The Merciless (6 page)

“I'm so sorry,” he says, pushing himself onto an elbow. He doesn't roll off me right away. “Did I break you?”

“No.” I keep my arms still because I don't trust myself not to grab his sweatshirt and pull him even closer. I clear my throat. “You're . . . fine.”

Charlie tilts his head, and I wonder if he can tell what I'm thinking. “I'm really glad you're here, Sofia,” he says.

“Yeah, well, I did break your fall,” I say. He still doesn't move away from me. He brushes a curl off my forehead and shakes his head like I'm missing something.

“It's not just that. I'm glad to see
you
.”

The night instantly grows ten degrees warmer. “Why?”

“You're joking, right?” Charlie eyes lose focus. He's about to kiss me. I inhale, hoping the warm soda hasn't made my mouth taste gross. But he just runs his thumb along my jaw, tracing from my ear to my chin, like he's memorizing my face.

“I like you, okay? You're different from girls around here.” He leans toward me again, his eyes closing. This time he hesitates an inch away from me.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I've barely spoken when he presses his mouth to mine—tentative first, then harder, hungrier. He parts my lips with his tongue and slides his fingers into my hair, pulling me closer, until there's not an inch of his body that isn't pressed against mine. I stop thinking and just react, letting my hips and chest rise and fall with his. One hand is tangled in my hair and another tugging at the waistband of my jeans. He slips his fingers through my curls as he moves his hand down to trace the skin from my neck to my collarbone, sending shivers through my entire body. Decades pass before Charlie pulls away. His hair sticks out from his head in all angles, and I itch to reach for it again, to smooth it back behind his ears. All the blood in his head seems to have rushed to his lips, because they're bright red and swollen from kissing me.

His nose brushes against mine. “You taste minty,” he says into my mouth, leaning in to kiss me again.

The giggling in the swimming pool rises in a shriek of laughter and then cuts off abruptly. Charlie hesitates and reluctantly pulls his lips away from mine.

“What do you think they're doing?” I ask. “Should we find out?”

Charlie pushes himself to his feet, then leans over to give me his hand. “Only if it'll help convince you that swimsuits are optional.”

“Unlikely,” I say, but I follow him toward the pool anyway. There are gaps in the fence, each about one inch wide. I squint into the gaps, but I can't make out entire people—just jumbled shapes. Charlie comes up behind me. Circling my waist with his arms, he starts to kiss my neck.

“I thought we were spying,” I whisper.

“Spies do this.”

Just beyond the fence a girl says something, but the wind snatches away her words. I lean in closer, pressing my eye against the largest gap.

Brooklyn stands at the top of the plastic staircase leading into a hot tub, holding the stub of a cigarette between two fingers. Black swimsuit bottoms hang low on her hips, and she has a white tank top knotted above her waist. The tank top is wet and pasted to her skin in patches, making it easy to see she's not wearing a bra.

“What are they doing?” Charlie whispers. I shush him, lifting a finger to my mouth. There's a boy in the hot tub, too, his brown hair slicked up in wet spikes. Thin lines of steam rise from the tub, mingling with the smoke from Brooklyn's cigarette.

“Ever done it in a hot tub?” Brooklyn asks, her mouth curling. She's wearing dark red lipstick that smudges across her cigarette. The boy stands, water dripping from his faded navy boxers. He grabs Brooklyn and spins her around.

I immediately recognize the light brown eyes, the cleft chin. Josh.
Riley's
Josh.

I press my face closer to the fence. Josh sets Brooklyn back down and pulls her to his chest. She drops her cigarette into the water behind her, then lifts her face up to his. They kiss long and deep, and I blush even harder.

Brooklyn looks up, and her eyes find the exact spot in the fence where I'm watching. It's like someone has touched an icy finger to the lowest part of my back and runs it up the length of my spine. She wraps her arms around Josh's neck and kisses him again, possessively, her red-painted mouth mashing against his teeth as she pulls him closer. The whole time, she never takes her eyes away from the fence. From me.

It's like a dare. A challenge. I pull away from the fence and turn back to Charlie, feeling as though I've had the wind knocked out of me.

“Sofia, what's wrong?” Charlie asks. I shake my head.

“I've got to go,” I say.

• • •

I make my way to Riley's house, following a long, curved road that dead-ends onto Riley's street. Gnarly trees line the sidewalks. The houses sit back far from the street, their windows dark. Overhanging branches send skeletal shadows over their yards.

A bird squawks above me, rustling the tree branches as it flies away.

“Crap,” I mutter, trying to still my rapidly beating heart. I ran most of the way here, not because I wanted to get to Riley, but because I didn't want to spend any more time in Brooklyn's neighborhood. In fact, now that I'm here I wish the trip had taken longer.

I pass a few more towering houses before I locate Riley's. Her house is a mini-mansion. A wide white porch wraps around front, and Greek-style pillars stand on either side of the double doors. I ring the bell, and a tinny
ding-dong
echoes inside.

A tiny green garden snake slivers across the wooden porch, its body undulating over the concrete. I cringe and cross my arms over my chest. A second later it disappears behind a heavy clay flowerpot.

Footsteps sound just inside the house, then the door swings open.

“Sofia?” Riley leans a cheek against the edge of the door, considering me. “Are you okay?”

“I'm sorry, I tried to call.” I try to catch my breath. “Can I come in?”

The corner of Riley's mouth twitches upward, and her face grows several degrees warmer. “Of course. You want something to drink?”

“Um, sure.”

Riley steps back, opening the door into a foyer with high ceilings and real marble floors. I step inside, momentarily distracted. Beautifully posed photographs of Riley sandwiched between her parents cover the walls, all three wearing matching preppy-chic. I gape at them, amazed at how perfect everyone looks, like they're posing for a catalog.

“Your parents look nice.” I stop in front of one of the photographs. Riley's family is dressed entirely in white and they're sitting on a bench in front their lake house. Despite what I saw at Brooklyn's party, I find myself wishing I could step into Riley's life for a day or two, just to see what it's like. It must be nice to have the perfect family, the perfect house, the perfect friends.

Riley stops next to me, staring at the photographs without blinking. “Come on,” she says.

“The kitchen's this way.”

I follow her down a white-carpeted hallway and into a huge kitchen with stainless steel appliances and cabinets made of deep, dark wood. Gray tile covers the floors, and the only light comes from the window over the sink, where moonlight filters in through gauzy curtains. Riley motions for me to sit on one of the bar stools at an island in the middle of the room.

“Is something wrong?” She opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of water. I see just enough of the inside of her fridge to notice most of the shelves are bare. I clear my throat. I spent the entire walk trying to come up with something to say, but every time words formed in my head I was hit by a sudden, overwhelming feeling of guilt—like I'd been the one making out with Josh instead of Brooklyn.

Riley puts the pitcher on the counter, considering me. In the dim light her blue eyes look gray.

“Sweetie, what is it?” Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. I look down at my sneakers, unable to meet her eyes. If I'd found Brooklyn as soon as I got to the party instead of rolling around on the ground with Charlie, none of this would have happened.

“I . . .” I shift on my bar stool. Footsteps sound in the other room, cutting me off. Riley's head jerks up as a woman wearing a silky white robe comes into the kitchen. Her glass is empty except for a few ice cubes.

“Hi, girls,” she says with a weak smile. She must be Riley's mother—Mrs. Howard—but she looks nothing like the person from the photographs in the hall. Her hair falls above her shoulders; it looks like a trendy cut that's grown out. Her face is strange, too—there's something about her features that don't match up with where I expect them to be. Her cheeks have a hollow look, like they're going to cave in.

She crosses the kitchen, the ice in her glass clinking. She pulls a bottle of something clear out of the freezer, and when she bends over, her robe gapes open and I have to avert my eyes to keep from seeing her bare chest.

“You girls having fun?” Mrs. Howard asks.

“A blast,” Riley deadpans. “Come on, Sofia. We'll have more privacy in my room.”

“Nice to meet you,” I mutter, then follow Riley upstairs, wondering if her father is behind one of the heavy doors lining the hallway. The thickly carpeted floor quiets our footsteps.

Riley pushes open a door at the end of the hallway, revealing a bedroom larger than the master suite at my house. Old-fashioned floral wallpaper covers the walls, and heavy velvet curtains hang over the windows. It's so dark I have to squint to see the edges of the furniture. An ornate wooden cross hangs above her door.

“Make yourself at home.” Riley crosses the room to turn on a light and settles herself in the faded pink armchair in front of a vintage vanity table. Glass bottles of makeup cover the table, along with half-burned candles and lacy fabric that looks like a scarf. Alexis's and Grace's pictures crowd the mirror, leaving only a tiny circle in the center uncovered. I stop in front of the vanity, smoothing a dog-eared snapshot. If I weren't here for such an awful reason, I'd make Riley tell me the story behind every photograph. I'd take pictures of the two of us on my phone, hoping I'd make it to the mirror, too.

To the left of the mirror stands an old porcelain doll with a cracked face and brown curls like Riley's. The doll's cloudy glass eyes follow me as I perch on the edge of Riley's bed.

I open my mouth and try to speak, but I can't say the words out loud.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

“Sof?” Riley leans forward, putting a hand on my knee. “What is it?” Something passes over her eyes, and she leans away, her back ruler-straight. She speaks in a whisper, “Did something happen at the party?”

I take a deep breath. “Riley, you have to break up with Josh,” I blurt out.

A crease forms between Riley's eyes. “What?”

“I
saw
him,” I say, quickly so I don't lose my nerve. “With Brooklyn just now.”

Understanding passes over Riley's face, and the crease disappears from between her eyes. She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“You saw them together,” she says, her voice steady. She squeezes her eyes shut, and I expect her to start crying, but her eyes are dry when she blinks them open again. “Were they having sex?”

“No. Just kissing.” Brooklyn's words echo in my head as soon as I say this.
Ever done it in a hot tub?

Riley nods. She pushes herself out of her chair and starts pacing the length of her room. She stops in front of the door and presses a hand against the wood, closing her eyes. I push myself to my feet to give her a hug when her lips start to move silently. She's not crying—she's praying.

“Amen,” she whispers, and her eyes flicker open. She stares at her door without saying a word.

“Riley, I'm so sorry.” My shoulders tighten, and I stand a little straighter. “I came right here after I saw them. I just thought you should know.”

“Sof, it's okay,” Riley says. “I prayed, and I think it's obvious what we need to do. Brooklyn is lost. We have to help her.”

“You want to
help
Brooklyn?” I gape at Riley, confused. “But what about Josh? Aren't you pissed?”

“Josh strayed from God,” Riley says. “Yeah, it hurts, but I believe he'll find his way back to the Lord. But Brooklyn . . . don't you get it, Sofia? This just
proves
she needs our help. Brooklyn has to be fixed.”

A smile flutters across Riley's face. It reminds me of when I first met her, when her smile never seemed to spread past her lips, leaving her eyes cold and empty. Now, though, her eyes are bright with a kind of manic energy. When she talks again, her words tumble into one another, like they're racing to get out of her mouth.

“We thought Brooklyn was rebelling, but this is worse. Some people have evil inside them, Sofia. Brooklyn needs us.”

The word
evil
still seems too strong to me, but I can't argue with Riley after what I saw. If this is what she needs to get over Josh, I can be there for her. I squeeze her arm. “How do we do that?”

“Don't worry.” Riley places her hand over mine and squeezes back. “You don't have to do anything. I have a plan.”

A
floorboard creaks somewhere in the house, jerking me from sleep. I force my eyes open, not sure if what I heard was real or an echo from a dream.

A heavy footstep thuds against the floor downstairs. Then silence.

I sit up, my comforter falling to my lap. My heart pounds in my ears. It could be Mom going downstairs for a glass of water. But that's unlikely. Most nights she takes insanely strong sleeping pills and is out like the dead till morning.

I push back the rest of my blankets and slip from the bed. The floor freezes my bare feet, and I shiver as I stumble for the door. There's no moon tonight, leaving my room so dark I can't see my arms stretched in front of me.

The house falls silent. I'm being silly. Even if it wasn't Mom, that sound could have been a million things: the house settling or wind pounding at the windows. Still, I hold my breath until I find the door with my fingers. I press my ear to the wood, listening for a sound in the hallway.

The top stair groans: another footstep. Someone's out there.

I stumble backward and crash into my desk. There's another creak, this one outside my door.

“Who's there?” I whisper. I step away from my desk, forcing myself toward the door. Louder, I ask, “Mom? Is that you?”

It's too dark to see, but I hear my door latch click and feel the air move as the door swings open. A fingernails-on-sandpaper scratch cuts through the silence, and I smell sulfur. Blue-orange light flickers to life.

I blink against the sudden brightness, and, as my eyes focus, I make out a lit match and a face. Light dances in Riley's eyes. She puts a finger to her lips.
Quiet.

“You scared me to death!” I take a deep breath to get rid of the last of my fear and lean against my desk, my heart still thudding like crazy. “How did you get in?”

She doesn't answer, but her eyebrow twitches higher. Her eyes are manic, wide and dark, her pupils dilated in twin black pools. An emotion I can't place flickers across her face, and my question changes from
how
she got in to
why
.

“Hurry,” she whispers. The match burns down to her fingertips, and she shakes it out. A silver curl of smoke stretches to the ceiling. “I want to show you something.”

This has to be about Josh. I bet the others are waiting at the house for us, and we'll spend the night eating ice cream and complaining to one another about what jerks guys are. My fear flips into relief.

I grab my sneakers, then push my bedroom door open. Riley follows silently. Once in the hallway I hesitate, glancing at my mom's door. I motion for Riley to keep quiet as we start down the stairs.

We hurry out of my house, stopping for Riley to grab a pair of gray sneakers she'd hidden behind the potted plant on our front porch. She slides them onto her bare feet without untying them first, and we head down the street.

The wind slices through the sleeves of my sweater and coaxes goose bumps from my skin. I press my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering and pull my sweater over my hands. Despite Riley's bare legs, she doesn't shiver.

I notice a shadow crouched on the porch steps as we near the abandoned house: Grace. She looks plainer than I've ever seen her, in a black T-shirt, jeans, and faded sneakers. The hood of her giraffe-print sweatshirt hides her hair.

“Hey, Grace,” I say as I pass her on the steps.

“Hey,” she echoes hollowly. Her eyes don't quite focus, and she doesn't acknowledge Riley at all. You'd think she was the one whose boyfriend just cheated on her.

“Is she okay?” I ask. Riley pushes the front door open, and the two of us slip inside.

“Grace? Probably just tired. Come on—it's this way.”

I ease the door shut behind me and realize a doorknob has been added where there wasn't one before. Riley notices my confusion and pulls a key out of the pocket of her jeans. “Can never be too careful,” she says, as if that answers everything.

We walk past the living room, where the sleeping bags are rolled and stacked next to the pillows in a corner. None of the tea lights are lit, and it makes this place feel emptier than before. I realize how alone we are out here, with nothing but dirt and the skeletons of half-built houses surrounding us. Wind rattles the plastic at the windows. I imagine it rolling over miles of empty land to press against this house, and suddenly it seems strong enough to rip off walls.

“We're going to the basement,” Riley says, opening a door I thought was a closet. I peer down the stairs, but I can't see past the concrete wall below. The rest of the basement is dark.

“What's down there?”

“A surprise,” Riley says. The first step creaks beneath her bare foot. She takes me by the arm. “Don't be scared.”

I start down the stairs with her, focused on placing one foot in front of the other. Cold air creeps in through the concrete walls and floor, holding a damp scent of dust and something I can't place. I wrinkle my nose as we make our way down. It smells metallic, like pennies.

There's a muffled whimper deep in the basement, like someone crying into a pillow. I freeze on the bottom step.

“Riley . . .” I still can't see past the concrete wall, and I suddenly want to keep it that way. But Riley tugs on my arm, her fingernails pricking the skin on my wrist. My feet move forward on their own.

“It's okay, Sof,” she says, and I let her lead me around the corner.

The blue oil lamp from upstairs sits on a table near the far wall, casting a wedge of flickering light over the concrete. Alexis crouches over the lamp, messing with a lever on the side. There's a flicker of movement, like an arm reaching out of the shadows behind her. I jerk my head around to stare, praying it was just a trick of the light.

The lamp's tiny flame dances higher, illuminating Brooklyn's crumpled body. Duct tape winds around her mouth and cheeks, plastering her short, sweaty hair to her head. She's tied to a wooden pillar in the middle of the room, her arms pressed against her sides, and her legs trapped beneath her.

Fear rises in my chest, but I push it back down. This is a joke. They must've set it up to mess with me. I laugh nervously, but then Brooklyn raises her head and shakes the matted hair from her eyes. Her gaze shifts to mine, and it's like I've been plunged in cold water. The fear in Brooklyn's eyes is real.

“Riley.” My voice is hoarse, a whisper. “What did you do?”

“What did I
do
?” Riley's voice hits the concrete like a slap. Brooklyn jerks at the sound, but her red eyes stay fixed on me. “We talked about this, Sofia.” Riley crosses the room to Alexis and picks up a black backpack. She reaches inside and pulls out a butcher knife. Brooklyn breathes in through her nose with a shaky sob, and I throw a hand over my mouth.

“Shit! Riley, why do you have that?”

“I'm going to get the evil out of her.” Riley turns the knife to catch the glare of the lamp. I glance back at Brooklyn. The ropes rubbed the skin around her wrists raw, and her hair's drenched with sweat, but otherwise she's unhurt. She mostly just looks scared. I exhale. There's still time to fix this.

“Riley, give me the knife,” I say, holding out my hand. The blade distorts my reflection, making my forehead too long, my eyes beady pricks of black. I look like a monster.

“Don't be silly, Sofia.” Riley pulls the knife to her side and wraps her fingers around it possessively. “We talked about this. You said we're in this together.”

Riley's delusional. We talked about helping her, not
kidnapping
her. Brooklyn hasn't taken her eyes off the knife. Her face twists in fear, crinkling the edges of the duct tape. I start to cross the basement, but Alexis steps in front of me, blocking my way.

“Let me through,” I demand. Alexis crosses her arms over her chest and glances at Riley over my shoulder. Brooklyn shifts on the concrete behind her. The ropes binding her wrists tighten with a groan as she moves. “Alexis, we have to untie her!”

“This is for her own good, Sofia.” Riley steps up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder to prevent me from moving any closer to Brooklyn. A chill spreads from the tips of my fingers to the small of my back. “Alexis, did you pack everything?” Riley shifts the backpack in her arms, grimacing under its weight.

“I think so.” Alexis watches Riley from beneath the veil of her own pale white-blond hair. I can't tell if she's as freaked out as I am, but it's obvious she's not going to do anything to stop this.

“What's in there?” I ask, eyeing the backpack.

“Very important supplies.” Riley unzips the bag and removes jars of water and salt, three bottles of wine, and a heavy, leather-bound Bible. She sets the items on the floor and reaches into the bag again. I expect more knives, but Riley pulls out a wooden cross.

Suddenly something clicks. “This is an exorcism.”

“Lexie taught me how to perform one,” Riley says. She sets the knife down on the floor and picks up the bottle of wine, yanking out the cork.

“We're going to draw the demon out of Brooklyn,” Alexis explains. “Most priests use holy water or a cross, sometimes blessed salt.”

I decide to skip over the “demon” comment and move to the most obvious flaw in their plan. “But none of us is a priest.”

“We don't need to be,” Alexis says. “That's what I was telling Riley. Anyone can perform an exorcism as long as they're filled with the Holy Spirit. And the more true believers you have with you the stronger you are. With you and Grace, we have four.”

“Don't be scared, Sof,” Riley says, taking a drink of wine. “This'll be fun.”

I nod woodenly. None of their supplies are too terrible, aside from the knife. Maybe they'll just throw some water at Brooklyn and chant for a while. They probably only brought the knife to freak her out—punishment for screwing around with Josh. I breathe in deeply, trying to calm my nerves. This could still be okay.

But then I glance up, meeting Brooklyn's red-rimmed eyes. Her shoulders rise and fall in silent sobs and sweat, and tears mingle with her eyeliner, sending thick black lines streaming down her face. This isn't a prank. Riley didn't say she wanted to punish Brooklyn—she said she wanted to
save
her, and for some reason that involves a knife and holding a girl prisoner in the basement.

“I can't do this,” I say. I ease my foot off the floor and move it behind me, slowly backing toward the staircase. My legs are so numb I worry I might collapse. “I have to go.”

I turn and stumble toward the staircase without waiting for Riley to answer. When I reach the concrete wall, I break into a run, my shoes slipping against the steps. My brain is moving too quickly, telling me I'm overreacting, that nothing's wrong. At the same time my palms start to sweat and my knees shake. My body wants to get as far away from here as possible.

Once I'm through the basement door, time speeds up. My heart pounds in my ears, making it impossible to think. I tear through the kitchen, moving so quickly I smack an arm against the doorframe and stumble into the hall, landing
hard
on my knees. Pain shoots up my legs. But I grit my teeth and push myself to my feet and run.

The shadows in the living room seem to reach for me as I race past. I glance outside when I get to the front door, but Grace isn't on the porch anymore. I don't stop to think about where she might've gone. My hands tremble so badly the doorknob rattles as I work the lock, but, finally, my fingers manage to twist the deadbolt. I turn the knob and pull.

The door doesn't budge. I pull harder. The knob turns easily, but the door itself stays firmly shut. Finally, I glance up. There's a lock screwed into the doorframe, held shut with a heavy, metal padlock.

“Shit.”
My voice is barely a whisper, but it seems to boom around me. I think of what Riley said when I saw the new doorknob.
Can never be too careful.

I stumble back down the hall, pulling open the first door I see. It's a bedroom, with two windows on the far wall. I race across the room and feel for the edge of the window with my fingers. My hand brushes against metal. My heart sinks.

Nails line the window frame, sealing it shut. Some are driven deep into the wood, and some are long and crooked, jutting awkwardly out of the frame. A single bent nail lies on the sill, next to a wobbly sketch of a heart that someone etched into the wood.

For a long moment I just stare at the nails, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating or dissolving into tears. Riley isn't crazy enough to lock us all in here, to nail the windows shut so we can't leave. But even as this thought occurs to me, I know it's exactly what she's done. I'm trapped here with her—we all are.

My legs shake as I move backward. I start opening doors at random, desperately searching for an exit Riley might have missed. My breathing gets more ragged as I run from one empty room to another. I claw at the nails in the windowsills until my fingers bleed, but they don't budge. Riley must've used a nail gun.

Finally I stumble into a bathroom. There's only one window here, the kind you crank with a lever to open. There aren't nails sticking out of the frame. I release a shaky, desperate sob.

I grip the lever with both hands. The plastic notch digs into my skin as I yank it around and around. The window jerks and starts, opening at an angle and letting cold air seep into the bathroom. Clouds hide the moon, leaving the night perfectly dark. Cicadas buzz in the grass.

I stop cranking once there's a gap wide enough for me to climb through. The cicadas sound louder, but maybe that's just because my heartbeat has slowed. I'm going to make it. I'm going to get out of here, and I'm going to call the cops. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I lean forward, knuckles white as I wrap my fingers around the sill.