April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

“I looked it up,” he says. “Bandages will stick until your nail beds have toughened up.” He fills the sink with warm water, submerges my hand, and begins to gently tug the Band-Aids free. His own nails are clean, short, and square. Finally, he pulls the last bit of brown-stained bandage loose, and I lift out my hand. My two fingers look oddly naked. The part that should be hidden by the nails is pink skin-colored and only a little puffy. They’re not bleeding anymore.

James steps closer and then swears, softly. His upper lip curls. “Who in the hell could do that to somebody else?”

“Whatever they wanted to know,” Ty says, “they must have thought it was important.” He looks at me. “How bad do they hurt now?”

The water woke them up. “They’re pretty tender.”

He leans over my hand, gently presses on my ring finger just below where my nail used to start. “The nail sulcuses don’t look infected. Or maybe it’s sulci. Like octopus–octopi.”

“The what?” I ask.

“That grove at the base of the nail is called the nail sulcus. It’s where the nail grows out. I was on an emergency medicine site last night. It said your nails should grow back in four or five months.”

“He wants to be an EMT,” James says.

Ty’s face reddens. “I’m taking an online class. After I graduate I’m going to go to Central Oregon Community to get certified.” From a drawer, he takes a small tube and squirts some yellowish goo on the bed of each missing nail. Then he tears off a piece of tinfoil and picks up the scissors. “I”m going to make you some artificial nails that won’t stick.” He uses my good hand as a model for the foil nails. It takes several tries. The silvery pieces need to be a lot smaller than you would think. He slides the edge of each one under a cuticle and then wraps each finger in a thin layer of gauze. He picks up a roll of skin-colored mesh bandage. “I figure this doesn’t stand out quite as much as white would.”

“Look,” James says from the doorway, “I know you guys were having fun yesterday making your big escape and all, but you really need to go to the police. They can protect Katie and figure out what happened.”

Maybe James is right. In daylight, yesterday seems crazy.

I nod at the clock on the wall. It’s 7:17. “What about school?”

Ty doesn’t meet my eyes. “I decided I’m staying home today.”

“What will that do to your grades, young man?” James asks. He turns to me. “Somebody’s got to play mom around here. And speaking of moms, how do you want your eggs? Over easy or scrambled?”

“Scrambled, please.”

“What about you?” He looks at Ty.

“The same.” We all head back to the kitchen. As James takes a carton from the refrigerator, I wonder if the eggs are only making an appearance because I’m here. Maybe Trix is really their normal breakfast, and the eggs are a little bit of a show. And what about me? How do I normally begin my days? With scrambled eggs, Trix, or a handful of colored pills doled out by a nurse?

James starts cracking eggs into a white ceramic bowl. “I know you told Ty some of it, but could you maybe start from the top and tell me exactly what happened to you?”

“Sure.” Some feeling I can’t name twists inside me, like I’ve swallowed a piece of glass and it’s slowly moving through my gut. But I start with waking up on the floor with my fingernails on the table. They ask an occasional question, like whether I ever saw more of the other man than just his shoes. I don’t leave out any of it, not even how Michael Brenner hit his head on the rock.

While I’m talking, James finishes the eggs and splits them between Ty and me. He’s mixed in some shredded cheddar cheese, and it’s so good. My tooth doesn’t feel as loose as it did yesterday, so I can chew on both sides of my mouth. In between huge bites, I describe how I drove off and met Officer Dillow, the phone call he got, and how I locked him in his own security car and took his gun.

“It sounds like this Dr. Nowell—if that’s his real name—used a spoof card,” James says.

“What’s that?” Ty asks.

“Once you buy the card, you call a special phone number, enter a PIN, and then you put in the name and number you want to show up on the caller ID. So your guy Nowell could have called from any place in the world, but when this Officer Dillow answered the phone, it would have said Sagebrush Mental Hospital.”

“Wait, Katie,” Ty says. “Going back to what you said earlier. How do you know this other guy’s name? This Brenner?”

I explain about Brenner’s wallet, which Officer Dillow took. “I still have his phone though.” I push back my empty plate, get the phone from Ty’s room, then turn it on. “The battery says it’s at seven percent. Do you guys have a charger for this kind of phone?” They look at the bottom and shake their heads.

“Here,” Ty says, “let me see what’s on it.” He starts to hold out his hand, then pulls it back. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch it. It’s got that guy’s fingerprints on it.”

“Too late for that. I’ve already touched it all over.” I hand it to him.

He grabs a piece of paper and a pen and starts scrolling back through the phone with one hand and writing down numbers with the other. “I’m making a list of all the numbers he called and that called him.” After he’s written about eight numbers, he pushes some more buttons, holds the phone up to listen to it, shakes his head, and lowers it. He looks at us. “There’s nine messages in the voicemail box, but it wants a password.” He presses some more buttons. “Lots of text messages. The most recent one says, ‘Call me ASAP.’ The one before that says, ‘Where are you?’ And before that it was, ‘Have you taken care of things?’ They’re all from Nowell.”

Nowell, the doctor who works at Sagebrush? Or Nowell, the man who wants to kill me?

The last one was sent about the time I was jumping into Brenner’s car. My scalp prickles. “Things” must mean me. From the looks on their faces, James and Ty know it, too.

James pushes his chair back and grabs a silver laptop from the coffee table in the living room. He sits back down next to me. “Let’s see who this Michael Brenner is.” Ty gets up and stands behind us. James opens the computer, and Yahoo.com loads onto the screen. He starts to type in “Michael Brenner” into the search bar, then turns to me. “Was that B–R–E or B–R–U?”

“Wait,” Ty says. “Where did you say that security guy was?”

“Newberry Ranch. It’s like a resort.”

He points, his finger shaking. “Look at that.”

It’s the part of the screen that shows national and local headlines. Halfway down, one reads, “Newberry Ranch Security Guard Found Shot to Death in Patrol Car.”

As I stare at the headline, I can’t breathe. James clicks. The page opens, and we all lean in closer to read it.

Newberry Ranch, Ore. (AP)—A security officer was found dead in his official vehicle at the Newberry Ranch and Resort near Bend, Oregon, late last night. Police are investigating the death as a homicide.

Authorities say that the body of Newberry Ranch security guard Lloyd Dillow was found in his patrol car around 11 p.m. last night. The body was discovered by a person staying at the resort. Dillow, 44, had been shot in the chest. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

His body was taken to the medical examiner’s office in Bend for an autopsy, but the death is being considered a homicide. Authorities questioned nearby residents who reported hearing no signs of a struggle.