The Girl in the Wall (3 page)

I scan the room but then I remember he left before the concert, not toward the front door but toward the back stairs that lead to the upstairs office suite. He is up there now, probably working on something for my dad, with no idea what is going on down here. Unless they’ve already killed him too.

And now I finally feel something. First comes fear, with a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth. Then briefly a piercing, biting pain slices down so deep it takes my breath away. Then comes the anger. That one is familiar, my default setting. That one I can handle. It burns icy cold in my belly but we’re old friends and I welcome the anger. Anger makes me act and I like action. It’s sitting around feeling things like fear and pain that I can’t handle.

So I lean back toward the grate, ready to hear what the guy who assassinated my dad has to say for himself.

“This is a hostage situation,” he says. “Be aware that the house and grounds are heavily guarded. There is no escape. But no one will hurt you and soon you will be free, as long as you do what we say, when we say it.” He pauses, as though to let this sink in. Like anyone is going to go against their orders. They’ve taken pampered high school students hostage, not Navy SEALS.

“You are free to be in this room, and with permission, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Anyone who steps outside of these rooms will be shot.” One of the girls gasps. It is surprising to hear him say those words in the same exact tone he used to assure everyone that no one would get hurt. “Right now we need your cell phones, cameras, and computers. The agent in back will collect those.”

The agent in back has a big bag and he or she begins walking around the room. I look back at the first gunman, the one who murdered my dad and Bianca. Years ago Sera and I watched a movie on late-night cable about a guy who terrorized a small town, shooting defenseless people point blank on the street, and they called him The Assassin. That’s who this guy is.

It’s probably weird that I’m sitting around thinking about an old movie when my dad is dead (not thinking about that) and my party is being held hostage. But then according to the psychiatrist my dad made me see after the Mexico stuff, I have issues with handling “vulnerable” feelings.

The Assassin watches closely as the agent in back goes around, but everyone is eager to do exactly what they are told and soon the agent in back is filling a bag with the newest, most expensive technology money can buy.

As the collection continues I think about what The Assassin said. It’s a good plan. The party is supposed to last all weekend so by the time any parents would expect their kids home or call to check up on them, The Assassin, his boss, and his agents will be long gone. I wonder how they knew about the party—the details were under wraps for security reasons. I’m guessing they paid off one of the household staff to find out the exact plan. My dad isn’t exactly the nicest boss so it probably wouldn’t have even taken that much. And if they somehow came in under the guise of being security for Hudson Winters, then it was really the perfect opportunity. They sweep in, take their hostages and—

Wait. Their hostage was supposed to be me. Wasn’t it? I know Hudson Winters is probably a millionaire, as are a bunch of kids in my class, but that’s loose change to my dad, whose company brings in billions every quarter. We are beyond rich so if they’re coming in here with machine guns, we are the obvious ones to take. Which is why we were being led from the room at gunpoint. Well, my dad and the person they thought was me. So what happens now, when their hostage is gone and the source of their money is dead? How could they have killed the person who was going to give them what they wanted?

The answer I come up with has me suddenly shivering in a cold sweat. There is one last party guest still to arrive tonight, one who wasn’t planning to show up until after the concert because he said “teenager music” gives him a headache. My dad told him that was a surprise considering he lived his life like an eternal teenager but he just laughed, like he always does. That’s my Uncle Marc. Immature, yes, but seriously the nicest guy. And the only person besides my dad who can touch the company funds. I don’t even want to know what they’d do to get him to sign over the money but Marc is pretty wimpy. I don’t see him holding out very long if they start pulling out his fingernails or whatever it is guys like this do to get what they want.

I have to do something to warn him. He was supposed to get here around eight but knowing Marc that means nine. That gives me—I check my watch—two hours. I stand up, ready to start making a plan, but then I hear The Assassin’s voice again. He is holding the bag stuffed with phones.

“Just in case anyone thought it might be a clever idea to hold back a phone or computer device, we have cut off all Internet service to the house,” The Assassin announces. “And anyone caught with a cell phone will be shot, though first we will shoot the two people nearest to you, just so you understand our feelings about your lack of respect for our orders.”

Wow, these guys are so not here to play. But then why would they be? What’s at stake is a multibillion-dollar fortune.

“Every room is guarded including the bathroom so the only thing you will not have is privacy. But eat, talk quietly, and sleep, whatever you want. In twenty-four hours it will be over and you will be safe and sound back in your mansions.” He gives a small salute and heads out, leaving the other agents to watch over the group.

I stagger back against the wall. Twenty-four hours. He said we’d be kept hostage for twenty-four hours. Earlier, when he said “soon” I assumed they’d be finished and out of here by midnight. But twenty-four hours means they will still be here tomorrow at noon. That’s when Stella is dropping off Abby so she can help me celebrate my birthday.

I close my eyes as I think of Abby, with her timid brown eyes, fuzzy brown curls, and the rabbit I gave her when she turned three, Mr. Ears. She takes Mr. Ears with her everywhere, even though he’s stained and smells bad and Stella keeps trying to bribe her to take up with a sleeker toy. I think of the last time I saw her, two weeks ago, her eyes full of tears when she told me her mom was going away to a California spa less than two days after getting back from a three-week shopping spree in Paris. I took her up to my room and we had a tea party with Mr. Ears, complete with make-believe fairy cake and sparkle tea. It doesn’t take much to make Abby beam like the world is the greatest place ever and it kills me that her mom can’t do it more. But not the way it kills me to think of her being dropped off in the middle of this to take my place as a hostage.

My stomach burns as I think about what I can do to stop this. There has to be
something
. I start walking, hoping that will help me think. The tunnels are dim but there are enough grates along the way that it’s never actually dark inside them, not unless all the lights in the house are off. With their chipping plaster walls the tunnels are about as wide as a doorway so they’re easy to navigate. The ceiling is low but high enough that someone a few inches taller than my five feet five inches could still stand upright. It goes without saying they are also dusty and full of cobwebs and mice droppings. My feet kick up small dust clouds as I go.

My dad is such a neat freak he’d flip if he knew any part of his house looked like this. The thought comes from out of nowhere and hits me like a baseball bat. My dad
was
a neat freak. I can’t breathe. I put my head down and try to pull air into my lungs. This is not my first panic attack but they don’t really get easier. And there’s this thing in my belly, this wail or primal grief that I have to tamp down or it might destroy me. I breathe furiously, focusing my mind on this moment, on the need to put one foot in front of the other and start doing something. I can’t fall apart, not when Abby is going to be dropped off in the middle of this. I have to keep it together for her. After a few moments my breathing slows and I can move again.

I walk straight back until I hit the stairs, then I go up and turn left. My bedroom is the third grate down. Some of the grates are in the hall and they look like grates for the heating system, wrought iron with carved flowers and leaves. But mine is like the one I climbed into—it’s the back of a fireplace. All of them have small metal latches so they can be easily opened and closed.

My room is dark, with light spilling in through the half-open door. I open the grate as quietly as I can and step silently into the fireplace. Then I walk into the room and that’s when I realize I am not alone. Someone else is in here, someone dressed in cargo pants and a white T-shirt, and he turns when he hears me.

My insides are churning and my skin feels funny, like it doesn’t fit right. My mind is like a scratched DVD, playing one image, then suddenly skipping, out of order, to another. Mr. Barett bleeding on the floor. Bianca, her head a soggy mess of red and gray. The guys who look like soldiers guarding the doorways of the house I practically grew up in. And that awful man who reminds me of The Assassin from that old movie calmly telling us that we’ll get shot if we step out of the west wing. How did this night go from birthday party to hostage situation? It’s too much to take in, to understand, so my mind just keeps skipping back and forth from image to image.

I hated Bianca so much these past nine months but her being killed is so much bigger than that. I can’t even think about her mom who always cheered wildly at her soccer games and her younger brother who had a shirt made with Bianca’s number on it. This is going to destroy them.

I know my classmates are thinking the same thing and probably talking about it as they sit on the sofas in the corner, huddled together. Or talking about the fact that the agents thought they had Ariel but ended up killing Bianca and that Ariel is now gone. I was probably the last person to realize that but no one told the agents, not that The Assassin was taking questions or comments. I’m guessing that everyone is speculating on where Ariel went but I bet I’m the only one with the right answer. She’s got to be in the tunnels. The grounds are covered, the rest of the house is covered, and I doubt the agents know about the tunnels.

No one is asking me what I think, even though we all know I was Ariel’s best friend a lot longer than Bianca was. It’s kind of unbelievable but even now, in a hostage situation where our lives hang in the balance, no one from NCCD will speak to me. Social status trumps everything I guess. I hope they don’t poll the room to see which hostage is voted most expendable.

It’s awful in this room where there’s a lingering scent of burnt paper and the off-center rug hiding blood and I don’t want to know what else—I can’t believe we have to stay in here for twenty-four hours. My classmates have all moved off to the group of sofas and chairs closest to the study. Hudson is still on his stool, staring moodily at his hands. I wonder if he knew his bodyguard well. But it’s not like I’m going to go talk to him or anything.

Sitting here by myself in the center of this empty group of folding chairs is making me feel exposed. I glance around at the other seating options. There’s the poker table with five chairs around it by the front wall or the small sofa and loveseat by the other end of the room, next to one of those floor-to-ceiling windows. I decide on the sofa and am about to stand up when something on the floor catches my eye.

It’s tucked under the edge of the rug and if the light weren’t glinting off the small corner sticking out, I’d never have noticed it. I’m not positive what it is so I move closer, trying to look casual, then bend down like I need to adjust my shoe. Which is a ballet flat that doesn’t need adjustment, but hopefully no one will notice.

Now that I’m down next to it I see that it’s a cell phone. My body is suddenly electrified with adrenaline because it’s not just anyone’s cell phone: It’s the phone Mr. Barett took out of his jacket less than an hour ago to check his text. It must have slid out of his pocket when he fell. It’s so small and thin you’d barely notice it even if you were sitting right next to it.

Obviously the thing to do is tell one of the agents. It’ll win me points with them and since we’re all here in this heavily guarded room it’s not like I can use the phone to make a call or anything. And following directions, being a good girl, is what I always do.

So the fact that I rest my hand on the phone, clutch it in my palm, and slide it into the sleeve of my sweater, then get up and walk to the sofa on the far back wall, has me feeling like I’ve stepped into another dimension. A dimension where I’m brave and do things rather than just react.

I last in the new dimension for about ten seconds, feeling brave and excited about myself. Then the panic sets in. What have I done? What the hell am I going to do with this? And what will happen to me if they found out I took it? This isn’t a movie where the bad guys are going to make bumbling errors that allow me to be some kind of hero. These are seasoned pros and I’m a pampered suburban girl whose harshest life experience has been getting the silent treatment from my former friends. I can’t believe I’ve done something this stupid.

I have to get rid of it but I’m not sure how. Maybe I can go to the bathroom and just leave it there. But then when someone finds it they’ll know it was placed there and you know they’ll keep track of who went into the bathroom when and I’ll be found out. And if I put it under the sofa the same thing—they’ll know it couldn’t have just gotten here on its own and find me out.

Then another thought turns my blood cold: What if the phone rings?

I lean my head back on the sofa, close my eyes, and try to keep from hyperventilating.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

I open my eyes and am shocked to see Hudson Winters standing over me, his hazel eyes even more mesmerizing up close. If I was still in the other dimension I might be excited about this but now it just feels like another problem. Still, it’s not like I can say no.

“Sure, of course.”

“We don’t have to talk or anything,” he says, sitting down on the far end of the sofa and folding his arms across his chest.