Brandy and Tick turned toward her. Tick’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were blank with surprise. Brandy’s mouth was creased in a hard, straight line.
“You’re taking the boat to shore now,” Alex said to Tick.
Tick started to move forward, but Brandy put out her hand to block his way. Her eyes never left Alex’s face. “Give me the gun,” she said.
Don’t look at her, Alex told herself. “Hurry up!” she ordered Tick.
Brandy took a step forward.
“Don’t move!” Alex said as she pointed the gun at Brandy’s chest.
Brandy took another step forward. “Give me the gun,” she said. Her voice was as cold as stone.
“Stop right there!” Alex cried.
Brandy kept moving.
“Take it easy, Brandy,” Tick warned.
“I’ll shoot you!” Alex cried out. Her voice was high and thin.
Brandy came closer. Now! Alex told herself. Now! Stop her!
The weight of the pistol seemed to grow heavier in her hand.
“Who are you kidding?” Brandy scoffed. “You’re not going to shoot me.”
Alex’s finger stiffened on the trigger. She felt tears on her cheeks. Brandy slowly stretched out her hand.
Then suddenly, with one quick move, Brandy snatched the gun. Alex felt a rush of relief and shame as Tick lunged forward and grabbed her arms.
“That’s it,” Tick said. “I’m gonna shoot her in the foot. I’ll mess it up good. Otherwise, she’s going to try something, next chance she gets.”
“You just hold her,” Brandy said. “I’ll take care of this.”
Brandy slammed the gun down on Alex’s shoulder. Feeling white-hot pain racing through her, Alex cringed. Yet she couldn’t help noticing Brandy smile.
She wants power, Alex realized. She wants me afraid.
Alex screamed. It wasn’t hard to sound scared. Then Brandy hit her again and again. Alex screamed and cried. Begging Brandy to stop, she swore that she’d never try to escape again.
When Brandy finally turned away, Alex hung like a rag doll in Tick’s arms. He dragged her to the hold and let go. She half-fell, half-slid down the ladder and onto the mattress.
Soon Alex slipped into a pain-filled, dream-like state. Her mind wandered through the past. She remembered her mom watching her at ballet practice. Most mothers ran errands during practice sessions. Millie Shaw had patiently sat through every one.
Alex remembered the parties. One Halloween, Mom had dyed a dozen sheets black. Then she’d made them into tunnels for kids to crawl through. They were hung with plastic spiders and cobwebs. For a whole day, she and Mom had decorated orange and black cupcakes.
For Easter, there was more than an egg hunt. She and Mom wrote directions to find the eggs. Mom made up riddles—really funny ones—for clues.
Nobody forgot Mom’s parties.
Alex seldom saw her dad. Usually he came home after she was asleep. And he was often away on business trips. But it didn’t matter much. Alex had always been her mom’s little girl.
Dad made more and more money. First, there was the swimming pool and pool parties. Almost every weekend all summer long the backyard was full of friends. They sold the mountain cabin. Now, for vacations, they went to Paris or Bali. They moved to a bigger house with six bedrooms and four bathrooms.
Then, one day Alex came home and found her mom crying. She had cancer.
When Mom started taking medicine, her hair fell out in clumps. She got a wig that looked almost real. Alex hated it. For Alex’s fourteenth birthday, Mom planned a garden party. She hired a ballerina to perform. But the day before the party, Mom fell and couldn’t get up. Alex gave the cake and candy and sandwiches to the maid. To cancel the party, she emailed the guests. She couldn’t bear talking to people on the phone.
Three months later, her mother was dead. More than 100 people came to the funeral. Everyone had loved Millie Shaw. Important people from Dad’s business came, too. They looked smug and not at all sad in their expensive suits. Alex looked at them with disgust.
With her mother gone, Alex felt like an empty shell. There was a full-time cook in the house now, and a maid. Alex ignored them, drifting through the quiet rooms like a ghost. Friends came, but she didn’t want to see anyone. After a while, they stopped coming.
She wanted her father, but he worked longer hours than ever. Once she was so lonely she called him at work. He let her talk, but she could tell that his mind was somewhere else. She didn’t call again.
Dad didn’t care about her ballet. He’d once said, “You can’t make money dancing.” Invitations to her recitals were mailed to the house. She tore them up before he could see them.
She did tell him about the man who followed her, one day after school. She’d called the police on her cell phone. After that, he’d hired Jerrilyn to protect her and drive her around. Jerrilyn had been a friend—before she was a traitor.
Alex couldn’t trust anyone, even herself. With the gun in her hand, she’d had a real chance. But no. She’d backed down. You’re weak! she told herself. Weak like a puppy. Like a limp worm. She started to sob, and then hated herself even more for crying.
Alex slept until shafts of daylight shone through the porthole. Now she could feel sharp twinges in her shoulder.
She found three small bags of chips lying at the bottom of the ladder. She ate them all. Then she shook every crumb into her palm and ate those, too.
Trying to keep her shoulder still, she lay down again. Suddenly, she was alert. Someone on deck was yelling—Brandy.
Alex climbed partway up the ladder and listened. Over the chugging of the motor, she heard the words “motel” and “Jerrilyn.”
Alex’s mind whirled. Had she really heard Jerrilyn’s name? What did it mean?