a product of Margaret, like me. The day we found him, covered in new and old wounds, obviously a fighting pit, I knew she would take him in. Work her magic on him. Teach him love and security, instead of hate and violence.

Just like she did with me.

I push the thought aside as Dozer plops into a lazy sit at the door, his head tilted to the side in canine curiosity. "Want to scare some reporters?" I tell him in the same voice I make when I'm going to give him a treat. "Want to make them pee in their wittle pants?" I say, leaning down in the universal come-to-me pose.

He barks and wags his tail and turns an excited 360 in the doorway. "Come on," I say, grabbing my earphones and music pod. "Downstairs."

He waits for me to pass him before following behind me on the narrow stairwell. We reach the front door, and I show him a treat I'd grabbed from the kitchen. "Ready?" I say, my own pulse racing. George won't be happy about this. If he had his way, I'd be locked up in my room like some modern day Rapunzel. Out of sight, out of mind, out of trouble. And he'd be right. But the Department of Children and Families usually takes exception to hostage situations. Even if that hostage is lunatic me.

One deep breath, and I open the door, step out onto the wrap-around porch, and face my first obstacle. The flashes of dozens of cameras come in waves. Gentle Dozer is uninterested; his eyes stay focused on the treat in my hand. The reporters yell their questions to me. "Did you have anything to do with Leah's disappearance?" and "Describe for us what the abductors looked like" and "Where do you think Leah is now?"

I want to go back inside and slam the door behind me. But I have to get out of here. I am going to find a quiet place to think. Then maybe I can remember more of what happened to Leah.

Steeling myself against the possibility that George will kick me out over this, I throw Dozer's treat all the way to the fence. Amid curses and yelps, men in cheesy ties and women in cheap heels scatter away from the chain link like wind-blown feathers when Dozer leaps from the porch, lithe and graceful, and charges them. He's a deadly-looking teddy bear, to be sure.

I follow behind him at a light jog at first, building to a full-on sprint. The yard hardly leaves me enough room for what I have to do. By the time Dozer stops to retrieve his treat from the grass I'm passing him. I jump, hurdling the gate in one bound. It was easier than I thought it would be. My tennis shoes land me solidly on the sidewalk.

I hear car doors open and a few engines rev to life. I cut the corner of our neighbor's yard and tear down the street, ducking behind a dumpster as the reporters fly by. I almost smile. Almost. But no matter how far I run, or how fast, they'll always catch up to me at home. Home is where the hell is.

I round another corner and glance behind me. Apparently I have second-rate paparazzi; they can't even find me on a jog in Tinyville, USA. And that's just fine with me.

I slow down, debating on where to go next. They probably expect me to go my usual route—no doubt they've done their research—to the nature trails in the woods behind town, so that's out. There's a walking track that circles a mud puddle slash pond in the park by the high school, but moms bring their toddlers to the playground there and they wouldn't appreciate my presence. Not to mention, it's too close to where Leah was abducted, so it might look like I'm returning to the scene of the crime or something. So, since I'm Public Enemy Number One, I make my way to the train tracks east of town. The tracks cut through the woods on their way out of town, so vehicles won't be able to follow; if the press really wants their story, they'll have to hoof it.

And they'll have to be fast.

When I get to the tracks, I turn on my music—not too loud, in case a train comes—and set a pace I can maintain for a long time. My ribs ache, but I absorb the pain and contain it, concentrating on keeping my lungs full of oxygen and my mind empty of thought. With each stride, I feel my body relieve itself of anger, energy, stress. With each stride, I feel my muscles lengthen and stretch. With each stride, I feel the solitude settle in.

This whole running thing was Margaret's idea; she started me on this routine when I was just six years old, making me run laps around the yard until physical exhaustion made my feet too heavy for me to put one in front of another. It did wonders for me then; it does wonders for me now.

But physical exhaustion is far ahead on the horizon tonight. Being cooped up in the house for the last three days has sucked, and there's a huge chance George will do something drastic when I get home, like put a house arrest anklet on me or something. Being an attorney, he's got all sorts of law enforcement connections; those same connections are probably why I'm able to go running tonight at all. The same reason I'm not locked away while they investigate the situation.

Besides, George is probably already going to do something more drastic than that. I already overheard him talking to someone about placing me in a different foster home a few days ago. I want to feel betrayed by that, but I can't. If anyone has been betrayed, it's been George. First Margaret dies, then I start blacking out again. Then the whole Lola thing. Now this. Everyone he counted on the most dropped the ball. The hard thing is, I like George, and he likes me. But he can't control me without Margaret here. No one can.

I can't even control myself.

Ahead of me, I see the beam from car headlights strike through the tree line, splashing light on the track about fifty yards away. I must have already made it to the intersection one town over. I slow, turning around to head back. The night is dark and I don't have a flashlight, but the moon is bright overhead, a sort of homing beacon for me to follow back to my fate with George.

Behind me, a car beeps their horn loud enough for me to hear over my music. I turn, squinting back at the intersection, plucking my ear buds out. A vehicle is parked there now, an SUV, judging from the size of the shadow it splays on the tracks in front of it. An obnoxious beep sounds again, unrelenting in disturbing the peaceful night for at least thirty more seconds.

George. He found me. And he's pissed.

"Really?" I grumble.

Begrudgingly, I jog toward the intersection and the certain guilt-trip he's about to put me on. I should feel guilty. But all I was doing was taking a run. Relieving some stress. And he knows how much it helps me.

As I make my way closer, the details of the SUV materialize in the dim light of the street lamp, though the color is tainted by the orange glow of the light. It could be black. It could be dark blue. But it's certainly not the red BMW George drives. I stop. Has some ambitious reporter found me then? Or is it an unmarked cop looking for some small-town trouble to stir up? Is running along the railroad tracks actually illegal?

That's just what I need. Another reason to be detained and questioned. I can hear the reporters now. Did you hide the body by the train tracks? Were you going back to clean up the scene?

The driver's side door opens then and he steps out. A jolt bucks through me.

I know this SUV.

I'll never forget this SUV.

I'll never forget the silhouette of the boy who's now crossing his massive arms as he leans against the vehicle, waiting for me to come closer. Knowing for a certainty that I'll come closer.

And I do.

Each step I take on the gravel beneath me feels like I'm walking into a trap, but it's as if he's drawing me to him with his eyes. I glance around, mentally listing my options if this boy decides to attack me, decides to take me like he did Leah. The woods to my right leads to a town called Prescott. I could knock on the first door I come across and beg to be let in. And possibly put the residents there in danger. That option is out.

The woods to my left lead to more woods, thicker woods, woods good for hiding. I'm fast. I could get a head start on him, picking up potential weapons on the way. Twist off branches to create sharp points, collect thick sticks laying around, good for bludgeoning. Throw rocks in the opposite direction to keep him off my course. That option could work. That is the option I'll take.

Except, I keep walking toward the boy.

Within twenty feet of him, I stop. He doesn't hide the fact that he's studying me. I wonder what he sees. I square my shoulders. My breathing has returned to normal, though the sweat still trickles down the sides of my face, my ponytail plastered to the back of my neck with it. I'm sure I look tired.

I could run ten more miles.

His eyes are big, and in the light I can't see their color, but I remember that they're brown. His hair is dark, his jaw line is clean shaven and strong. His bottom lip is split. His stance is false; it's supposed to show me that he's relaxed. But his arms are folded too tightly. His neck is too stiff. This boy is alert. He's either planning something or waiting for something.

I wonder what I did when I blacked out that day.

"Reni," he says. "I would like to speak to you."

"What did you do to Leah?" I keep my voice as neutral as his, clear of fear or nervousness. He doesn't need to underestimate me, whether I ran from him or not. I don't want to hurt this boy. Not if I don't have to.

His expression doesn't change. "She's safe. Unharmed."

"Tell me where she is."

"She doesn't want to come back. She likes where she is." I hate how calm his voice is. How confident his words are.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Alexander."

I'm surprised that he tells me. And I'm somewhat disappointed. His energy is so familiar to me. The name Alexander does not fit his energy. Maybe he's lying. "Well, Alexander, tell me where she is or I'll call for help."

He can see I don't have a cell phone with me. There is nowhere to hide one in my tight tank top and even tighter yoga pants. My hair is pulled back, showing him that I don't have an earpiece.

With slow deliberation, he looks to his left. Then to his right. When his eyes lock with mine again, he almost appears pitying. "I don't think that will work out for you." He sighs then, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if bored. "I can do more than tell you where Leah is, Reni. I can show you. You can see that she's happy. Come with me."

Come with me? Like hell. "You need to get that thought out of your head. I'm not Leah. You don't...You don't want to make me mad. Don't come any closer."

He tilts his head. "Do you know what I think, Reni? I think Leah was fortunate that we intervened that day in the parking lot. I think we rescued her. From you. She said she had just broken the windows in your car. How did you feel about that?"

"Stop acting like you know me." But my heart skips a beat as I remember the shards of glass in the parking lot. The slashed tires of Margaret's car. My body tenses. I feel adrenaline seeping into me and I struggle to absorb it unused, to compartmentalize my thoughts. I hear birds singing nearby, and focus on the lilt of their conversation. The street lamp flickers, making Alexander's shadow dance on the train tracks between us. All sizes of flying bugs gravitate to the light, a giant swarm of persistent buzz.

I focus on these things. These things dilute the adrenaline. These things keep me in control. Until Alexander opens his mouth again.

"I know about Margaret. I know about George. About your black outs. I know about Lola, Reni. I know what you did to her. Leah told me everything."

Leah told me everything. My breathing picks up as he pushes away from the door and takes a step toward me. His hands rest at his sides, but his fingers twitch, restless to be used. He will not catch me off guard. I feel my heartbeat in my ears.

"Everyone here thinks you murdered Leah," he says softly. "It's all over the news. Over and over they bring up the past. Over and over they replay what you did to Lola. They'll never forgive you. They'll never forget. And now you're involved in the disappearance of her twin sister."

I feel I might be sick. "They think I murdered her because you took her, and I happened to be there."

"Yes, that's what you keep telling them, isn't it? And do they believe you?" He shakes his head. "They think you murdered her because they think you're a monster. They think you're evil. Their investigation is centered on you, Reni. They have not even bothered to find additional suspects. They want it to be you."

How does he know all this? And why do I believe him? "So fix it!" I yell. "Tell them you know where Leah is and that she's safe and bring her back. You can fix this all."

The boy purses his lips. "I'm afraid I can't do that. As I said, Leah is happy where she is. She doesn't want to come back." He's quiet for a moment. I don't want to break our gaze. I don't want him to think he intimidates me. I don't want him to know that he does. "And even if I did bring her back, it doesn't change what happened to Lola. Nothing will ever change that."

He sighs, his face fixed in determination. "But I can offer you something better. You could be happy too, Reni. If you had the courage to leave this place. If you had the courage to come with me."

He takes another step forward. The familiar fingers of darkness dance across my vision like rivulets of black ink. Last time I lost control, I did not hurt this boy. Last time I lost control, I ran away from him. Would I run again? Should I just run now?

"Why stay?" he continues softly. "What is here for you now? Your foster mother is dead. Your foster father doesn't want you."

I suck in a breath even though it burns instead of comforts. "George loves me."

Alexander shrugs. "That may be so. But I happen to know that this afternoon he relinquished custody of you to a high security juvenile facility. His intent is to give you psychological treatment he thinks you need. How do you feel about that?"

Why does he keep asking me how I feel? It's as if he's using emotion as a weapon against me. As if he knows emotion is my trigger. I step back. "How do you know all this? Why do you know all this? Why are you playing mind games with me? If you're here to take me, just take me!" More darkness covers my vision, blocking out Alexander's face. I concentrate on the tracks between us, counting them, studying them. The rusty rail road ties embedded in the wood. The small weeds growing between the planks.

If I lose control now, I won't get my answers.

Alexander sighs. "I don't want to take you, Reni. I want you to choose to come with me."

"Why?" I hate the tears in my eyes. I hate them worse than anything. Even worse than Alexander's self-assured expression. George thinks I'm psycho. Is he afraid of me now? Is he tired of trying to help me? Is he ready to move on with his life, start over with a clean slate?

And what if he is? Should I stand in his way? What kind of selfish person would I be if I did that?

I'm startled to find I've allowed Alexander to move closer to me. I'm startled to find that he's relaxed, either because he doesn't deem me a threat, or because he doesn't intend to find out if I am one. "I know you don't belong in a facility, Reni," he says. "It would be a terrible waste of what you are. What if I told you these blackouts could be controlled? That what you have inside you is a gift—a gift that can help protect innocent people?"

I allow him to take three more strides. I allow him to lift my chin with the crook of his finger. I can tell he's uncertain about doing this. That he's not sure how I will react. I'm not sure how I should. His presence is potent, radiating between us. Alexander is powerful, more than just physically. He will not hurt me. When our eyes meet, his are fierce. Determined. Alexander is accustomed to getting what he wants, that much is clear. I wonder what that feels like.

He offers me his open hand. "Come with me, Reni. I'll show you that you're not a monster."

I want to believe him, I do. But I can't imagine how my violent rampages can actually help people. All I've ever done is hurt. All I've ever done is destroy. Even George, who's been there since I was a baby, has given up on me. Wouldn't George know what's best? What if I should be in a mental facility? I would be away from people, unable to hurt anyone. I would get treatment, therapy, probably some stout medications.

But Margaret never wanted me on meds—she always wanted a little girl, not a "zombie". She believed medicine was the easy way out. She wanted me to be strong, to rely on myself, to learn to manage it on my own. I wanted that too, back when I thought it was possible. But after Margaret died, I stopped believing I could do it. Lola was proof enough that it was true.

I look at Alexander's outstretched hand. I don't even know what exactly he's offering. If what he's offering ends up being bad, I deserve it and I know it. He's spoken with Leah. He knows what terrible things I've done. Yet, he still wants me to come with him.

Plus, going with Alexander will make things easier on George. It will save him from having that difficult conversation about him signing me over. He won't have the stab of a guilty conscience for putting me in a mental institution—something Margaret would have fought against with her whole being. George will simply think I ran away. That I couldn't take it anymore. And in a way, he would be right.

But there's something else to consider: If Alexander isn't lying, if he still has Leah, maybe I can help her escape. She had a life here. She was practically the hero of the town. Maybe I can help her come back to her family. Of course, I'll never be able to reconcile what I did to Lola. But I will never stop trying, either.

All of these are reasons I should go. The single reason I would stay is dead now. And deep down, I think she would know that there is nothing left for me here.

I take Alexander's hand and meet his eyes. "I'll come with you."