The Girl in the Wall Read Free Page B

dad was just killed.
    A shiver runs down my spine because if Abby was here, she would probably have been killed too, and that is unthinkable.
    “I said to shut up,” the guy says, calmly.
    Everybody shuts up. The sight of a gun cradled in the arms of a guy who just shot two people will have that effect. Two other people with stocking caps are efficiently wrapping a tarp around the bodies that used to be Bianca and my father like they are meat in a butcher shop. My stomach lurches and I look away.
    “Everyone sit down and keep quiet,” the guy standing in front says.
    Once again, everyone obeys. I glance over to the spot by the microphone and the wrapped bodies are already gone. The rug has been pulled forward to cover any lingering stains. It’s as if nothing happened. What’s really weird is that now it almost feels like nothing happened, even though rationally I know my entire life has just changed completely. Does this not-feeling mean I am in shock?
    It’s only then that I think about John Avery. I’ve known John since I was born. John is the same age as my dad, fifty-five, but he’s slight and frail from having bad asthma and looks about ten years older, with his wispy salt-and-pepper hair and deep wrinkles from spending way too much time working. He was the one who came to my kindergarten graduation when my dad had a last-minute business trip to Bermuda. He’s the one who brought me roses when I had the lead in the middle school musical and yet again my dad was away. And he’s the one who made sure I had follow-up medical attention after the stuff happened in Mexico. I’m not deluded enough to think he did it out of the kindness of his heart—he did it because his job is to do what my dad says and my dad told him to go film the graduation and the musical and to make sure the Mexico thing was handled. But I think the roses were John’s idea. And he really did look proud when I walked across the stage when I was five.
    I scan the room but then I remember he left before the concert, not toward the front door but toward the back stairs that lead to the upstairs office suite. He is up there now, probably working on something for my dad, with no idea what is going on down here. Unless they’ve already killed him too.
    And now I finally feel something. First comes fear, with a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth. Then briefly a piercing, biting pain slices down so deep it takes my breath away. Then comes the anger. That one is familiar, my default setting. That one I can handle. It burns icy cold in my belly but we’re old friends and I welcome the anger. Anger makes me act and I like action. It’s sitting around feeling things like fear and pain that I can’t handle.
    So I lean back toward the grate, ready to hear what the guy who assassinated my dad has to say for himself.
    “This is a hostage situation,” he says. “Be aware that the house and grounds are heavily guarded. There is no escape. But no one will hurt you and soon you will be free, as long as you do what we say, when we say it.” He pauses, as though to let this sink in. Like anyone is going to go against their orders. They’ve taken pampered high school students hostage, not Navy SEALS.
    “You are free to be in this room, and with permission, the bathroom, and the kitchen. Anyone who steps outside of these rooms will be shot.” One of the girls gasps. It is surprising to hear him say those words in the same exact tone he used to assure everyone that no one would get hurt. “Right now we need your cell phones, cameras, and computers. The agent in back will collect those.”
    The agent in back has a big bag and he or she begins walking around the room. I look back at the first gunman, the one who murdered my dad and Bianca. Years ago Sera and I watched a movie on late-night cable about a guy who terrorized a small town, shooting defenseless people point blank on the street, and they called him The Assassin. That’s who this guy is.
    It’s