The Merciless (9 page)

“Y
ou fucking bitch!” Riley stumbles away from Brooklyn, clutching her face with both hands. Blood appears in the cracks between her fingers.

“Riley, oh my god!” Alexis tries to pry Riley's bunched fist from her face, but Riley shoves her away.

“Get me a bandage!” she screams. Behind her, Brooklyn licks the blood from her lips. Her eyes shift to the staircase, but this time I don't need her to tell me what to do.

“We have to get to a bathroom,” I say. I go to Riley's side and gently pry her fingers from her face. She moves her hand just long enough for me to see the mangled, bloody skin beneath. Brooklyn's teeth left a perfect indentation on her cheek. “It'll get infected if you don't wash it.”

Riley's fingers tremble. She nods, letting me steer her toward the staircase.

“I think I saw Band-Aids in the kitchen,” Grace adds.

Alexis tightens Brooklyn's ropes. “These should hold this time,” she says, then follows us up the stairs.

I keep my expression emotionless as Riley slips her free hand into her pocket and pulls out the key to the basement door, hoping she can't read in my face how badly I want to rip it from her fingers. After she unlocks the dead bolt, Riley grabs my hand and squeezes.

“Once we clean off the blood you won't see a thing,” I lie. I wouldn't be surprised if she had a scar on her face for the rest of her life. Alexis narrows her eyes at me but says nothing.

Once upstairs, I let Alexis take Riley's arm as Grace leads the way to the bathroom. I hold the door open while they all filter inside.

“I'll find the Band-Aids,” I say. Riley nods, but the bathroom mirror distracts her. She mutters a curse and leans over the sink, gingerly patting the tender skin around her wound. For the first time since getting here, nobody's watching me.

I slip down the hall, into the kitchen. Dust coats the countertops and cobwebs stretch across the ceiling. No back door like I'd been hoping, but there's a single window on the far wall. I lean over the sink to reach it, but another row of crooked nails jutting out of the sill keeps me from trying to pry it open.

A long, colorful string of curse words flies through my head. Riley must've nailed every single window shut. I lean back again and wipe the dust from the window ledge on the seat of my pants, then start opening cupboards and drawers. There might be a spare key around here, or at least something I could use as a weapon.

But the cupboards are mostly empty, with cobwebs stretching across the corners. There's a wineglass on the highest shelf. Standing on my tiptoes, I pull it down. It's plastic, not glass—no use as a weapon. Bright red lipstick, like the kind Brooklyn wears, smudges around the lip, and the bottom is stained red from wine that never got rinsed out. I set the glass back inside the cupboard and close the door. Kneeling, I open the cupboard below, but all I find is half a loaf of bread and a plastic jar of peanut butter.

“Sofia, we found the Band-Aids,” Grace yells from the bathroom, startling me. “They were in here, under the sink.”

If they're bandaging Riley up already, then they're almost done. Sighing, I stare through the dirty glass in the window above the sink. There's no yard behind the house, just a long stretch of upturned dirt bordered by thick trees, their leaves already turning orange and brown.

I wonder what's on the other side of those trees. More abandoned houses and empty lots? Or could there be a road, businesses—civilization?

Something moves in the yard beyond the dirty glass.

I see it from the corner of my eye and glance up. It's a man–homeless from the looks of it. He wears a black T-shirt and sweatpants, tattered and at least three sizes too big, and he's holding a bottle concealed by a brown paper bag.

He stumbles through the trees. Any second he'll disappear. I lean over the sink, lifting a hand to bang on the glass. My voice catches in my throat as I smack my fist against the window. The man cocks his head toward the house. I open my mouth to yell.

“Sofia?”

I clench my mouth shut and whirl around. Riley's right behind me. She glances at the window.

“There was a bug,” I lie, lowering my hand. “A cockroach.”

Riley wrinkles her nose. “Gross. Didn't you hear us? We found the Band-Aids.”

She motions to the flesh-colored bandages on her face. They make an X over her left cheek. I want to turn back to the window and see if the homeless man is still there, but I can't do that with Riley standing in front of me. Riley crosses the kitchen and leans against the sink.

“I know you feel uneasy about what we're doing,” she says. She makes it sound like I'm nervous about sneaking out at night or going skinny-dipping.

“I wanted to show you this to help you understand.” Riley pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket and hands it to me.

It's a newspaper clipping. I unfold it and read the headline.
BELOVED TEACHER KILLED IN ACCIDENT
. Just below is a photograph of an older man with thick white hair and dark, deeply lined skin.

I frown, scanning the first lines of the article.

Adams High School geography teacher and drama coach Carlton Willis died at 8
PM
last night when he fell from a ladder in the school gymnasium. He leaves behind his wife, Julianna Willis . . .

Something familiar tugs at my brain, but I can't figure out what it is. “What does this have to do with Brooklyn?”

“Mr. Willis used to lead a Bible study after school.” Riley wraps her fingers around the edge of the sink. “Grace and Brooklyn were in his last period geography together last year. Grace says Brooklyn
hated
Mr. Willis. One day, Brooklyn was chanting in the back of his class. It was really creepy and disruptive, and Mr. Willis kicked her out. But before she left she threw her textbook at him. Grace says she broke a window. Mr. Willis swore he was going to have her expelled—maybe even arrested.”

Despite myself, I'm curious. “So what happened next?”

“Nothing. That was the night Mr. Willis had his accident.”

“Accident . . .” I glance back down at the black-and-white photograph on the clipping. Something on Mr. Willis's hand catches my eye: a thick, gold wedding ring. I move my eyes back over the obituary, and once again I stop at the last line in the first paragraph:
He leaves behind wife, Julianna Willis . . .

CARLTON & JULIANNA 1979.

“His ring,” I say, pointing at the picture. “Brooklyn . . .”

“Brooklyn wears it around her neck,” Riley finishes for me. She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. “Like a trophy.”

I shake my head. This is insane. “But
why
?”

“Because she's the one who killed him,” Riley said. “Because she's evil. That's why we have to stop her.”

• • •

I consider Riley's story as we make our way back down the stairs. First there was the skinned cat beneath the bleachers, and now a teacher. Could Riley be spreading more lies? Or is Brooklyn actually dangerous?

Brooklyn's eyes are closed when we get down to the basement, but they flicker open at the sound of our footsteps.

“Back for more?” she asks.

Riley's expression hardens. She lifts a hand to the bandages on her cheek. “Don't we have any more wine?” she says.

Grace pulls a new bottle out of the backpack and hands it to her. I expect Riley to smash it against the wall and attack Brooklyn with the broken glass. But she just twists off the screw top and drinks, watching Brooklyn over the mouth of the bottle.

The cell phone in her back pocket vibrates, and Riley lowers the bottle of wine. All at once it's like the air in the basement thickens. Riley pulls out the phone and taps the screen. She shifts her eyes up to Brooklyn.

“It's from Josh,” she says. “He wrote . . .” Riley hesitates, and every muscle in her body tenses. “
Need some company?
”

Any hope I had that this might be over vanishes. Riley tosses Brooklyn's cell phone, and it skitters across the floor. She drops to her knees, straddling Brooklyn's bound legs.

“Whore,” she spits, and whips a hand across Brooklyn's face. Brooklyn's head smacks against the wooden pillar behind her. I cringe and look away, my gaze falling on the butcher knife half wedged beneath the backpack at Grace's feet. No one else seems to remember that it's there.

“Admit it!” Riley screams. I shift my feet to the left, edging slowly closer to the knife.

“Fine!” Brooklyn shouts. She spits blood onto the concrete and stretches out her jaw. “You want me to admit my fucking sins? I did it, okay? I slept with your boyfriend. And you know what the best part is? We'd come here, to this house, and we'd drink your wine, and he'd screw me on your sleeping bag.”

Riley's face is empty, expressionless, like she didn't hear a word of Brooklyn's confession. Without even blinking, she slaps her again. I drop to a crouch next to the knife and slide it out from beneath the backpack. Riley stands and starts to pace.

“Give me that,” she says, stopping directly in front of me. Before I can say a word, Riley rips the butcher knife from my hand.

“Riley.” I stand, no longer thinking about what's smart or what will convince Riley I'm on her side. If Josh is what sent Riley off the rails in the first place, who knows what she'll do now. I reach for the knife, but Riley holds it close to her side possessively. “Come on. She admitted her sin, there's nothing left for us to do.”

Riley shakes her head. “That wasn't her only sin.” She crouches near Brooklyn again, this time grabbing her hand. “Hand me the Bible, Lexie,” she says.

Alexis doesn't answer her. Her glassy eyes are fixed on the far wall.

“Lexie!” Riley yells, and Alexis flinches. “Hand me the Bible.”

Alexis takes the Bible out of the backpack and passes it to Riley. “Dirty sinner,” she mutters as Riley slides the Bible beneath Brooklyn's hand, then spreads her fingers out flat on its cover.

Brooklyn lifts her face. Black eyeliner seeps into the corners of her eyes and smudges around her nose. Her mouth is rimmed in blood. She tries to pull her hand away, but Riley holds it tight, pressing Brooklyn's fingers down flat with her palm. She positions the knife over the tip of Brooklyn's pinkie.

“You fucking psycho!” Brooklyn screams. She kicks and squirms, fighting against the ropes binding her in place. “Just let me go!”

“Guys, help me hold her down,” Riley says. Alexis immediately moves behind Brooklyn and grabs her shoulders so she can't throw herself against the ropes anymore. Grace hesitates, then crouches beside Riley and grabs Brooklyn's wrist.

Riley moves both hands to the knife.

“Okay, okay!” Brooklyn shouts, fear slurring her words. “I killed the cat beneath the bleachers. It was wandering around my apartment complex, so I drowned it in my bathtub. Then I skinned it with this pocketknife I stole from a kid at school. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I don't care what depraved thing you did with that cat.” Riley rocks the knife over Brooklyn's finger and Brooklyn cringes from the sting of the blade. “Tell me about Mr. Willis.”

Brooklyn shakes her head. “He had an accident. What do you want me to say?”

Riley presses down on the knife. There's a crunch as the blade slices through skin and nail and digs into the leather cover of the Bible beneath Brooklyn's fingers. My breath catches in my throat, and I clench my eyes shut so I don't see the tip of Brooklyn's pinkie roll off the Bible and land on the floor with a sticky thud.

Brooklyn's screaming vibrates through the basement and echoes off the walls. When I open my eyes again, Riley has another finger stretched across the Bible. Blood drips onto the floor, leaking from Brooklyn's bloody pinkie. Riley didn't cut off that much skin. She slid her knife right below the nail, taking only a millimeter of Brooklyn's finger at most. Still, I can't stop staring at the bloody stump she left behind.

I back up until I feel the cold concrete wall behind me. Sweat drenches my entire body. I don't know what's worse—the stories Brooklyn's telling or what Riley's doing to get her to admit to them.

“Tell me about Mr. Willis,” Riley says again.

“I killed him, too!” Brooklyn yells, struggling to pull her hand away. “I waited for him in the auditorium. I wanted it to look like an accident, so when he got out the ladder and started climbing, I . . . I . . .”

“You pushed him?” Riley finishes for her. Brooklyn presses her lips together and nods.

“Yes. Yes, I pushed him,” Brooklyn screams. “Are you happy now, you psycho?”

I taste sour bile at the back of my throat. I try to swallow, but the sharp, metallic scent of blood and the lingering smoke fill my nostrils. My stomach cramps and restricts, and acid rises in my throat. I drop to my knees and my entire body heaves, splattering vomit onto the concrete.

I look up and Brooklyn catches my eye. She slowly shakes her head and her eyes turn desperate, pained. She's lying, I realize. She's just trying to survive. I exhale in relief.

“Yes, actually, I am happy,” Riley says, her lips twisting into a sneer. “Now you just have to be baptized.”

I
work my fingers through the tangled knots binding Brooklyn to the pillar. She barely moves now, having passed out from blood loss or pain, I'm not sure. The stiff ropes scratch my skin, but they finally come loose and pull apart.
We're getting out of here
, I want to tell Brooklyn. The baptism will be easy compared with what she's already been through.

Brooklyn's eyelids flicker but stay closed. Grace wraps a wad of toilet paper around the remaining stub of her finger and secures it with a few Band-Aids. I avoid looking at the bloody tissues while she works.

“Make sure to tie up her arms and legs again.” Riley sticks a heavy wooden cross and the remaining salt and holy water into the backpack. “We're going all the way up to the second floor. Don't want her to get loose.”

“Isn't there a bathroom on the first floor?” I ask. Alexis crawls around me, toward Brooklyn's legs, and starts retying the bindings at her ankles.

“Only the bathrooms on the second floor have bathtubs,” Riley says.

“Why do we need a tub?”

“You'll see.” Riley's words chill me, but I say nothing. I tie the ropes at Brooklyn's wrists, leaving them loose intentionally—just in case. Alexis finishes the knot at Brooklyn's ankles and starts to giggle.

“What's so funny?” I ask her. Alexis glances up, but her eyes don't quite focus on my face.

“It's like she's not even real,” she says, poking Brooklyn's limp leg. “She's like a doll.”

I try not to think too hard about what she means. Riley sets the backpack down next to the wall and grabs Brooklyn's arms while Alexis and Grace take her legs. Even with the three of them lifting together, they're only able to get her a few feet off the ground. They crouch as they walk, moving slowly toward the staircase. Alexis's breathing grows heavier with every move, and Grace already looks like she might pass out. Sweat lines her forehead, and a few fuzzy strands of hair come loose from her ponytail. They stick out of her head at odd angles.

“Sof, can you blow out the candles?” Riley asks, groaning as she shifts Brooklyn's weight. One of her arms is looped around Brooklyn's torso, while Grace now holds her bound arms and shoulders. Riley's face tightens every time she takes a step back. “And grab the backpack?”

“Okay.” I quickly blow out the candles on the far side of the basement and move to grab the backpack still leaning against the wall. I kneel next to it and start shoving the knife and rosary inside. Then my hand brushes against something hard and plastic. I freeze.

Brooklyn's cell phone sits next to the backpack, wedged between the strap and the wall. It must've landed back here after Riley threw it.

Nerves race up my spine. I glance over my shoulder. Riley and the others are still dragging Brooklyn up the stairs. I pick up the phone and press the power button. The screen lights up. Any fear I had that Riley might see me vanishes. Brooklyn lost a
finger
. She needs to get to the hospital.

I move my thumbs over the screen.

911
, I type. When I press send the screen flashes a warning:
2% POWER
.

I swear under my breath. Maybe a text will go through. I press the message icon, and Josh's last text pops up.

Need company?
Josh wrote. I think of what Brooklyn said—that this is where they used to go together.

Yeah, come to the house
, I type, praying he'll remember which house is the right one. I press send, but before I can see whether the text goes through, the screen goes black.

“Sof?” Riley calls.

“Coming.” I stick the cell phone in the backpack and pull the bag over one shoulder. Riley and the others are halfway up the stairs now. I slip past them and help Riley with Brooklyn's shoulders. Relief washes over her face as I take on some of the weight.

“Maybe Grace can get the door?” I say. Riley nods.

“The key is in my side pocket.”

Grace slips her hand into Riley's pocket and removes the key. She unlocks the dead bolt and pushes the door open. I focus on the text message and the possibility that Josh might be on his way now.

He's coming
, I think. One way or another, we're getting out of here.

I breathe deeply, trying to get a better grip on Brooklyn's torso by repositioning my arms beneath her shoulder. My back aches from hunching over, and pain shoots up my calves as we shuffle across the living room and into the main hall, where a shadowy staircase leads to the second floor.

Grace helps Alexis by taking one of Brooklyn's legs, but still it's a struggle as we half pull, half carry her up the stairs. Blue veins run along Brooklyn's closed eyelids, and her skin is pale as milk. If I didn't feel her breath on the back of my arm, I'd worry she was already dead.

We pause on the staircase landing to catch our breath. Long fingers of moonlight reach through the arched window next to us and stretch over the polished wood floor. Gasping, Riley leans against the wall, holding a hand over her chest. I glance out the window next to her, hoping to see Josh's car driving toward the house. But the street is empty.

“Come on,” she says, readjusting Brooklyn's weight. “We're almost there.”

The second floor is less developed than the first. Cloudy plastic hangs from the ceiling, blocking off sections of unfinished wall. A paint can sits next to one of the bedroom doors, surrounded by a few empty Bud Light bottles.

The master bedroom is directly across from the staircase. Moonlight pours through the windows as we slide Brooklyn across the dark gray tile floors, leaving behind bloody smudges. It's past midnight. Soon, the moon will dip behind the far hills and the whole house will grow even darker than it is now.

The bathroom is huge. White marble stretches out across one wall, and the largest Jacuzzi tub I've ever seen is tucked in the corner, beneath a window covered in cloudy plastic. A thin film of dust coats the porcelain double sink.

When she reaches the tub, Riley sets Brooklyn down and leans against the counter, panting. I let go of her shoulder, too, and try to set her down gently on the tile. Brooklyn groans and curls into a fetal position. Slow, shaky breaths escape her mouth.

“Sof, you have the holy water, right?” Riley leans over the tub and turns on the faucet. Nothing happens. She swears under her breath and turns the faucet off and then on again, but nothing comes out.

“Maybe we can just sprinkle Brooklyn with holy water, or . . .” I start. A churning, gurgling sound echoes below the tub, cutting me off. Thick brown water spurts from the faucet. Riley squeals and plugs the drain.

“Perfect,” she says, watching the dirty brown water fill the tub.

Grace makes a face and covers her nose with her hand. “Gross.”

“All things are made pure in the eyes of God,” Alexis says. She stares down at the muddy brown water and giggles again. “Dirty, dirty, dirty,” she whispers.

Her voice makes my skin crawl. Grace cringes as the tub fills and finally turns away—unable to watch.

On the floor, Brooklyn releases a low moan. Riley kneels next to her and pushes a sweaty strand of hair off her forehead.

“Hush, now,” she says. “This will all be over soon.”

Brooklyn presses her lips together and nods. Even I can't help but be comforted by Riley's words.
This will all be over soon
. Alexis leans past Riley and shuts off the faucet.

“Tub's full,” she says. “Do you need help lifting her?”

Riley's eyes shift to me. “The holy water?”

“Oh, right.” I pull open the backpack and dig out the now half-full bottle of holy water. I hand it to Riley, and she pours a few drops into the dirty brown sludge. She sets the bottle on the counter, then hauls Brooklyn up by the shoulders. Alexis grabs Brooklyn's arms to hold her steady.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Riley says, and shoves her face-first into the bathtub. Water drips down the side of the tub.

I hold my breath as Brooklyn struggles in the tub. I remember my own baptism, and my lungs burn all over again.

“Let her up,” I say. “That's enough.”

But Riley tightens her grip, shoving Brooklyn farther below the water. “Just a few more seconds,” she says.

Brooklyn pushes against Riley's hand, but Riley grits her teeth and holds her down. Bubbles float to the surface of the murky water. I push past Grace and kneel next to the bathtub.

“Riley, stop.” I grab Riley by the arm, but she pushes me away. Alexis snickers when I stumble to the floor.

“Are you okay?” Grace offers me her hand, but I ignore her, crawling back over to Riley. Brooklyn's not moving. The water's up to her shoulders now, and Brooklyn's bent so far over the tub that her knees no longer touch the floor. She doesn't struggle.

“Riley!” I shove my hands into the water, groping for Brooklyn's arm. But the tub is deep. My fingers brush something that feels like hair when Riley grabs me by the shoulders and pulls me back. I hit my elbow on the floor and pain shoots up my arm.

“Calm down,” Riley says. “I was just about to let her up.”

Riley finally releases Brooklyn's head and leans back on her heels. Her arms are stained brown from the water. Brooklyn stays still. I move closer. Just as I'm about to reach out for her again, Riley grabs Brooklyn by the legs and flips her into the tub. Murky water sloshes onto the marble floor, spraying our feet as Brooklyn's body disappears below the surface. I struggle back onto my knees, but Riley elbows me out of the way before I reach into the bathtub again.

“You're crowding her.” Riley narrows her cold eyes as she looks down at me.

“She's
drowning
.” I hiss.

“Maybe,” Riley says. “If that's God's will.” Riley tightens her grip on my arm and starts to pull me out of the bathroom.

“Riley, no!” I try to yank my arm away, but Riley holds on tight. “She's going to die!”

“Lexie, get the door,” Riley says.

“No!” I scream. Alexis and Grace follow us out of the bathroom. Even Alexis seems uncertain of Riley's orders, but she still closes the door behind her. I listen for the sound of splashing or screaming—anything to tell me Brooklyn's still alive on the other side of the door. But all I hear is silence.

I pull away from Riley, but she digs her nails into my skin and forces me out of the bedroom and into the hall. While Alexis grabs my arms, Riley slips the tiny key out of her pocket again. There's a silver lock nailed to the doorframe, just like in the basement and at the front door.

Riley planned this—this exact moment. She never meant to baptize Brooklyn. From the beginning, she's been planning to lock her in that bathroom to die.

While Riley is fumbling with the key, I twist my arm away from Alexis, then swing it back, hitting her just below the ribs. Swearing, she doubles over, and I slip out of her grip. I barrel into Riley shoulder first, shoving her aside before she can click the lock shut.

“Sofia,
stop
!” Riley yells. I don't listen. I push the bedroom door open and race for the bathroom. My feet slip over the slick wooden floor, still wet from blood and the dirty tub water.

Riley catches up to me as I reach the bathroom. I try to open the door, but she slaps it shut again.

“You don't know what you're doing,” she says, panting. “The devil . . .”

I force the door open, pushing her aside. She slips on a puddle of water near the bathroom door and nearly falls, grabbing hold of the wall to catch herself. The water's surface looks as still as glass. I run to the tub and drop to my knees, thrusting a hand through the brown water. Grace and Alexis crowd behind Riley in the doorway, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors. They hurry over to me, but they're too late. We all are. I stand, pulling my trembling arm out of the water.

“Oh my god,” I say, lifting my hands to my mouth.

The bathtub is empty. Brooklyn isn't dead—she's gone.