Picking up the envelope, I tear it open and pull out the note.
Dear Daisy,
I can’t believe I’ve been remiss. I should have insisted you move home the minute I heard about the incident across the hall from my apartment.
God, why does he always have to say it like that—“my apartment”? I read on.
It’s too dangerous for you to remain, so I’ve taken the liberty of moving your necessities back home. Everything is set up in your bedroom. All you need to do is bring yourself. See you soon.
Love, Dad.
No. Fucking. Way.
With both hands, I rub my face up and down. I’m tired. It’s late. And I’m done.
Flopping back onto my bed, I’m thankful Gage lent me his sweatshirt; otherwise, all I’d have to wear is this dress. Staring at the ceiling, I see a spider skitter across above me. I watch to make sure it doesn’t stop above me and slither down a piece of web. Or maybe it’s poisonous and he or she could go ahead and end this bullshit for me.
That could work.
No. I’m not suicidal. On the contrary. For the first time in a long time, I feel overwhelmingly strong. Like I’m ready for battle.
With a sigh—and the assurance the spider is gone—I roll over to my side. I’ve got to think. I mean, when did he plan all of this? It had to be today. Not only that, how’d he know I was gone tonight?
Suddenly, my body feels cold. The realization hits me like a Mack truck. I know how he knows—the prick’s been monitoring me.
Sitting up, I look around my bedroom and shake my head. “No.” No way he’d have a camera in my bedroom. Right?
Sliding out of bed, I walk into the living room and stop in the middle. Turning slowly in my spot, I scan the room, looking for anything that’d hide or obscure a camera. I know they’re small now because I researched them for other reasons.
Never mind. Trust me. I know they’re small.
I rotate around two times, looking at everything that remains after my father ransacked my place. It’s then I see the perfect location for a camera. In the far corner of the living room, above the television, is a small shelf. On it I’ve got a few collectable items from trips we took when I was young. Back when we were a family. There’s a snow globe from the Grand Canyon, various postcards, a keychain from a trip to Disney, a shot glass from Mount Rushmore, and the last item—from the time we went to a Chicago Cubs game—a bobblehead doll of Cubby Bear.
Moving slowly like I’m about to pounce on a rattler, I reach the shelf and stare up at Cubby Bear. Leaning as close as I can, it’s then I spot it. Cubby Bear’s eyes aren’t the same. One is painted a matte black, but the other? It’s shiny like glass. Reaching up, I take the toy in hand and pull the head away from the body, making the spring inside stretch. And there it is: several wires all attached to a tiny battery pack. Instead of ripping it from the head like I want to, I hold Cubby Bear out. Using my middle finger, I raise it slowly so he can see what I’ve discovered and to say “Fuck. You.”
Now I reach in and yank out the wires. With those in one hand, I march into the kitchen and open drawers until I find the scissors, which I use to cut the wires up into tiny pieces. Tossing away the wires and Cubby Bear, I make my way back into my bedroom. Exhausted, I lie down, wrapping Gage’s sweatshirt around me for warmth. And I cry.
Chapter Twenty
Gage
I’m at the station before seven. When I walk in, I’m shocked to see Dan here. “Have you been at it all night?” God, I hope not. I’d feel like shit if he stayed while I had dinner with a pretty girl and then slept like a log.
“I left about two. Slept for a few hours, then came back.” He pushes several items in front of me. “I think I’ve got something. Look—”
Just as he starts to speak, Finch steps in with a cup of coffee. Damn, I could use a cup right now. “Hey,” he says, his voice sounding sleepy. “Sorry I’m late.”
I look at the clock and see it’s 7:01 a.m.
“No sweat.” I nod to Dan. “He thinks he’s found something.”
“I don’t know if it has anything to do with anything, but I thought it was worth a looksee,” Dan explains.
Staring down at what looks to be report cards, I ask, “What are we looking at?”
“These are from last year.” He points to the first page. “Fall term. Midterm grades.” I look at the page he’s referring to and read through her list of classes. She was enrolled in Math 140, Biology 201, Art History 280, and English 228.
I’m not sure which courses the numbers represent, but as I’m about to pull my phone out to check, Finch has beat me to it. Reading from his own phone, he says, “Math 140 is Algebra.”
“Okay.”
“Biology 201.” He pauses. “Intro to Environmental Issues.”
“Art History 280 is pretty self-explanatory,” I say.
Finch nods. “English 228 is….” He nods after a beat. “Got it. Survey of American Lit since 1865.”
Now that we know the courses, I look at her midterm grades. She had A’s in both her art history and biology classes. In math, a C-. But the midterm grade for English? “She had an F in the American lit class.”
“Yep, an F,” repeats Dan. “Now look at this.” He pulls out the second sheet. “Her final grades for fall.”
“Wow. She really turned it around in English,” Finch says with a nod.
I look at the sheet. Finch may be right. She got her shit together and raised her grade from an F to
