April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

My mom’s jaw tightened. “The reason we’re talking to you is because of what happened to the Radleys.”

My eyes went wide. Mrs. Radley—Barbara—had worked at Z-Biotech, too, had been good friends with my mom. Miranda Radley had only been a year younger than me, a pudgy, quiet girl who liked to read books about werewolves and fallen angels. Her brother, Alex, was two years older than me. He had black bangs that fell across his green eyes, somehow managing to draw attention to them instead of hiding them.

A month earlier, the Radleys—the parents and Miranda and Alex and even their Labradoodle—had all died in a house fire when a pile of rags used to refinish some furniture had caught fire on their deck. An unusually warm night, paint fumes, spontaneous combustion.… It had been a terrible tragedy.

Hadn’t it?

We had all attended their funeral, even Max. My mom’s eyes had been swollen from weeping. She kept wiping her cheek on Max’s hair until he squirmed away. Then she pressed her fist to her mouth like a stopper. My dad had been stoic, a muscle flickering in his jaw.

“Barbara had her doubts,” Mom said now. “She made the mistake of taking them higher up the food chain. The fire did three things: It made sure she never told; it destroyed any evidence she might have collected; and it sent a message to anyone at Z-Biotech who was getting a little too curious.”

My bones turned to water. “Then quit. Just quit your jobs. You can find something else to do.”

My dad gave a short, bitter laugh. “It’s not that easy. Six months ago, Derek Chambers died in a diving accident in Hawaii, just ran out of air. Everyone said it was a freak accident. But he had been talking about leaving the company.”

I was shaking, shaking like I had walked into a deep freeze. “Then don’t say anything. Don’t do anything.”

“We can’t, Cady.” My mom’s voice was soft and patient. “We thought about that, but we just can’t. We have to do what’s right. Not just for us, but for you, too. What they’re thinking of doing could kill thousands of innocent people. As soon as we have enough information to prove it, we’ll take steps to stop them. But until then, everything has to be normal. You can’t tell anyone.”

“Then why are you telling me now?” Anger swelled in me, and in a strange way I welcomed it. “I can’t do anything about it, I can’t tell anybody, and I might even be killed. Frankly, I’d have preferred not to know.”

“We’re telling you so that you’ll have a chance to save yourself if something goes wrong,” my dad said. “If anyone ever tells you to go with them, don’t, no matter what they say. Do whatever you have to and get away from them. Go to the police. If we’re missing, they’ll listen to you. And just being with the cops might be enough to discourage these people from coming after you.”

My mom added, “And if you ever come home and it looks like someone has been going through our stuff, just turn around and leave immediately.”

My voice was small. “I’m scared.”

“It won’t be for long,” my dad said. “Maybe only a couple of months. We’re moving very carefully, covering our tracks. And once we have the evidence and have figured out where to go with it, then we’ll take action.”

“Until then, I’ve signed the three of us up for individual instruction at the Multnomah Academy of Martial Arts.” My mom’s face was determined. “We’re getting an alarm system installed, and your dad is going to buy a gun.”

A gun! Now I knew something was really wrong. My parents didn’t like guns.

“If we ever get separated, we’ll figure out a way to reconnect.” Mom moved closer and stroked my hair. “But don’t worry. We won’t let that happen.”

That memory is awful. But the one that follows is even worse. Because now I know why I forgot.

The reason my brain shut down?

It’s because the person I love most in the world is dead.

Yesterday morning, I had just gotten off the city bus outside of Wilson High when I reached in my jacket pocket for my phone and found only my house key. Crap! My phone was still on the charger on my desk. I hesitated. Should I go back for it and miss first period? Or stay and not have a phone all day?

My first class was Honors French. Madame Aimée seldom took roll, so even if I didn’t show up, there was a good chance it wouldn’t be reported. And these days, my mom was so anxious. She wanted to know where I was at all times. She’d freak out if she looked at the tracker on my phone and saw I was still at home but wasn’t answering my phone. I crossed the street and waited for the next bus that would take me back.

By the time I put my key in the lock a half hour later, my mind was somewhere else. Although my parents had warned me, I wasn’t looking for signs that things were terribly wrong. Mentally, I was already back at school, wondering if it would be worthwhile to go to French for just ten minutes.

I took two steps inside the door. Just as I registered that the alarm wasn’t going off, waiting for me to go to the panel to silence it, something wet and sweet pressed against my face. I took in half a breath and then my world went dark.

When I woke up, everything was still dark. Only, it was dark green. My head was covered by cloth that was tight around my shoulders.

I realized that I was tied to one of our dining room chairs. I was afraid to move. It seemed important that whoever had done this to me not know I was awake. Behind me, I heard the noise of people searching and destroying—crashing, cracking, ripping, splintering, slicing. And judging by the swearing, not finding anything. Men’s voices. Two, I thought, or maybe three.

My mind raced, trying to figure a way out of this. My parents had been paying for private self-defense lessons with an ex-Marine. Kevin had taught me how to defend myself against almost anything, up to and including a man with a gun. But even his instruction hadn’t covered waking up with your hands tied behind your back, your ankles lashed to a chair, and a pillowcase pulled over your head.

A cloth had been stuffed into my open mouth and now rested against my tongue. But I must have made some soft, small sound because footsteps came up behind me. Suddenly someone slapped my ears with open palms. For a moment, my head was transformed into the inside of a bass drum, hollow and percussive.

The gag muffled my scream.

A man’s whisper slid into my ear. “Where are your parents, Cady?”

I shook my head, the fabric of the pillowcase rubbing my cheeks. I truly didn’t know the answer, but I wouldn’t have given it to him if I did. I remembered the Radleys—Alex and Miranda and their parents.

“Don’t scream,” he warned, “or I’ll shoot you.” For a moment, he rested something cold and hard between my eyes. The tip of a gun. Then his hand snaked under the pillowcase and slowly tugged the gag from my mouth, like a magician producing a scarf. Enough light came from the bottom of the pillowcase that I could see it was the yellow dishcloth that this morning had been hanging on our refrigerator door. My mouth was dry, my tongue a piece of leather.

“Where are your parents?” he repeated. His tone was reasonable.

“I don’t know. At work?” I tried to gauge how close he was. If I head-butted him the right way, it was possible that I could knock him out and stay conscious myself. But what good would that do me? I could still hear the sounds of people searching behind me.

He grabbed my ear through the pillowcase and twisted, squeezing it like a lemon. “Don’t play stupid, Cadence. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I honestly don’t know where they are.” It was the truth, but it felt like a lie.