“I don’t know.”
Something pounds against the metal.
Wendy says, “Should we open it?”
“The note said—”
“I know.” She turns to me. “But we weren’t supposed to talk, either, and we’ve been talking all night.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I know.”
“This warning feels more important. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
We move toward the trunk and place our gloved hands against it, side by side, but a noise erupts from the metal—an animal sound, much like the one I heard when we stopped at the free library in Hollandville. We stare at each other.
Bear, I’d thought the first time I heard this, then chalked it up to my mind, to my exhausted imagination playing tricks on me. But no. This is real. Wendy hears it too.
“Wow.”
I hear myself say, “Give me the key.”
Wendy gapes at me. “You really think we should?”
We hear it again. A muffled cry. Human.
Wendy is balancing the keys in the palm of her hand. I pluck them away from her, more out of reflex than legitimate decision making.
“Wait. I don’t think we should . . .”
I can’t help it. I am unable to continue without seeing, without knowing.
“Oh my God,” Wendy says.
I’ve done it. I’ve clicked the trunk icon on the key fob and it’s sailed open. I pull my flashlight out of the pocket of my hoodie and shine it on the figure inside.
“It’s him,” Wendy says. “It’s him. Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”
He’s been gagged with what looks like dark pantyhose, face contorted, arms tied behind his back, legs lashed together. He writhes like a giant bug, and then he is still, his face shifting into focus. Bright blue eyes in the flashlight beam. His shirt, ripped and sweat-stained, but tailored. Expensive. The square jaw. The salt-and-pepper hair. Fake hair. Fake tan. I know him. I know you.
“Holy shit,” Wendy says again.
It’s the billionaire who killed 2223’s daughter. Three months in a Club Fed. A mansion on Long Island. He raped her repeatedly. Passed her around to his friends. He broke her spirit, 2223 typed. He killed her soul.
I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers, online. At charity events, yukking it up with politicians, his beautiful age-appropriate wife at his side. That smugness radiating from his flat, fake smile. We’ve both seen him. We both know him. He is the type of person everyone knows, because he is so shallow, you can fully know from a picture.
But still . . .
His eyes lock with mine. The pain in them. The fear.
I make myself think about 2223. Her daughter. Did he show her mercy? Did he think about how young she was, how easily hurt? Did he ever view her parents as anything more than a nuisance? Your pain is not human. Your fear is not human. You are a monster. You deserve to die.
He moans out a word. It’s muffled by the gag. There’s blood on his face, across the front of his shirt. He has a wound under his eye. Scratches across his neck. What they did to him. What we did to him. “Help. Please help.”
I can’t move.
He says something else. It sounds like, “Sorry.”
Wendy marches up to the car and slams the trunk shut. When she turns to look at me, I’m still frozen, the beam of my flashlight hitting the rear bumper.