“Call me as soon as you get back. I’ll be at Knead for a while.”
“I will,” he says. “And I’m sorry again. About everything.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, deciding not to tell him what happened with Ben.
We hang up, even though I can tell he wants to talk some more. I close my eyes again, trying to take Spencer’s and Wes’s advice to heart, to remind myself that I am human, that I’m bound to make mistakes, and that what’s important is that I learn from them.
I just hope Ben feels the same.
I SPEND ANOTHER HOUR at Knead—wedging out my clay, forming it into shapes, and then smashing it back down against my work board. It’s almost therapeutic.
That is, until I hear the pinging sound inside my head—the one from the alarm clock in Adam’s car.
And so, I sculpt the clock, hoping that it may help make sense of why I’m hearing the noise in the first place. But sculpting it only makes the ringing louder, almost deafening, forcing me to clean up and head home.
It’s late, so my parents don’t really say too much or notice how fried-up-and-eaten I look. Mom just mutters something about how she and I need to talk tomorrow, and Dad complains about his yoga-aching back.
I escape to my room, wondering why Adam hasn’t called me yet. I plug my cell phone into the charger and make a mental note to call him first thing in the morning.
Meanwhile, it feels like my body is shell-shocked. I reach for my comforter to lessen the chill. I take a sip of water to ease the dryness in my mouth. ChapStick for my cracked lips. Music to drown out my thoughts. The window open wide to allow the breeze to blow right through me—to make me feel awake, when every part of me feels tired, dead, numb.
But nothing seems to ease this ache. And I only feel colder, more confused, more isolated than in all my life. Still, I tell myself that I need to get some sleep. And then I lie down on my bed, hoping that exhaustion will take me.
My alarm clock goes off, startling me. I smack the snooze button, but it continues to blare—a high-pitched squeal that makes my head pound. I sit up in bed and yank the plug.
Still, it rings. And suddenly it dawns on me—it isn’t my alarm clock at all. The ringing noise is inside my head.
“When the clock bells chime,” I whisper, remembering the twisted little jingle that played from the clown doll, and the time that flashed on the alarm clock.
Five o’clock. But obviously not five o’clock in the afternoon like we’d thought. Five o’clock in the morning.
Exactly thirty minutes from now.
I grab my cell and try Adam’s number, but it goes straight to voice mail. I hop out of bed and pull on my coat, slip on some shoes, and tack a note up for my parents. I tell them I need to borrow the car for a friend-in-crisis emergency, and that I’ll be back for breakfast.
The streets are dark and slick this morning. I end up skidding a couple of times, going way faster than I actually should. Finally, I get to Adam’s apartment and park right out front, despite the sign warning me that I’ll be towed.
The building looks especially eerie in the dark. The roads surrounding it are virtually still. I edge the car door open and enter the main lobby. The smell of something acidic—like cleaning fluid mixed with paint remover—smacks me in the face. I look around in search of the source, when a slamming noise startles me. I turn to find that the door has just shut behind me.
A clock on the wall tells me it’s almost five o’clock. I quickly climb the stairs, tripping on the step at the very top. Now on Adam’s floor, I go to his door and knock. I wait a couple of seconds before trying the knob. But it’s locked. And he doesn’t answer.
I try his cell number again. Still no luck.
I beat against his door with my fist, knowing he must be inside. Meanwhile, the alarm clock continues to ring inside my head—so loud that I almost have to cover my ears.
Finally, the door opens a crack.
Piper is there. “Oh, hi,” she says, clearly embarrassed. She puts her hands up to cover the V-neck of her top, as if she were wearing something revealing, even though she’s completely dressed. “Adam’s still sleeping. We were up pretty late last night.”
“So, I woke you?”
“Well, it is five a.m. on a Sunday morning.”
“Oh,” I say, noticing that she’s wearing a fresh coat of lip gloss, and that her hair looks perfectly groomed.
“I really think you should go,” she says; her voice is sharp.
“I just want to see Adam for a minute.” I try to peek past her into the apartment, but she does her best to block my view.
“Don’t you have your own boyfriend to worry about?” she asks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Piper starts to shut the door in my face, but I stop it with my foot.
“Go!” she insists. “Adam and I are busy.”
“I thought you said you were sleeping.”
At the same moment a clamoring sound comes from Adam’s bedroom. I push my way past Piper and head in that direction, but she grabs my arm, attempting to hold me back.
“This is your last warning!” she barks.
I manage to pull away, but she snatches my arm again.
And cuts me.
Blood trickles from my forearm, through the sleeve of my jacket, dripping onto the rug. It takes me a moment to spot the knife in her hand. The handle is red, with an end that curls downward, and the tip is jagged.
It’s just like the knife that Aunt Alexia painted.
I glance back at my arm, trying to stop the bleeding with my coat.
“Looking for more fun? Because it’s too late to turn back now.” She comes at me with the knife again, but I’m able to dodge her by sticking my foot out at the right moment. She trips, falling to the floor with a thud.
I hurry into Adam’s bedroom. He’s tied to the bed. There’s a strip of duct tape across his mouth. I hurry to his side, anxious to get him free.
A second later, Piper shoves me from behind and I go toppling onto the bed. “Against the headboard,” she demands. “Place your hands where I can see them.”
I do what she says, my mind scrambling over how to get us free.
“That’s what you really want, isn’t it?” she continues. “To be in my boyfriend’s bed? To steal him away from me?”
“You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Do I? So, you kiss all your friends like that?” She gestures toward the photo on Adam’s night table. It sits on top of a stack of crossword puzzles. Apparently, he never went to the police after all. “The time is now,” she continues, motioning to the alarm clock.
I can’t quite tell if it’s ringing or if the noise is still just inside my head. I look toward Adam’s hands, bound at the wrists with duct tape and attached to the headboard.
“Impressed?” she asks, referring to her handiwork. “I drugged him while he slept. He woke up like this.”
“You can’t do this,” I say, wondering if I can distract her—if, for just a second, I could reach into my pocket and call the police.
“Why not?” she asks. “Because you’re here to save him? Maybe that’ll just make things more interesting.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My plan was to give him an ultimatum,” she explains. “Either he’d be with me in life, or he’d be with me in death. Of course, now that you’re here, maybe you’ve been thinking about killing yourself, too. From what I hear, your life has been pretty depressing lately. It wasn’t long ago that you were getting stalked as well. Adam told me all about it—about how your ex-boyfriend took candid snapshots of you, how he drugged you and tied you up in the back of some trailer. Tell me you’re not still suffering from the repercussions of all that. Not to mention that your boyfriend broke up with you recently…”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, no?” she asks, seemingly disappointed. “But he still must’ve been pretty upset, especially after seeing th
at photo. Maybe his disappointment was too much for you to handle.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What do you think, Adam? Is Camelia suicidal?”
“You’re crazy,” I whisper.
“You’re right.” She giggles. “I am. My shrink thinks so, too. She used to record our sessions together before she ended up dumping me. But you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Because no one can help me. And so I’ve decided to help myself.”
“And being with Adam will make things right? You’ll still have issues.”
“But he’ll help me get through them. Adam is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the only one who really gives a shit.”
“Please,” I insist, inching forward. “Let’s get you some help.”
“No!” she shouts, prompting me to scoot back again. “I don’t need help.” She slices the air with her knife.
Adam grunts a couple of times, as if he wants to talk. Keeping an eye on my hands, Piper orders me to remove the tape from his mouth. I take an end of the duct tape and peel it away.
Adam coughs before he’s able to speak. “Please, just let Camelia go.”
“It’s too late for that,” she says, tapping her palm with the blade. “You know what I think?” She narrows her eyes, looking at me. “I think that once you saw how close Adam and I were, you started feeling really depressed—so depressed that you decided to kill yourself.”
“Just leave her out of this,” Adam tells her. “I love you. I always have.”
Piper’s lip quivers. She seems taken aback by the words. “Then, prove it.”
“Come over here,” he says.
She hesitates. The tip of her knife cuts into the fabric of her jeans, but she doesn’t even notice.
“Please,” Adam says, angling his face as if he wants to kiss her.
She moves toward him, coming over to his side of the bed. Keeping her eyes locked on me, she places her lips over his mouth.
“Relax,” he whispers, apparently sensing how weak the kiss is, how Piper isn’t paying full attention.
She kisses him again, finally closing her eyes. Tears begin to course down her face.
A moment later, I dive at her, knocking her onto the floor. The knife shoots from her grip. I do my best to straddle her and pin her arms behind her, but she thrusts upward with her pelvis, and I go toppling off.
Piper struggles to reach the knife, a few feet away, in the corner of the room. I try to tug her back, grabbing at her shirt. She lets out a wail as I pull her hair.
She continues to move forward on her belly, toward the knife. I pounce on her back, trying to hold her in place, but she’s still able to grab the knife by the blade.
“No!” I shout, hoping that someone can hear us—can hear our struggles, can hear Adam’s sudden pleading with her to stop.
I scramble to my feet and hurry to the night table, in search of something—anything—to protect myself. I end up ripping the lamp right out of the wall, hoping I can use the heavy glass base as a weapon. Meanwhile, Adam continues to try to break free.
Piper comes at me with the knife. I thrust the lamp toward her head, but it smacks against her shoulder instead, and she merely staggers back as the lamp smashes against the floor.
She comes at me again, pressing me against the wall. My shoes slide on the broken glass. “You were so depressed,” she whispers, pressing the tip of the knife against my neck. “When you found out that Adam was in love with me, you couldn’t bear to live another day.”
“No,” I whimper, trying my best not to swallow.
“You cut your own throat with this knife.”
“No!” Adam screams.
She presses the tip harder against my throat. I feel a trickle of blood roll down my neck. I try to think of something to say—anything that will finally get her to stop. Adam begs for her to come to her senses, insisting that he won’t be with her if she doesn’t.
I’m overcome with dizziness. My body weakens, and I feel myself start to falter.
At some point, Piper is pulled off of me.
I blink a couple of times. There’s a swirl of gray around me as I slide down the wall, hearing her struggle.
It takes me a few moments to regain my breath, to be able to focus fully again.
That’s when I see Ben.
Wearing gloves, he struggles to grab the knife from her, his hands clenching her wrists. The muscles in his forearms flex.
“Ben!” I shout, as Piper lets out a whine. For just a moment, I think he’s going to break her wrists, but then he throws her onto the bed. She rolls off and hits the floor with a loud, hard smack. Blood gushes out her nose.
She gets back up and lunges at him, diving toward his midsection and throwing him backward onto the floor. On top of him now, she grabs the knife and drives it into his belly.
“No!” I hear myself scream. Ben lets out a wail that tears through my chest. I try to get up, but I stumble back.
Piper pulls the knife out of his belly.
Finally, I’m able to get up. My arm stings where she cut me, and my coat is stained with blood.
Piper holds the knife high above her head, ready to stab him again. The blade is as red as the handle now.
Just behind her, I muster up all the strength inside me and grab her arms, pulling them back. I squeeze the knife out of her grip. Piper jumps to her feet and swings at my head. Luckily, I’m able to dodge her and push her back. She goes down hard against Adam’s dresser.
I grab my phone. My fingers trembling, it takes me a couple of tries to dial 9-1-1. I tell the operator to have the police come right away and to send an ambulance. And then I hang up, noticing that Ben isn’t moving. It doesn’t appear as if he’s breathing, either.
I RUSH TO BEN’S SIDE and hover over his mouth, but I don’t feel his breath. I breathe into his airway, trying to remember everything I learned in health class about resuscitation. Adam helps by talking me through it, ordering me to remain calm, to lift Ben’s neck and apply pressure to his wound.
I shake my head, wondering what more I can do, and hear a ringing sound. At first I think it’s the alarm clock still blaring in my ear, but then it dawns on me that it’s the phone. I cut Adam free, and look toward Piper. She’s passed out in the corner of the room.
Finally I answer the phone. It’s the 9-1-1 operator, asking me all these questions about what happened. “He’s been stabbed,” I blurt. “He isn’t breathing.”
“Who’s been stabbed?” the operator asks. “Where is the wound?”
“In his stomach.” I cover my mouth at the sight of him—at how unresponsive he is, at how blood has pooled all around him on the floor.
A moment later, I hear sirens. Soon, three police officers and a couple of paramedics come barging into the room. The medics go right into action on Ben, ordering me out of the way. They stick a ventilation mask over his face to try to get him breathing again.
“Please,” I whisper, feeling my whole body tense.
The medics assess Ben’s stab wound, place a dressing on it, and apply pressure. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” one of them says, starting an IV line.
“Is he going to be all right?” I ask.
No one answers. Meanwhile, a second group of medics comes in to assess Piper. They place her on a stretcher, though it seems she’s regained consciousness. She glares at me.
Will Ben be okay? I scream inside my head, not sure whether the words actually come out. Part of me is afraid to know the answer.
The medics check Ben’s level of alertness by asking him questions and examining his pupils. They recheck his oxygen mask to be sure he’s breathing.
Finally, he is.
At some point, one of the medics notices my wounds. He starts to bandage me up, but I’m not really focused on me. I just can’t stop looking at Ben.
“Will he be all right?” I ask again.
Still no answer.
Together, two medics lift Ben
onto a stretcher. One of them calls the hospital, stating what the situation is and that they’re coming right away.
“Please,” I insist. “Let me come, too.”
The medic who bandaged my arm stares at me for about half a second, as if trying to decide. Finally, he agrees. Meanwhile, Piper is placed in a second ambulance. And Adam is taken to the police station to make a full report.
THE RIDE TO THE HOSPITAL goes by in a blur, sirens screaming, lights flashing. A heart that’s almost stopped (mine).
But thankfully, Ben’s keeps beating.
Once we arrive, a couple of nurses hold me back, insisting that I need to be checked out for any additional injuries.
“I’m fine,” I tell them, literally dragging my feet along the linoleum flooring. “I just want to stay with Ben.”
His face is pale. His eyes are peacefully shut.
Still, Ben and I are separated. While he’s whisked off into another area entirely, I’m ushered into a crowded waiting area—at least fifty people are there—where the receptionist tells me to fill out some forms.
“You don’t understand,” I explain. More tears streak down my face. “My boyfriend was stabbed. I need to be with him.”
But it’s as if she doesn’t hear me. She slides a clipboard full of forms at me. I reluctantly take them and begin to fill out my name, but when she isn’t looking, I sneak away and head in the direction of where Ben was taken.
I start down a long corridor, peeking into rooms at the left and right, finally spotting the medic who tended to my wound. “Where’s Ben?” I ask; my throat is sore and raw.
He hesitates, but then leads me around the corner and through a set of double doors. He gestures to a room at the very end and suggests that I take a seat on the bench outside it.
“No,” I tell him. “I want to go in. I want to be with him.”
“You can’t go in. He’s in critical condition.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, desperate for a bit of clarity, for someone to be honest with me.
“Do you have his parents’ contact information? Is there anyone who should know he’s here?”