ROSALIE
TUESDAY, JANUARY 23
I tell Amanda I’ll call 911 when I hear our signal, but it’s a lie. As soon as Carter walks into the building and Amanda steps in front of the doorway, blocking the exit, my gut says this confrontation scene was a terrible idea. I force myself to stay and listen for a couple minutes, to be sure I’m not overreacting. I’m not. I can feel it crackling in the air all around me; something seriously bad is about to happen. Carter admits he’s Private, and I’m done. I am not sticking around for the rest of this. I creep silently around the side of the building until I’m back in the parking lot, out of earshot. Then I dig out Ben’s phone and dial.
I try to be as clear as possible with the 911 operator. I tell her our location, and that it’s Carter—not the boys in the truck—putting Amanda in danger.
“We didn’t have a call-back number for you,” she says, as if this is going to help anything now.
“I’m on a borrowed phone. A different one. Is someone coming?”
“We have two uniformed officers en route. A marked car will be arriving in a few minutes; I’d like to keep you on the line until they get there, okay, Rosalie?”
“Okay.” I stamp my feet against the pavement in a mix of cold and impatience.
“Are you sure you’re safe where you are?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. “Please tell them to hurry.”
Carter’s and Amanda’s voices pitch up from the gym. He’s yelling. She’s yelling. I’m too far away to make out what they’re saying, but my pulse spikes.
“How much longer?” The operator doesn’t give me a straightforward answer.
Their voices rise again. Any amount of time is too long—even if I did unload the gun. While Amanda was outside, my headlamp and I found the latch for the chamber, and it popped right out. Five little bullets slid into my hand. The sixth one’s buried somewhere in the rubble where I shot it. The thing about handguns is, they’re really not so complicated.
But gun or no gun, Carter Shaw is dangerous.
And this is taking too long.
I scan the parking lot. The Gallaghers’ truck might have had something useful inside, but it’s long gone. The shovel I found earlier is still in the gym. I imagine myself smashing Carter’s head in with a brick, and bile floods my mouth. I spit onto the pavement. When I look up, my eyes land on my bike, still propped against a planter. While the operator tries to keep me talking, I squat down next to it and run my fingers along the chain, searching for the quick link.
“Hold on,” I tell the operator. I put her on speaker and slip the phone into my coat pocket.
With both hands free, I toss my gloves to the ground and place my fingers on either side of the link. I squeeze. It takes several tries, but finally the links compress and the chain pops open. I run it through the chain guides and around the ring, guiding it off my bike. Laid out long, it’s four and three quarters feet, nearly as long as I am tall. When it’s free, I dig Ben’s phone back out.
“I’m losing the signal,” I lie to the operator. Then I end the call.
I look up and down Foster one more time. Two cars pass, but there are no sirens, no sign of help coming. Inside the gym, Amanda screams.
I run.
• • •
Moonlight slices one piece of the gym floor into a pale triangle. The rest is darkness. I step silently through the doorway, and at first I only see the white glimmer of Carter’s back, hunched over something on the floor. The gun is discarded to his right, glinting and useless in the moonlight. Then I see a flash of green—Amanda is pinned beneath him. His uninjured hand clamps down on her mouth, and his cast cuts a dark line across her neck. He’s facing away from me.
I stretch my arms apart, extending three feet of chain in the air between them. The remaining links are wrapped tight around my gloved hands. I squeeze the metal tight and say a quick prayer. Jesus, if you’re listening. Give me strength.
Then I lunge toward Carter, reach the chain over his head and down across his arms and chest, and yank him toward me. We go flying back and land on the gym floor, hard. He stinks of sweat and rage. I struggle up to a sitting position, bringing him with me, then pull back on the chain, pinning his arms to his sides and his back to my chest. There’s a crack as the metal snaps against his cast, and he howls. Through my gloves, the chain bites into my hands. I clench down harder.
“Amanda!” I yell. She’s still sprawled on the floor in front of us. In the moonlight, her dark hair spills around her face like a halo. She’s not moving.
“Rosalie?” Carter tries to twist around to face me, but I pull the chain tighter. My arms burn and his body heat sears through my coat. It makes my stomach turn.
“The cops are on their way—this is over,” I hiss in his ear.
He struggles hard, but the chain holds tight, leaves oily streaks across his white dress shirt. “What the fuck,” he spits.
I keep my eyes trained on the still body in front of me. Come on, Amanda. Move. Breathe.
Carter squirms again, and this time, he slips down, gaining some leverage. The chain slides up his chest and I redouble my grip. When I first pinned him, I had the element of surprise on my side. Now, I’m reminded of his strength. If he twists again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold him.
“We should be together,” he says through clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this?”
I answer his question with a question. “You knew about Paulina. Why didn’t you ask me to my face?”
He whimpers, a trapped animal sound. “You’re supposed to be with me,” he says, “not her,” and my suspicions about the deepness of Carter’s delusions are confirmed. Of course, he had no way of knowing what would have really happened if my father had seen those pictures. And that’s my fault, because I lied to him, big time. He probably envisioned a stern talking-to that would drive me deeper into his arms. I shudder.
In the distance, a siren wails. We both jerk our heads toward the door. Please, Jesus. Let that siren be for us.
Carter gives a massive wrench and my hold on him slips, chain sliding up higher and snagging on his shirt collar. His arms slide free and he grabs the metal to keep it from digging into his neck. I yank back, but the chain trembles in Carter’s grasp. Outside, the siren wails louder, closer.
“Don’t move.”
Amanda’s voice is a fragile scratch, a record skipping in the dark. I can hear the damage where his cast smashed down on her windpipe, but she’s speaking. She’s alive. And when she shoves herself up to a sitting position, she’s holding the shovel. Amanda lurches to her knees and crawls, shovel clenched in one hand, closing the distance between us. She leans forward and presses the metal tip into the soft skin at the base of Carter’s throat. “Don’t fucking move,” she hisses.
The sirens pitch up to a high wail, and the sound of car tires screeching into the lot fills the gym. Two doors slam.
“Logansville Police!” a voice shouts. Four feet pound the pavement outside. “Carter Shaw, come out with your hands in the air.”
Amanda lowers the shovel, I relax my grip on the chain, and Carter struggles to his feet.