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  It will take me eight minutes to drive home, even if I speed. I try not to think about what could happen in eight minutes, but of course that’s all I can think about, visions of blood and Janey’s screams filling my mind.

  Then the man looks down. I can see his shoes: polished black leather, little tassels with brass horseshoes holding them in place. Crisply creased charcoal colored slacks. Much too nice for the cracked pavement of our concrete stoop. The camera gives a little shiver and his hand appears. In it is a large folding knife—the kind hunters use to skin their kills.

  “No!” I yell, my voice hoarse. “Please, King. No!”

  “You knew the consequences. I’m a man of my word, JohnBoy.”

  The man flicks the knife open with one hand.

  The screen goes black.

  4

  This is all my fault. The thought echoes through my brain and I can’t stop it. Just like I can’t stop King’s man from hurting Janey.

  As I drive, wrestling with the old Ford F-150’s propensity to spin out on sharp curves taken fifteen miles an hour too fast, I keep trying to call King.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Finally, I turn down the lane my uncle lives on. There are only four houses, clustered together at the end, with big, wide yards carved into the forest that surrounds them. My uncle’s house is the second one in, a redbrick ranch with a small barn out back. He keeps saying he wants to get a horse—Janey would love a horse—but it’s too expensive. He’s got six acres, most of it gone wild. Behind his house are some woods and past them another small clearing with an abandoned single-wide trailer.

  The truck skids as I twist the wheel to turn into his driveway and slam on the brakes. I heave the driver’s door open and almost trip and fall in my hurry to get inside. There’s no sign of the man from the video. No sign of anyone.

  I barge through the front door. “Janey!”

  The house is silent. I run past the living room on the right—the TV’s on, PBS, but no Janey. Dining room on the left—empty. Kitchen—empty. “Janey!” Now I’m screaming, all my fear and anger exploding into my voice.

  I hear footsteps from the hall leading to the bedrooms. There are three bedrooms. Janey shares one with my mom; I get my own and so does my uncle, since it’s his house. I turn down the hall, my hand in a fist, ready to hit someone. Ready to kill.

  “I’m sorry, Jesse,” Janey says as she comes out of my room. She’s carrying a padded envelope the size of a school binder. “I was just gonna leave this—”

  “Janey,” I gasp, rolling her into my arms and hugging her so tight she makes a squeaking noise. We fall to the floor—mainly because my legs can’t support my weight—and I pull her down with me. “You’re okay.”

  She pushes away. “What’s wrong, Jesse?”

  I heave in a breath, then another. Reach out to hug her again, gentler this time. “Nothing.”

  She hands me the envelope. “I know I’m not supposed to go in your room, but—”

  She has no idea that I don’t want her in my room because King is always watching everything that goes on in there. He can control any camera, maybe even any computer, that’s connected to the Internet—that’s how powerful he is.

  I can’t stand the idea of him ever, ever catching sight of her. Too late for that now, I guess.

  “That’s right,” I say with mock sternness as I take the envelope. Inside there’s something small and heavy with squishy stuff wrapped around it. I shove it into my backpack, drop the pack to the floor. “Don’t go in my room. Or else.”

  I make her favorite oggly-woogly-scary monster face and she squeals in delight, running past me to the living room. I chase after her, taking care to never force her to run too fast, but I know she loves it, being treated like any normal seven-year-old. I let her tackle me and clobber me with pillows, until I see her getting congested and the slightest bit wheezy, then I beg for surrender.

  She spins around, hoisting the pillow with triumph as I climb to my feet, acting like it’s me who’s out of breath.

  “Get your vest and I’ll fix you a snack,” I tell her, handing her the special vest that vibrates all the mucus out of her lungs before it gets too thick for her to cough up. She hates the damn thing, but the rule is no TV unless she does her chest PT.

  Janey has cystic fibrosis, which means living with a lot of rules. Thanks to my mom’s constant vigilance, Janey is doing great, but between worrying about her and paying all the doctors’ bills and getting her to her appointments at Children’s Hospital three hours away in Pittsburgh and working two part-time jobs, one cleaning a nursing home, the other cleaning a hospital in Altoona, my mom barely has time to breathe, much less worry about me.

  Used to be my dad helped out a lot—especially with me, since all the medical stuff, measuring and timing and shit pretty much freaked him out—but since he’s been gone, it’s down to me to be the man of the family. Mom tells me not to worry, that my uncle will always take care of us, that he’ll always give us a roof over our head, but of course that only makes things worse.

  So many secrets, so many lies—is it any wonder that some days it feels like I’m sleepwalking through my life, numb to the world?

  Not today. Today King’s threats and the visit from his goon squad have me wide-awake. As I slice an apple for Janey, I peer out the kitchen window, searching for any signs of the man with the fancy shoes and sharp knife. My own knife feels small and flimsy—should I get a gun? How can I protect Janey?

  I grab Janey’s enzymes and take her the snack. I zip her into her vest as she looks past me, mesmerized by the TV, and start the chest PT machine. She swallows her enzymes without me even needing to prod her and settles back as the vest hums and whirls, gently pounding her chest wall. I squat beside her. “You good to go?”

  She nods, her chin quivering in time with the vibrations. “Turn up the sound.”

  I adjust the volume on the TV, kiss her on the head, but she’s already gone, following Dora the Explorer on a trip into the jungle.

  I know the answer of how to protect her, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I spin away, unable to look at her anymore—she’s such a sweet kid, the thought of anyone hurting her…it’s too damn painful—and finally I go to my room and the laptop that sits on the desk facing my bed. King is waiting.

  But he doesn’t use the computer—he’s like that, enjoys keeping me off balance. Instead he calls on the phone.

  “Where is he?” I demand.

  “Waiting. Watching. He likes your baby sister.” King laughs.

  “No. Get rid of him. No one comes near Janey. Not ever again.” I sound strong. Defiant. Like I might actually stand up to him this time. We both know better.

  “There’s a price to pay,” he says. As if I could forget. “You’ll owe me.”

  “What do you want?”

  He pauses. I have no idea what King really looks like—I’ve only ever seen what he wants me to see. Hell, I’m not even sure if the voice I hear is really his.

  Three years and seven months we’ve been at this. In my mind, he’s a cross between Heath Ledger’s Joker and Ted Bundy. As the silence lengthens while I wait to hear what my punishment will be, I imagine him licking his lips, tasting victory.

  “It’s time you made some new friends. And then introduce me to them,” he finally says, his voice sounding just like my uncle’s when he calls me down to help him in his basement workshop. A tone that makes my bowels go loose.

  I grab my stomach, clenching it as I force the panic from my voice. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re getting too old for most of my clients. Unless they see you with other boys. Younger boys.”

  “You want me to—” I can’t even finish the thought. The phone almost slips free from my grasp. I stare at it. It’s in my hand. But I can’t feel it. My fingers have gone numb. My entire body
is a block of wood—except for the acid burning inside me. I reach for my Zippo in my back pocket. I need fire, flame, a spark of life.

  “I want you to have some fun. Like your uncle does with you.”

  I flip the lighter open. Inhale the rush of butane. Stare, mesmerized by the dancing flames caught in my hand. So many colors, so much power.

  My life is dull, dead, gray. I have no colors. I have no power. All I have is anger, simmering like the flames before me, buzzing through my veins where no one can see it. Where I won’t—can’t—let anyone see it.

  “What’s it going to be, JohnBoy?” King asks in a businesslike voice. Paper or plastic? Do you want fries with that? Diet or regular? “You or your little sister?”

  I can’t answer—no words can make it past my clenched jaws.

  King knows just how far to push to get me where he wants me. “Take the weekend,” he says magnanimously. “I want your decision by Monday.”

  He hangs up.

  The flame cradled in my palm weaves its magic, moving in time with my breathing. Fury burns through me. I snap the lighter shut, killing the fire.

  That’s when I decide I no longer have any choice. I’m going to hunt King down. Find him. And kill him.

  It’s the only way to save Janey and Mom. My uncle I couldn’t care less about—this was all his fault to start with.

  And me? Who cares what happens to me? I sure as hell don’t.

  5

  Miranda had just finished revising her suicide note when her mom knocked on her bedroom door and came in.

  “Mom.” The single syllable carried the aggrieved righteous annoyance of an entire generation.

  They both knew it was a poor attempt at normalcy. Fake it until you make it, Miranda’s first therapist had said. Smile until it kills you, Miranda had heard. It about did. Shortly after was the first time she tried to kill herself.

  “I just saw the mailman leave.” Her mom stood in the open doorway, trying not to stare as Miranda carefully closed her journal and tucked it under her pillow. She’d earned that much privacy, and her parents always honored their part of the contract. Even if Miranda cheated. It was for their own good. “Let’s go out and get it.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes at her mom’s falsely cheerful tone. She bounced up from her bed, a twin-sized mattress and box spring on a basic frame, covered in a simple bed-in-a-bag set of sheets and comforter. On their budget they couldn’t afford better, not that Miranda cared. She rarely slept anyway. Too much work to do, too little time left. “Oh goody, let’s.”

  Mom laughed and shook her head so her short, dark curls bounced. She knew Miranda was mocking herself more than anyone. After a beat, Miranda allowed herself to laugh as well. Why not? Her entire life was some kind of Orwellian farce. It would be funny if it wasn’t happening to her—to them. Mom and Dad had lost as much as she had, had paid the price for Miranda’s mistakes.

  A single moment of carefree fun, captured by the wrong screen at the wrong time. And now all their lives were forever changed for the worse. Yet, her parents never gave up on her, no matter how bad things got.

  Things would be so much easier if they had—then Miranda could just give up, surrender. But they stood by her, so she had to find the energy to keep trying. She owed them that much—and so much more.

  She snagged her mom’s hand and squeezed, laid her head on her shoulder—their shorthand for a full-body hug. Together they walked down the hallway of their tiny two-bedroom apartment to the front door.

  Her mom waited, letting Miranda take the lead, just like Dr. Patterson said to. Miranda reached a hand for the dead bolt but didn’t touch it. She wanted to turn it. Not just once, but three times, magic three. Three was safe—just like funny five and lucky seven. Not two, never two—two wasn’t company, two was a crowd, a dangerous, chaotic, people-get-hurt crowd.

  Miranda froze, her hand hanging there like she’d forgotten it belonged to her. She could turn the lock, but then what?

  “Go ahead,” Mom coaxed.

  Miranda closed her fingers around the cold nickel. Flip-flap-flip, one-two-three, open-closed-open sesame. The door was unlocked. Miranda stared at the lower knob, the one that would open the door to the outside world. Instead of touching it, she stepped to the door and pressed her eye against the peephole.

  The hallway outside their apartment was empty—at least as far as she could tell. What if someone came as soon as she opened the door? Or worse, when she’d already stepped outside and the door was closed behind her and it was too late to get back inside? Or maybe they’d be waiting for her on the elevator down to the lobby mailboxes, or if she took the stairs, they’d be coming up while she was going down, and they’d trap her on the steps, with nowhere to run or hide?

  And what if they followed her back home, came inside, found her parents, hurt them? Hadn’t her mom and dad been hurt enough already?

  Miranda slumped against the door, eyes closed, shutting out the world beyond. This was why it’d be so much easier for everyone if she did go ahead and kill herself. It really was the safest thing. Why couldn’t her parents or Dr. Patterson see that? It made sense; was logical, practical, cheap, efficient…and third time was a charm—three, a safe, magic number.

  Her mom rubbed her back, between her shoulder blades, just like she had when Miranda was a little girl and had the flu. Disappointing Mom and Dad was almost as painful as facing the world outside. Almost.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” Miranda sighed. It was so hard turning around and seeing the look on Mom’s face. The unshed tears, the way her shoulders slumped.

  “We don’t have to go all the way,” Mom said. “Remember your contract, Miranda. One step at a time, but you need to keep moving forward.”

  Anxiety buzzed along Miranda’s nerve endings when she realized her mom wasn’t going to let her slink back to her room and hide in safety. “Please, not today, Mom. I’m working on a really important project.”

  Liar. All her projects had failed miserably. Oh sure, she’d been able to help a few kids who’d fallen victim to cybercappers and other bullies, but none of them knew the capper she searched for: the man who’d destroyed her and her family’s lives. The Creep.

  Unlike other cappers who used their stolen videos and photos for a quick buck or to bully people their own age, the Creep specialized in blackmailing kids, young kids. It was as if he delighted in tormenting them, and by catching them young, he’d have plenty of opportunity to devise new ways to torture and compel them to do what he wanted.

  Over the past few months, once the Creep started the countdown to her birthday, posting ugly messages hinting at his plans, Miranda had sent more than a dozen letters accompanied by old cell phones her dad found when he moonlit as a security guard at the Smithfield Telenet Arena.

  Thirteen messages, in fact—a safe number she’d thought, although maybe it really was unlucky, but how could it be when it was created by two of the best numbers of all, one and three?

  Thirteen lifelines offered. Thirteen attempts to save others from the fate she suffered. Thirteen times she’d let herself hope that this was it, that this would be the one, the path to finally finding the Creep and finishing him before he could hurt her family again. Lucky thirteen—the boy called JohnBoy. She’d really thought he might be the one to save her.

  But he hadn’t answered. Just like the twelve before him. Thirteen failures.

  She didn’t have the energy to hope anymore. Or the time. Her fifteenth birthday was Sunday. She shuddered, hugging herself to hide it from her mom, who still watched, although her eyes had gone dull with disappointment. The Creep would strike again—a birthday surprise, his last post had promised—and she couldn’t be here to see what torture he devised for her family this time.

  That’s why Dr. Patterson’s one step at a time didn’t matter. By Sunday, Miranda would either have beaten the Creep or she�
��d be out of steps. Permanently.

  “Just open the door,” Mom said. “You can do it.”

  Miranda stood still. The clock on the living room wall clicked away the seconds. Mom stood still as well, acting like she could outwait Miranda. But they both knew she had to get to work.

  “Ariel—” Mom’s voice wasn’t angry or upset, no longer disappointed even. Just flat-out sad.

  “Don’t call me that!” Miranda spun on her mom. Her mom, once upon a time, had been an MFA student, studying literature. A published and critically acclaimed poet, she had named her daughter after a beautiful spirit in one of Shakespeare’s plays, not some silly Disney mermaid. But Ariel was dead, buried these past two years thanks to the Creep. “Never call me that!”

  Mom just sighed, turned, and walked back down the hall to get ready for work. Miranda stared after her for a long moment. Then she yanked the front door open so fast a wave of air from the hall flew at her face. Quickly she slammed the door shut again. One. But three was a better number. Three held magic and luck—she needed all she could get.

  She held her breath, fear knotting her stomach as she opened and closed, opened and closed the door. Finally, her body covered with a fever sweat, she locked it. Clack-click-clack.

  Shame burned her, tangled so deep with her terror that she couldn’t unravel the two. She knew these feelings, these thoughts she couldn’t control were crazy—hey, it’s okay to use the word when you’re living it—but she was powerless against them. Which left her vulnerable to the real threat.

  Not stranger danger lurking in the hall of her apartment building. Not the fear that if she didn’t find good, safe numbers her family would suffer.

  The real danger was out there, waiting and watching. The Creep.

  She ran back to her room, her sanctuary, and threw herself facedown on the bed. The only sound in the room was her strangled breathing from under the pillow, each breath counting down to her birthday in three days. The day the Creep had promised to return.