The Start – Part 2
Two Months Later
That was the problem with the day, the rain falling down in droves. Parker Biztel ducked under the eaves of a store, leaning out of the downpour but not close enough to the boarded windows to get splinters. Most of the stores on the street were abandoned, the decaying walls covered in graffiti.
Parker pulled up the zipper of his hoodie, trying to ignore the chill that made his chest ache. He had been on the streets for thirteen days now, ever since his mom’s new boyfriend had kicked him out.
As the rain fell in white sheets, Parker replayed the events over in his head, just as he had been playing them for almost two weeks.
He had walked home from school, dragging the old backpack that held all his tenth-grade homework. He was the youngest in his class, not yet fifteen, having skipped third grade.
The house smelled like pot and rotten food, and the toddler was screaming in her crib, reeking of dirty diaper. His mother’s newest guy, Jim, was in the kitchen, smoking and yelling on the phone. Jim had come into the house three months ago, deciding he liked Sandra Biztel enough to put up with her teenage son and toddler girl.
Jim had huge arms from his stint in the marines, and he kept his hair cut short which gave him a lean, tight, ugly expression.
“Hey, where’s Mom?” Parker had started to put down his backpack, but he stopped at the look on Jim’s face.
Jim hung up the phone, took a long drag from the cigarette, and looked at Parker. “She’s in the hospital.”
Silence rung in Parker’s ears as he blinked several times. “What? When I left she – she – what?”
“Overdose,” Jim shrugged. “I dropped her off at the ER. She called – they hooked her up to machines and they’re going to send her to prison or rehab. Either way, she’s gone.”
Kayleen was screaming bloody-murder from her crib, and Parker made a move to get her, but Jim put a hand out to stop him.
“Naw, leave her. Your mom told me to take her to the police station and drop her off. They’ll take her to foster care.”
Parker stood frozen, unable to speak.
Jim ran a hand over the tattoos on his wrist, puffed on the cigarette, and continued, “You can do whatever you want.”
“But we live here. Mom said –”
“We’re two months behind on the rent. They’re kicking us out anyway. Get anything you want out of your room and go.”
“No! No, Mom had money from her job when – you asshole, you spent it all on drugs. You put Mom in the hospital –”
Jim was up out of the chair so fast that Parker didn’t have time to step back. Jim punched him in the stomach, and Parker toppled to the floor.
With the air knocked out of him, Parker lay there, his eyes wide open in pain and shock as Jim kicked him twice.
“You’ve got two choices,” Jim said. “You get out of here now or I break your arm and then you leave.”
Parker reached a shaky hand to the table legs and gripped it, rolling to his side as he wheezed for breath. “I’m – I’m going. Don’t hurt Kayleen.”
Dizzily, Parker crawled for the door. Jim kicked him once in the rear to hurry him up, and the minute Parker got over the doorway, the door slammed.
Parker had eventually made it to his feet and went down the stairs. He had gone to three hospitals, looking for his mom, but none of them had a Sandra Biztel in their computers. Parker hadn’t known if he had the wrong hospital or if his mom had used a different name. She did that sometimes to avoid bill collectors.
After that, Parker had gone to a police station, but he had stood in front of the gray building for twenty minutes before he walked away. The police would put Kayleen in foster care because she was a toddler, but Parker did not want to think about foster care. He had been there once for a month when he was ten when his mom tried to rehab, but he had hated all of it. He had been stuck with three others boys in a room with two bunk-beds, and the clothes they had given him were too big, and they had all kinds of rules that he had to follow. Their house had smelled just as bad as his mom’s apartment, the food was just as bad, the school was awful, and Parker had thought that if he had to put up with all the crap he should at least have the freedom to do whatever he wanted.
Foster care wasn’t an option.
But at fourteen, he couldn’t go to an adult shelter; they would send him to foster care. School couldn’t help him – they would call foster care.
All roads had led to foster care, except for living on the streets.
And he had done it for nine days now . . . eating out of trash cans, sleeping under newspapers, and wandering around the city.
He stunk in his worn clothes, his face broke out into painful acne, and his shoes started falling apart. The first two days he had tried not to cry whenever he was alone, but eventually the pain ebbed away into numbness.
The day after being kicked out, Parker went back to the apartment, in case Jim had changed his mind or on the possible chance that his mom had returned. The apartment door was locked, and no one was inside.
Here, after nine days, the rain poured down in cold sheets, and Parker huddled against the side of buildings. His dirty sneakers stood on a piece of newspaper that yelled in capital letters HART FORTUNE NOW IN DAUGHTER’S HANDS.
Two hours later, Parker made it to the edge of the nicer part of the city where empty stores were replaced with trendy shops. All the buildings had keycards or codes to get in, but not doormen.
An older woman with dark glasses, an umbrella, and a bag of groceries headed to the door of the complex, and as she pushed in the code, a box of crackers from her bag fell down.
Parker stepped forward and picked them up, handing them to her.
“What? Oh, thank you, young man,” the woman took them from him. “I can barely see in all this rain. Did you forget your code?”
“Um, yes,” Parker said suddenly.
“Well, come in,” the woman held open the door. “I shouldn’t be out in this rain – I can barely see as it is. Push the elevator button.”
They got onto the elevator, and the woman kept talking. “Oh, my, this elevator smells so bad. People carry all their trash out, I guess. What floor?”
Parker edged back from her in a far corner of the elevator, wishing the rain had washed all the grime off him better. “Seven,” he blurted out.
“All right, I’m on eight. I suppose you just got out from school.”
The elevator stopped at floor seven, and Parker stepped out as the old woman wished him luck. He stood in the hallway as the elevator doors closed behind him and stared at a row of shut doors.
The third door on the right had several fliers hanging from the door knob and a pile of newspapers on the doormat.
Fighting against the terror rising in his chest, Parker went to the door and tapped.
No answer.
He tried the knob. Locked.
Another hesitation, and he brushed the newspaper off the mat to look underneath.
Nothing.
He brushed his fingertips over the top of the doorframe. Then he felt the cold, hard metal of a key. He grabbed it, put it in the lock, and turned it.
The apartment on the other side was dark and still with the blinds closed and lights off.
Parker closed the door and stood there, shaking. He didn’t plan on stealing anything, but it felt so good to be inside out of the rain. Out on the street, he felt the compulsion to keep moving so as not to alert the suspicion of the police or anyone else that might notice that he hung around too long. But inside this apartment, he was safe for the time being.
On impulse he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Inside was empty except for condiments and a stick of butter. The trash can under the sink was empty as well, and judging from the cool, stale air, no one had been here for a while.
Parker took off his coat and tried to ignore the dirty, sweaty smell of his own body. A shower would have felt better than anything, but he was too tired and hungry to think about washing up.
He found a package of crackers in the cabinets and ate it before he could even think about the fact that he was stealing. He drank some water from the faucet, cupping it into his hands and gulping it down.
The bedroom was neat and almost empty. A girl definitely lived there as evident by the pastel painting on the wall and the little figurines on the bedside table.
Parker went to the window and peered between the blinds. Outside the rain poured down hard, and people were rushing on the sidewalk to get under the awnings. But inside the apartment, he stood, safe and dry.
The bed had a light gray comforter on it and deep white pillows that looked so inviting that Parker could barely resist falling into them. He looked around for something to lie on so he wouldn’t get the bed dirty, but he couldn’t find anything. There was always the floor, and the carpet felt deep and plush, but – screw it.
He flopped down on the bed.
A minute later he was asleep.
Veronica shoved her purse on her shoulder as she walked down the main entrance room of Hart Mansion. She hated the way her high heels clipped on the marble floor, but she rarely wore anything else with her knee-length skirts, button-down shirts, and business coat. She kept her hair back in a ponytail, refusing the different elaborate hairdos her personal dresser had suggested. A simple ponytail, minimal makeup, and silver hoop earrings was her preference.
On the weekends, she wore exercise clothes, claiming to go work out, which she did, but loving the comfy cotton feel instead of stiff, ironed fabric.
She worked tirelessly between her father’s office in their main building downtown and his private office. She met with clients and other CEOs, with Clint always by her side. He prompted her throughout, handing her important documents so she could look like the power figure behind her father’s business.
Clint never spoke about their initial meeting, and Veronica never brought it up. Inside she still seethed with rage, but outwardly she appeared calm and confident.
For the most part, she didn’t understand why Clint had insisted that she had to represent the business and the family as she thought he could have easily managed it without her. As for her father’s nefarious dealing and deep debts that Clint had inferred, Veronica couldn’t see any evidence of that as everyone was exceedingly polite to her and all the accounts seemed aboveboard and honest.
Of course, she hadn’t met her father’s main competitor, Brandon Hillmont, so perhaps that was where the main threat lay. She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to ask Clint for anything.
It was a different lifestyle, having everyone do stuff for her. A staff cleaned the mansion, bought her clothes, cooked for her, and managed the bills. Veronica often found herself going to bed by eight so she could have a few minutes to herself, sitting on her bed and reading on her computer until she fell asleep, the screen still bright on her tired face.
She had passively taken it all on, letting herself be manipulated and managed, but her calculations were keen. She just needed to know enough to plan a coup and get Clint fired or arrested or something to get him out of the way. Then she would get her brother out of the psych ward. The last step would be to flee America with a few hundred-thousand dollars and go somewhere she and Greg could hide forever.
Today, however, was Saturday and Veronica had dressed up even though she had no one important to meet. She walked towards the front door, determined and strong.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Clint appeared by the door, almost out of nowhere.
“I’m going to my apartment,” Veronica replied. She had negotiated with him about keeping her apartment and paying the rent until she had time to properly evacuate it. Clint had agreed reluctantly, only because she had agreed to wear whatever the wardrobe consultant had suggested.
“What do you need from there?”
“I have a photo album I want,” Veronica lied. “I’d like to get it.”
“I’ll send someone for it.”
“Look, I have no appointments today. No one to meet. I look like a Hart should, I will uphold the company name. I want to drive to the apartment by myself and get my own stuff.”
“Is this about the will contestation?” Clint cocked his head to the side.
Veronica tried to hide her feelings, but one doubtful blink gave her away.
“Miss Hart,” Clint stepped closer, and Veronica resisted the urge to back up. “The will stands. I know Tina and Brad have lawyers, and Patricia will show up with her fancy lawyer, but the will is unbreakable. The only loophole they could possibly play is if you are declared mentally unstable and we all know you are not mentally unstable.”
“I don’t care about them contesting the will,” Veronica pressed her lips together. “I just don’t want to see them.”
“We’ve been over this. Our lawyers will be there, and you don’t have to say anything. But if you don’t show up, they’ll insist on involving you even more. You’ll sit there for a few hours Monday and then that will be the end of it. Simple and painless.”
“All right, I’ll go. But I’m going to my apartment now, alone.”
Clint reached out to stop her, and Veronica stepped back and yanked out the gun from her purse.
“Jeez!” Clint jerked back. “Where did you get that?”
“My father gave it to me,” Veronica allowed herself the smallest of smirks. “It is loaded, and I would hate for it to accidentally go off.”
“Give me that before you hurt yourself,” he held his hand out.
Veronica resisted the urge to shoot him in the leg. “I have been your puppet, Clinton. I have done everything you wanted without complaint for two months. But I am going out by myself today. I’ll be back in two hours. If you can’t get me two hours of freedom, maybe a busted kneecap will help change your mind.”
“I could get that gun away from you,” he warned, his usually handsome face drawn in frown. “You’d just end up shooting yourself.”
“Come at me then,” with the gun still on him, Veronica opened up her free arm in invitation. “Whoever is still in one piece gets to go out alone.”
He considered for a moment. “Just two hours? You go to your apartment and come right back. No side trips?”
“There and back,” she nodded.
“And you keep your cell phone on?”
“I’ll wear a seatbelt and drive below the speed limit.”
He hesitated, then finally agreed. “All right, just this once.”
“Go get me a car,” Veronica gestured with the gun.
He stalked away, his shoes clipping angrily on the floor.
The car he drove around was a small black sedan, and he held the door open while she got in.
“When you come back, I’m taking that gun,” he threatened as he stood over her, his hand on the top of the car. “For goodness’ sake, make sure the safety is on and keep it in your purse the whole time. If you’re not back in two hours, I’m sending someone after you. Do not stop for anyone, and if someone asks who you are, give them a fake name.”
“Get bent,” Veronica slammed the door and pealed out away from the house.
She felt freer than she had ever felt before as she drove into the city, going a tad faster than she had to and swerving enough to give Clint heart palpitations if he had been there. Honestly, she had expected a bigger fight; she had dreaded that he might overpower her again, zip-tie her limbs, and carry her upstairs over his shoulder.
Her hands trembled slightly on the wheel as she turned onto the street where her apartment lay. She had never considered herself weak, vulnerable, frail, but she suddenly was aware of how many people were out on the street – a few homeless, a gaggle of men in front of the liquor store, several tough-looking youths coming out of a shoe store. Before she had walked right past them, maybe even smiled politely or grinned at a random whistle, but now she felt intimidated. Any one of them could easily overpower her, beat her down, subdue her.
“Get a grip, get a grip,” she hissed under her breath as she pulled into a metered parking space in front of the apartment building. “You are not a victim. No one is going to stop you – just get out and go in the door.”
Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the car and locked it, her purse clutched tight. She tried not to run, but her footsteps were hurried and shaky as she went to the doorway and pressed her door card against the reader. It beeped, the door unlocked, and she went inside.
“Idiot, fucking idiot,” she seethed as she waited for the elevator. “That’s what he’s done. He’s turned you into a victim. A scared little white girl who needs protection by a big, strong man. Shit, shit!”
The elevator opened and she stepped inside, barely resisting the urge to beat her fists on the metal inside of the lift. She had a wild desire to hurt someone, even herself, to pummel her own flesh until pain overcame her rage.
She managed to compose herself until she got to her apartment. She put the key in but it didn’t turn.
The door was already unlocked.
Veronica’s lips trembled for a second. It wasn’t fair. This was a safe apartment – people didn’t break in. In the five years she had lived there since she graduated college, she had never felt in danger. Never, ever, and now someone had broken in. She would have to run, run for safety, run back to the mansion where she was protected, sheltered, kept safe from the big, bad world.
“Screw that,” Veronica reached for her gun.
She went inside to the dim room, the cold light of a rainy day shining through the windows. No one was in the living area, but someone had been in the kitchen. The cabinets were open, and crumbs lay scattered on the counters.
She eased to the bedroom, gun aimed in front like all the cop shows she had seen. With her toe, she nudged the door open slowly.
A boy was lying on her bed, asleep.
For a second, Veronica thought about shooting him, unloading the gun on him in rage. But she paused. He was a dirty, thin thing, grimy and filthy – his face marked with pimples and dirt. And he smelled awful.
He was sound asleep though, and Veronica sidestepped silently to her closet. She crouched down and grabbed the metal handcuff at the bottom of a costume box. She had gone to a work Halloween party as a cop a year ago and had purchased a pair of metal handcuffs to complete the outfit. Several guys had hit on her, a few making teasing S&M jokes about being handcuffed to her bed while she had her way with them, but this time she was not joking.
One hand holding the gun, the other hand easing the handcuffs open, she approached the sleeping boy on the bed. Her bed had a metal headboard attached to the bed-frame. One of the guys from the party had come home with her, and she had handcuffed one of his hands to the headboard. They had been laughing, slightly tipsy from the alcohol of the party, and she had told him not to pull too hard because the headboard’s metal poles weren’t that strong, and he had laughed. They had made out for a few minutes until he jiggled his trapped wrist insistently and she unbuttoned her shirt and showed him the key tied to a ribbon around her neck. He had taken if off with his teeth, unlocked his wrist, and proceeded to make love to her in hot, rushed passion. He was very sweet, but he transferred to another business across the country and they fell out of touch.
That had all been fun and games, but Veronica was not laughing now. And while the poles couldn’t hold up against the strength of a grown man, they would hold up against a puny teenager.
The kid lay on his side with his hands up by his head.
The element of surprise would be on her side.
“Just do it,” Veronica gently placed the gun on the side bureau. “Do it, do it, do it!”
She snapped one cuff on his wrist, yanked it up around the main pole of the headboard, and pulled his other wrist into the cuff and locked it.
She jerked back with the gun aimed at him as he snapped awake.
“Wha –” he blinked sleepily. He tried to move and saw his trapped wrists. Then he looked up and saw Veronica with the gun.
His scream was so high and loud that she almost shot him.
“Shut up!” she shouted. “Shut up or I’ll kill you right now.”
He tried to sit up, and she came closer.
“Stay still. Stay still, you dirty piece of crap. Stay still. Move and I’ll kill you. You broke into the wrong apartment. I am going to call the police and they’ll haul you off to jail.”
“I’m sorry,” the kid’s face was terrified, his eyes full of tears. “I’m sorry. I just wanted out of the rain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t call the police.”
His voice, barely past puberty, cracked as he started crying.
It was sadly pathetic, Veronica realized. The kid couldn’t be older than his early teens. She was ready to fight a monster, and instead the kid was falling apart.
“Stop it, pull yourself together,” she snapped. “I want answers from you right now. You’re going to tell me everything, then I’m calling the police and having them drag you out of here.”
“Don’t do that,” he pulled against the cuffs. “Let me go and I swear you’ll never see me again. I didn’t steal anything, I promise. I just wanted out of the rain.”
“I’m asking the questions,” Veronica thrust the gun forward.
The kid ducked his head into his arms, shying away from the barrel of the gun.
“Oh, you want to play hardball?” Veronica felt slightly giddy with her own power. “We can play hardball. I’m dying to play hardball.”
“Don’t shoot me!” the kid hollered.
Veronica marched up to her bathrobe, yanked off her sash, and approached the foot of the bed. “Move, and I’ll blow out your knees.”
With her free hand, she looped the sash around his thin ankles and tied it. She put the gunon the floor and looped the sash tight around his ankles. He didn’t move, just stared at her in shocked fear.
She picked up the gun. “Last chance to talk,” she warned, but she held the gun down by her side, the nose pointed at the ground.
He glanced nervously from her face to the gun and back to her face, shaking his head.
“You just made my day,” Veronica smirked.
She walked over to her vanity, feeling the kid’s eyes follow her. She pulled open several drawers until she found what she wanted – a wooden-back hairbrush.
She turned around, holding up the brush. “Do you know what this is?”
“A brush?” the kid blinked rapidly.
“Good. Do you know what it’s for?”
“B-brushing your hair?”
“Yes, that’s its primary goal,” Veronica grinned, almost wickedly. “But it can be used very effectively for other jobs.”
She stalked to the bed. He gave her one frightened look and then buried his face in his arms, trying to cover and protect his head.
“Not aiming there,” she set the gun on the bureau, well out of his reach. She pressed down on his right hip, pressing him facedown into the bed, and smacked the brush down hard on the seat of his dirty jeans.
“Ow!” he jerked.
“That got your attention,” Veronica swatted him again.
“You stupid bitch!” he screeched.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
“OOOWWWW!”
“Call me that again and I’ll give you twenty smacks without stopping.”
He glared over his shoulder, teeth gritted. “You can’t hit me.”
“I’m not hitting you. I’m spanking you.”
“You can’t spank me. I’m fourteen. No one spanks anyone anymore. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe if people were spanked more, they wouldn’t break into apartments,” Veronica pointed the brush at his face. “And I got news for you – I can spank you a lot longer than you can take it.”
She whacked him again, and he thrashed against the cuffs and the sash.
“You – you – you –”
“Call me the C-word,” Veronica warned, “and I’ll give you a hundred.”
“I’m not calling you anything,” his face was screwed up tight in pain. “I’ll answer any questions you want.”
Veronica tried not to look too pleased with the surge of power that ran through her. She felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying her power so much, especially since she was essentially in the same place that Clint had been in two months ago and the kid was in her place, helpless. But the difference was that Clint had barged in on her life and this dirty kid had broken in.
“I’ll ask, and you answer. You lie to me, and I spank you again. What’s your name?”
“Parker.”
With a shake of her head, she brought the brush down with a sharp snap.
“Oh! Parker Biztel. No, no – Parker Thomas Biztel.”
“Okay, I didn’t need the middle name. You’re thirteen, fourteen?”
“Uh-huh, three months from fifteen.”
“Where are your parents?”
He swallowed, but she gave him a second to answer. “I never knew my dad. My mom has been on drugs, off and on. She had a boyfriend – Joe. He moved in and kicked me out. He said my mom was in the hospital, but I couldn’t find her. He disappeared. I had a half-sister, just a toddler, but she’s gone, too.”
Veronica paused. “How long have you been on the streets?”
“Nine days,” a shudder shook his body, and she saw how thin he was under his ratty clothes.
“Why didn’t you get help?”
No answer.
She sighed and smacked him, not too hard, but in warning that there were more to come.
“Where was I supposed to go?” he sounded aggrieved.
“Homeless shelter? Youth hostel?”
“They’ll send me to foster care. I’ve been there already. I’m not going back to those fucking –”
She swatted him lightly. “No swearing. You can answer questions without using dirty words. Why did you go to foster care if you had a mother?”
“Are you stupid?” Parker seemed defiant, but he squirmed away from the brush in her hand. “Kids with parents go to foster care all the time. My mother couldn’t take care of herself, much less me and my sister. She lost all her teeth to meth, and she was in and out of rehab.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No.”
“I will have the police run a drug test on you, Parker,” Veronica threatened.
He blinked at the stern use of his name. “I’m telling the truth. Mom has always been in and out with drug users, and they’re all gross. They never have any money and they can’t work.”
“Even if you haven’t done drugs, I’m sure you’ve smoked something,” Veronica was surprised at how schoolmarm-ish her voice sounded.
“I tried a cigarette once,” he tensed, waiting for the smack. When it didn’t come, he continued hesitantly, “But I didn’t like it. The kids at school ignore me for the most part and don’t ask me to join in.”
“I’m sure you’re failing out of school anyway,” Veronica made her tone lofty and dismissive.
He actually bared his teeth at her in a snarl. “I am not. I skipped third grade. I’m good at school, at all subjects except history. I’m the highest in most of my classes, but everyone hates me because I’m younger than them and poor and never have clean clothes or anything cool.”
“Well, did you think you would be able to stay in school and live on the streets?”
He lowered his head.
“Stay in school!” she gave him three swats with the hairbrush to emphasize every word. He hollered and twisted, but his struggles were half-hearted and she could hear him sniff back tears.
She had run out of things to ask him. She settled in the empty chair about six feet from the bed and watched him. He rubbed his face against his sleeves, trying not to cry obviously. He gave her a glare and muttered, “Witch.”
“Parker,” she warned.
“I didn’t say the other word,” he protested.
“You’re not calling me names at all,” she pointed the brush at him.
“I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Veronica. What were you planning on doing in my apartment?”
He glanced warily at the brush, but he decided she was too far away to wallop him without getting up. “I was just going to sleep here for a while. I’m sorry I ate your food, but I was so hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. Most of the trash I find is stale and I would do anything for some real food. I thought I could sleep here for a few hours – I haven’t slept inside since I got kicked out and even then I was sleeping on the sofa. I just wanted a little sleep and then I was going to go.”
“Likely story,” she scoffed. “You were going to squat here until you got kicked out.”
He looked at his cuffed hands but didn’t say anything.
She leaned back in the chair, tapping the brush absentmindedly on her knee.
“Are you going to call the police?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. If your mom was on drugs all the time, how did you get to school so much? Most users don’t care about making sure their kids get to school every day.”
“She left me with a neighbor a lot. Mrs. Gumble. She made me go to school. She got me to take the tests that let me skip a grade. She told me that I had to go to school if I ever wanted to get out of the place we lived in. But when I was ten, we moved to this city and now . . .” he trailed off.
Veronica was shocked to feel her own eyes prick with tears. She schooled her face, resolving herself to be strong. “All right – you want to prove that you’re not a slacker? Who wrote The Declaration of Independence?”
“T-Thomas Jefferson.”
“Well, anyone would know that,” Veronica shrugged though she wasn’t sure many young teenagers did know that. “What’s the square root of 144?”
“Twelve.”
Veronica racked her brain for other high school questions. Most of her scholastic knowledge came from college, but she felt it unfair to ask college questions. The whole situation felt slightly ridiculous anyway with the brush in her hand and the boy bound on the bed.
“Who wrote Huck Finn?”
“Mark Twain.”
“What do trees take in and give off?”
“Carbon dioxide and oxygen.”
“Okay, when was the Spanish-American War fought?”
He blanched, and she got to her feet.
“Wait, wait!” Parker tensed. “I told you I’m not good at history.”
“Do you know the quadratic formula?”
“Negative B, plus or minus the square root of –”
“Oh, shut up,” Veronica reached for the sash around his feet and untied them.
“Are – are you letting me go?”
“No,” she picked up the gun, “but I am going to do something about the smell.”
She rummaged in the closet until she found the key to the cuffs. “I’m going to unlock you and you’re going into the bathroom to take a shower. When you’re done, you can come out with cuffs on your wrists and we’ll proceed from there.”
She unlocked him and he slowly sat up.
“You want me to take a shower? Are – are you going to be in there –”
“Don’t be gross! You stink and you need to wash. With soap. And a loofa. Maybe some sandpaper.”
She pointed to the bathroom with the gun and he stumbled in front of her into the good-sized bathroom. He was at least six inches shorter than her, but the lankiness of his limbs suggested he was at the beginning of a growth spurt.
With the gun partly aimed him, Veronica took out a loofa, washcloth, towel, and bar of soap. She stooped to open the bottom drawer of the sink compartment and pulled out an unopened toothbrush.
She put everything on the counter. “Scrub everywhere hard. There’s facial scrub in the shower to use on your face. Get all the oil and dirt off. Clean everywhere or I’ll do it myself. Leave your clothes in the trash.”
“And wear what?”
“I’ll find you some exercise clothes. Get busy. You have fifteen minutes.”
She stepped out, closing the door behind her. A minute passed with no sound. Then the shower turned on.
Veronica smirked as she sat down on the chair to wait. In the other room, her cell phone rang insistently in her purse. She ignored it and watched the closed door.
Two Months Later
That was the problem with the day, the rain falling down in droves. Parker Biztel ducked under the eaves of a store, leaning out of the downpour but not close enough to the boarded windows to get splinters. Most of the stores on the street were abandoned, the decaying walls covered in graffiti.
Parker pulled up the zipper of his hoodie, trying to ignore the chill that made his chest ache. He had been on the streets for thirteen days now, ever since his mom’s new boyfriend had kicked him out.
As the rain fell in white sheets, Parker replayed the events over in his head, just as he had been playing them for almost two weeks.
He had walked home from school, dragging the old backpack that held all his tenth-grade homework. He was the youngest in his class, not yet fifteen, having skipped third grade.
The house smelled like pot and rotten food, and the toddler was screaming in her crib, reeking of dirty diaper. His mother’s newest guy, Jim, was in the kitchen, smoking and yelling on the phone. Jim had come into the house three months ago, deciding he liked Sandra Biztel enough to put up with her teenage son and toddler girl.
Jim had huge arms from his stint in the marines, and he kept his hair cut short which gave him a lean, tight, ugly expression.
“Hey, where’s Mom?” Parker had started to put down his backpack, but he stopped at the look on Jim’s face.
Jim hung up the phone, took a long drag from the cigarette, and looked at Parker. “She’s in the hospital.”
Silence rung in Parker’s ears as he blinked several times. “What? When I left she – she – what?”
“Overdose,” Jim shrugged. “I dropped her off at the ER. She called – they hooked her up to machines and they’re going to send her to prison or rehab. Either way, she’s gone.”
Kayleen was screaming bloody-murder from her crib, and Parker made a move to get her, but Jim put a hand out to stop him.
“Naw, leave her. Your mom told me to take her to the police station and drop her off. They’ll take her to foster care.”
Parker stood frozen, unable to speak.
Jim ran a hand over the tattoos on his wrist, puffed on the cigarette, and continued, “You can do whatever you want.”
“But we live here. Mom said –”
“We’re two months behind on the rent. They’re kicking us out anyway. Get anything you want out of your room and go.”
“No! No, Mom had money from her job when – you asshole, you spent it all on drugs. You put Mom in the hospital –”
Jim was up out of the chair so fast that Parker didn’t have time to step back. Jim punched him in the stomach, and Parker toppled to the floor.
With the air knocked out of him, Parker lay there, his eyes wide open in pain and shock as Jim kicked him twice.
“You’ve got two choices,” Jim said. “You get out of here now or I break your arm and then you leave.”
Parker reached a shaky hand to the table legs and gripped it, rolling to his side as he wheezed for breath. “I’m – I’m going. Don’t hurt Kayleen.”
Dizzily, Parker crawled for the door. Jim kicked him once in the rear to hurry him up, and the minute Parker got over the doorway, the door slammed.
Parker had eventually made it to his feet and went down the stairs. He had gone to three hospitals, looking for his mom, but none of them had a Sandra Biztel in their computers. Parker hadn’t known if he had the wrong hospital or if his mom had used a different name. She did that sometimes to avoid bill collectors.
After that, Parker had gone to a police station, but he had stood in front of the gray building for twenty minutes before he walked away. The police would put Kayleen in foster care because she was a toddler, but Parker did not want to think about foster care. He had been there once for a month when he was ten when his mom tried to rehab, but he had hated all of it. He had been stuck with three others boys in a room with two bunk-beds, and the clothes they had given him were too big, and they had all kinds of rules that he had to follow. Their house had smelled just as bad as his mom’s apartment, the food was just as bad, the school was awful, and Parker had thought that if he had to put up with all the crap he should at least have the freedom to do whatever he wanted.
Foster care wasn’t an option.
But at fourteen, he couldn’t go to an adult shelter; they would send him to foster care. School couldn’t help him – they would call foster care.
All roads had led to foster care, except for living on the streets.
And he had done it for nine days now . . . eating out of trash cans, sleeping under newspapers, and wandering around the city.
He stunk in his worn clothes, his face broke out into painful acne, and his shoes started falling apart. The first two days he had tried not to cry whenever he was alone, but eventually the pain ebbed away into numbness.
The day after being kicked out, Parker went back to the apartment, in case Jim had changed his mind or on the possible chance that his mom had returned. The apartment door was locked, and no one was inside.
Here, after nine days, the rain poured down in cold sheets, and Parker huddled against the side of buildings. His dirty sneakers stood on a piece of newspaper that yelled in capital letters HART FORTUNE NOW IN DAUGHTER’S HANDS.
Two hours later, Parker made it to the edge of the nicer part of the city where empty stores were replaced with trendy shops. All the buildings had keycards or codes to get in, but not doormen.
An older woman with dark glasses, an umbrella, and a bag of groceries headed to the door of the complex, and as she pushed in the code, a box of crackers from her bag fell down.
Parker stepped forward and picked them up, handing them to her.
“What? Oh, thank you, young man,” the woman took them from him. “I can barely see in all this rain. Did you forget your code?”
“Um, yes,” Parker said suddenly.
“Well, come in,” the woman held open the door. “I shouldn’t be out in this rain – I can barely see as it is. Push the elevator button.”
They got onto the elevator, and the woman kept talking. “Oh, my, this elevator smells so bad. People carry all their trash out, I guess. What floor?”
Parker edged back from her in a far corner of the elevator, wishing the rain had washed all the grime off him better. “Seven,” he blurted out.
“All right, I’m on eight. I suppose you just got out from school.”
The elevator stopped at floor seven, and Parker stepped out as the old woman wished him luck. He stood in the hallway as the elevator doors closed behind him and stared at a row of shut doors.
The third door on the right had several fliers hanging from the door knob and a pile of newspapers on the doormat.
Fighting against the terror rising in his chest, Parker went to the door and tapped.
No answer.
He tried the knob. Locked.
Another hesitation, and he brushed the newspaper off the mat to look underneath.
Nothing.
He brushed his fingertips over the top of the doorframe. Then he felt the cold, hard metal of a key. He grabbed it, put it in the lock, and turned it.
The apartment on the other side was dark and still with the blinds closed and lights off.
Parker closed the door and stood there, shaking. He didn’t plan on stealing anything, but it felt so good to be inside out of the rain. Out on the street, he felt the compulsion to keep moving so as not to alert the suspicion of the police or anyone else that might notice that he hung around too long. But inside this apartment, he was safe for the time being.
On impulse he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Inside was empty except for condiments and a stick of butter. The trash can under the sink was empty as well, and judging from the cool, stale air, no one had been here for a while.
Parker took off his coat and tried to ignore the dirty, sweaty smell of his own body. A shower would have felt better than anything, but he was too tired and hungry to think about washing up.
He found a package of crackers in the cabinets and ate it before he could even think about the fact that he was stealing. He drank some water from the faucet, cupping it into his hands and gulping it down.
The bedroom was neat and almost empty. A girl definitely lived there as evident by the pastel painting on the wall and the little figurines on the bedside table.
Parker went to the window and peered between the blinds. Outside the rain poured down hard, and people were rushing on the sidewalk to get under the awnings. But inside the apartment, he stood, safe and dry.
The bed had a light gray comforter on it and deep white pillows that looked so inviting that Parker could barely resist falling into them. He looked around for something to lie on so he wouldn’t get the bed dirty, but he couldn’t find anything. There was always the floor, and the carpet felt deep and plush, but – screw it.
He flopped down on the bed.
A minute later he was asleep.
Veronica shoved her purse on her shoulder as she walked down the main entrance room of Hart Mansion. She hated the way her high heels clipped on the marble floor, but she rarely wore anything else with her knee-length skirts, button-down shirts, and business coat. She kept her hair back in a ponytail, refusing the different elaborate hairdos her personal dresser had suggested. A simple ponytail, minimal makeup, and silver hoop earrings was her preference.
On the weekends, she wore exercise clothes, claiming to go work out, which she did, but loving the comfy cotton feel instead of stiff, ironed fabric.
She worked tirelessly between her father’s office in their main building downtown and his private office. She met with clients and other CEOs, with Clint always by her side. He prompted her throughout, handing her important documents so she could look like the power figure behind her father’s business.
Clint never spoke about their initial meeting, and Veronica never brought it up. Inside she still seethed with rage, but outwardly she appeared calm and confident.
For the most part, she didn’t understand why Clint had insisted that she had to represent the business and the family as she thought he could have easily managed it without her. As for her father’s nefarious dealing and deep debts that Clint had inferred, Veronica couldn’t see any evidence of that as everyone was exceedingly polite to her and all the accounts seemed aboveboard and honest.
Of course, she hadn’t met her father’s main competitor, Brandon Hillmont, so perhaps that was where the main threat lay. She wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t about to ask Clint for anything.
It was a different lifestyle, having everyone do stuff for her. A staff cleaned the mansion, bought her clothes, cooked for her, and managed the bills. Veronica often found herself going to bed by eight so she could have a few minutes to herself, sitting on her bed and reading on her computer until she fell asleep, the screen still bright on her tired face.
She had passively taken it all on, letting herself be manipulated and managed, but her calculations were keen. She just needed to know enough to plan a coup and get Clint fired or arrested or something to get him out of the way. Then she would get her brother out of the psych ward. The last step would be to flee America with a few hundred-thousand dollars and go somewhere she and Greg could hide forever.
Today, however, was Saturday and Veronica had dressed up even though she had no one important to meet. She walked towards the front door, determined and strong.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Clint appeared by the door, almost out of nowhere.
“I’m going to my apartment,” Veronica replied. She had negotiated with him about keeping her apartment and paying the rent until she had time to properly evacuate it. Clint had agreed reluctantly, only because she had agreed to wear whatever the wardrobe consultant had suggested.
“What do you need from there?”
“I have a photo album I want,” Veronica lied. “I’d like to get it.”
“I’ll send someone for it.”
“Look, I have no appointments today. No one to meet. I look like a Hart should, I will uphold the company name. I want to drive to the apartment by myself and get my own stuff.”
“Is this about the will contestation?” Clint cocked his head to the side.
Veronica tried to hide her feelings, but one doubtful blink gave her away.
“Miss Hart,” Clint stepped closer, and Veronica resisted the urge to back up. “The will stands. I know Tina and Brad have lawyers, and Patricia will show up with her fancy lawyer, but the will is unbreakable. The only loophole they could possibly play is if you are declared mentally unstable and we all know you are not mentally unstable.”
“I don’t care about them contesting the will,” Veronica pressed her lips together. “I just don’t want to see them.”
“We’ve been over this. Our lawyers will be there, and you don’t have to say anything. But if you don’t show up, they’ll insist on involving you even more. You’ll sit there for a few hours Monday and then that will be the end of it. Simple and painless.”
“All right, I’ll go. But I’m going to my apartment now, alone.”
Clint reached out to stop her, and Veronica stepped back and yanked out the gun from her purse.
“Jeez!” Clint jerked back. “Where did you get that?”
“My father gave it to me,” Veronica allowed herself the smallest of smirks. “It is loaded, and I would hate for it to accidentally go off.”
“Give me that before you hurt yourself,” he held his hand out.
Veronica resisted the urge to shoot him in the leg. “I have been your puppet, Clinton. I have done everything you wanted without complaint for two months. But I am going out by myself today. I’ll be back in two hours. If you can’t get me two hours of freedom, maybe a busted kneecap will help change your mind.”
“I could get that gun away from you,” he warned, his usually handsome face drawn in frown. “You’d just end up shooting yourself.”
“Come at me then,” with the gun still on him, Veronica opened up her free arm in invitation. “Whoever is still in one piece gets to go out alone.”
He considered for a moment. “Just two hours? You go to your apartment and come right back. No side trips?”
“There and back,” she nodded.
“And you keep your cell phone on?”
“I’ll wear a seatbelt and drive below the speed limit.”
He hesitated, then finally agreed. “All right, just this once.”
“Go get me a car,” Veronica gestured with the gun.
He stalked away, his shoes clipping angrily on the floor.
The car he drove around was a small black sedan, and he held the door open while she got in.
“When you come back, I’m taking that gun,” he threatened as he stood over her, his hand on the top of the car. “For goodness’ sake, make sure the safety is on and keep it in your purse the whole time. If you’re not back in two hours, I’m sending someone after you. Do not stop for anyone, and if someone asks who you are, give them a fake name.”
“Get bent,” Veronica slammed the door and pealed out away from the house.
She felt freer than she had ever felt before as she drove into the city, going a tad faster than she had to and swerving enough to give Clint heart palpitations if he had been there. Honestly, she had expected a bigger fight; she had dreaded that he might overpower her again, zip-tie her limbs, and carry her upstairs over his shoulder.
Her hands trembled slightly on the wheel as she turned onto the street where her apartment lay. She had never considered herself weak, vulnerable, frail, but she suddenly was aware of how many people were out on the street – a few homeless, a gaggle of men in front of the liquor store, several tough-looking youths coming out of a shoe store. Before she had walked right past them, maybe even smiled politely or grinned at a random whistle, but now she felt intimidated. Any one of them could easily overpower her, beat her down, subdue her.
“Get a grip, get a grip,” she hissed under her breath as she pulled into a metered parking space in front of the apartment building. “You are not a victim. No one is going to stop you – just get out and go in the door.”
Her heart pounded as she stepped out of the car and locked it, her purse clutched tight. She tried not to run, but her footsteps were hurried and shaky as she went to the doorway and pressed her door card against the reader. It beeped, the door unlocked, and she went inside.
“Idiot, fucking idiot,” she seethed as she waited for the elevator. “That’s what he’s done. He’s turned you into a victim. A scared little white girl who needs protection by a big, strong man. Shit, shit!”
The elevator opened and she stepped inside, barely resisting the urge to beat her fists on the metal inside of the lift. She had a wild desire to hurt someone, even herself, to pummel her own flesh until pain overcame her rage.
She managed to compose herself until she got to her apartment. She put the key in but it didn’t turn.
The door was already unlocked.
Veronica’s lips trembled for a second. It wasn’t fair. This was a safe apartment – people didn’t break in. In the five years she had lived there since she graduated college, she had never felt in danger. Never, ever, and now someone had broken in. She would have to run, run for safety, run back to the mansion where she was protected, sheltered, kept safe from the big, bad world.
“Screw that,” Veronica reached for her gun.
She went inside to the dim room, the cold light of a rainy day shining through the windows. No one was in the living area, but someone had been in the kitchen. The cabinets were open, and crumbs lay scattered on the counters.
She eased to the bedroom, gun aimed in front like all the cop shows she had seen. With her toe, she nudged the door open slowly.
A boy was lying on her bed, asleep.
For a second, Veronica thought about shooting him, unloading the gun on him in rage. But she paused. He was a dirty, thin thing, grimy and filthy – his face marked with pimples and dirt. And he smelled awful.
He was sound asleep though, and Veronica sidestepped silently to her closet. She crouched down and grabbed the metal handcuff at the bottom of a costume box. She had gone to a work Halloween party as a cop a year ago and had purchased a pair of metal handcuffs to complete the outfit. Several guys had hit on her, a few making teasing S&M jokes about being handcuffed to her bed while she had her way with them, but this time she was not joking.
One hand holding the gun, the other hand easing the handcuffs open, she approached the sleeping boy on the bed. Her bed had a metal headboard attached to the bed-frame. One of the guys from the party had come home with her, and she had handcuffed one of his hands to the headboard. They had been laughing, slightly tipsy from the alcohol of the party, and she had told him not to pull too hard because the headboard’s metal poles weren’t that strong, and he had laughed. They had made out for a few minutes until he jiggled his trapped wrist insistently and she unbuttoned her shirt and showed him the key tied to a ribbon around her neck. He had taken if off with his teeth, unlocked his wrist, and proceeded to make love to her in hot, rushed passion. He was very sweet, but he transferred to another business across the country and they fell out of touch.
That had all been fun and games, but Veronica was not laughing now. And while the poles couldn’t hold up against the strength of a grown man, they would hold up against a puny teenager.
The kid lay on his side with his hands up by his head.
The element of surprise would be on her side.
“Just do it,” Veronica gently placed the gun on the side bureau. “Do it, do it, do it!”
She snapped one cuff on his wrist, yanked it up around the main pole of the headboard, and pulled his other wrist into the cuff and locked it.
She jerked back with the gun aimed at him as he snapped awake.
“Wha –” he blinked sleepily. He tried to move and saw his trapped wrists. Then he looked up and saw Veronica with the gun.
His scream was so high and loud that she almost shot him.
“Shut up!” she shouted. “Shut up or I’ll kill you right now.”
He tried to sit up, and she came closer.
“Stay still. Stay still, you dirty piece of crap. Stay still. Move and I’ll kill you. You broke into the wrong apartment. I am going to call the police and they’ll haul you off to jail.”
“I’m sorry,” the kid’s face was terrified, his eyes full of tears. “I’m sorry. I just wanted out of the rain. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please don’t call the police.”
His voice, barely past puberty, cracked as he started crying.
It was sadly pathetic, Veronica realized. The kid couldn’t be older than his early teens. She was ready to fight a monster, and instead the kid was falling apart.
“Stop it, pull yourself together,” she snapped. “I want answers from you right now. You’re going to tell me everything, then I’m calling the police and having them drag you out of here.”
“Don’t do that,” he pulled against the cuffs. “Let me go and I swear you’ll never see me again. I didn’t steal anything, I promise. I just wanted out of the rain.”
“I’m asking the questions,” Veronica thrust the gun forward.
The kid ducked his head into his arms, shying away from the barrel of the gun.
“Oh, you want to play hardball?” Veronica felt slightly giddy with her own power. “We can play hardball. I’m dying to play hardball.”
“Don’t shoot me!” the kid hollered.
Veronica marched up to her bathrobe, yanked off her sash, and approached the foot of the bed. “Move, and I’ll blow out your knees.”
With her free hand, she looped the sash around his thin ankles and tied it. She put the gunon the floor and looped the sash tight around his ankles. He didn’t move, just stared at her in shocked fear.
She picked up the gun. “Last chance to talk,” she warned, but she held the gun down by her side, the nose pointed at the ground.
He glanced nervously from her face to the gun and back to her face, shaking his head.
“You just made my day,” Veronica smirked.
She walked over to her vanity, feeling the kid’s eyes follow her. She pulled open several drawers until she found what she wanted – a wooden-back hairbrush.
She turned around, holding up the brush. “Do you know what this is?”
“A brush?” the kid blinked rapidly.
“Good. Do you know what it’s for?”
“B-brushing your hair?”
“Yes, that’s its primary goal,” Veronica grinned, almost wickedly. “But it can be used very effectively for other jobs.”
She stalked to the bed. He gave her one frightened look and then buried his face in his arms, trying to cover and protect his head.
“Not aiming there,” she set the gun on the bureau, well out of his reach. She pressed down on his right hip, pressing him facedown into the bed, and smacked the brush down hard on the seat of his dirty jeans.
“Ow!” he jerked.
“That got your attention,” Veronica swatted him again.
“You stupid bitch!” he screeched.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
“OOOWWWW!”
“Call me that again and I’ll give you twenty smacks without stopping.”
He glared over his shoulder, teeth gritted. “You can’t hit me.”
“I’m not hitting you. I’m spanking you.”
“You can’t spank me. I’m fourteen. No one spanks anyone anymore. You’re crazy.”
“Maybe if people were spanked more, they wouldn’t break into apartments,” Veronica pointed the brush at his face. “And I got news for you – I can spank you a lot longer than you can take it.”
She whacked him again, and he thrashed against the cuffs and the sash.
“You – you – you –”
“Call me the C-word,” Veronica warned, “and I’ll give you a hundred.”
“I’m not calling you anything,” his face was screwed up tight in pain. “I’ll answer any questions you want.”
Veronica tried not to look too pleased with the surge of power that ran through her. She felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying her power so much, especially since she was essentially in the same place that Clint had been in two months ago and the kid was in her place, helpless. But the difference was that Clint had barged in on her life and this dirty kid had broken in.
“I’ll ask, and you answer. You lie to me, and I spank you again. What’s your name?”
“Parker.”
With a shake of her head, she brought the brush down with a sharp snap.
“Oh! Parker Biztel. No, no – Parker Thomas Biztel.”
“Okay, I didn’t need the middle name. You’re thirteen, fourteen?”
“Uh-huh, three months from fifteen.”
“Where are your parents?”
He swallowed, but she gave him a second to answer. “I never knew my dad. My mom has been on drugs, off and on. She had a boyfriend – Joe. He moved in and kicked me out. He said my mom was in the hospital, but I couldn’t find her. He disappeared. I had a half-sister, just a toddler, but she’s gone, too.”
Veronica paused. “How long have you been on the streets?”
“Nine days,” a shudder shook his body, and she saw how thin he was under his ratty clothes.
“Why didn’t you get help?”
No answer.
She sighed and smacked him, not too hard, but in warning that there were more to come.
“Where was I supposed to go?” he sounded aggrieved.
“Homeless shelter? Youth hostel?”
“They’ll send me to foster care. I’ve been there already. I’m not going back to those fucking –”
She swatted him lightly. “No swearing. You can answer questions without using dirty words. Why did you go to foster care if you had a mother?”
“Are you stupid?” Parker seemed defiant, but he squirmed away from the brush in her hand. “Kids with parents go to foster care all the time. My mother couldn’t take care of herself, much less me and my sister. She lost all her teeth to meth, and she was in and out of rehab.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No.”
“I will have the police run a drug test on you, Parker,” Veronica threatened.
He blinked at the stern use of his name. “I’m telling the truth. Mom has always been in and out with drug users, and they’re all gross. They never have any money and they can’t work.”
“Even if you haven’t done drugs, I’m sure you’ve smoked something,” Veronica was surprised at how schoolmarm-ish her voice sounded.
“I tried a cigarette once,” he tensed, waiting for the smack. When it didn’t come, he continued hesitantly, “But I didn’t like it. The kids at school ignore me for the most part and don’t ask me to join in.”
“I’m sure you’re failing out of school anyway,” Veronica made her tone lofty and dismissive.
He actually bared his teeth at her in a snarl. “I am not. I skipped third grade. I’m good at school, at all subjects except history. I’m the highest in most of my classes, but everyone hates me because I’m younger than them and poor and never have clean clothes or anything cool.”
“Well, did you think you would be able to stay in school and live on the streets?”
He lowered his head.
“Stay in school!” she gave him three swats with the hairbrush to emphasize every word. He hollered and twisted, but his struggles were half-hearted and she could hear him sniff back tears.
She had run out of things to ask him. She settled in the empty chair about six feet from the bed and watched him. He rubbed his face against his sleeves, trying not to cry obviously. He gave her a glare and muttered, “Witch.”
“Parker,” she warned.
“I didn’t say the other word,” he protested.
“You’re not calling me names at all,” she pointed the brush at him.
“I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Veronica. What were you planning on doing in my apartment?”
He glanced warily at the brush, but he decided she was too far away to wallop him without getting up. “I was just going to sleep here for a while. I’m sorry I ate your food, but I was so hungry. I haven’t eaten all day. Most of the trash I find is stale and I would do anything for some real food. I thought I could sleep here for a few hours – I haven’t slept inside since I got kicked out and even then I was sleeping on the sofa. I just wanted a little sleep and then I was going to go.”
“Likely story,” she scoffed. “You were going to squat here until you got kicked out.”
He looked at his cuffed hands but didn’t say anything.
She leaned back in the chair, tapping the brush absentmindedly on her knee.
“Are you going to call the police?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. If your mom was on drugs all the time, how did you get to school so much? Most users don’t care about making sure their kids get to school every day.”
“She left me with a neighbor a lot. Mrs. Gumble. She made me go to school. She got me to take the tests that let me skip a grade. She told me that I had to go to school if I ever wanted to get out of the place we lived in. But when I was ten, we moved to this city and now . . .” he trailed off.
Veronica was shocked to feel her own eyes prick with tears. She schooled her face, resolving herself to be strong. “All right – you want to prove that you’re not a slacker? Who wrote The Declaration of Independence?”
“T-Thomas Jefferson.”
“Well, anyone would know that,” Veronica shrugged though she wasn’t sure many young teenagers did know that. “What’s the square root of 144?”
“Twelve.”
Veronica racked her brain for other high school questions. Most of her scholastic knowledge came from college, but she felt it unfair to ask college questions. The whole situation felt slightly ridiculous anyway with the brush in her hand and the boy bound on the bed.
“Who wrote Huck Finn?”
“Mark Twain.”
“What do trees take in and give off?”
“Carbon dioxide and oxygen.”
“Okay, when was the Spanish-American War fought?”
He blanched, and she got to her feet.
“Wait, wait!” Parker tensed. “I told you I’m not good at history.”
“Do you know the quadratic formula?”
“Negative B, plus or minus the square root of –”
“Oh, shut up,” Veronica reached for the sash around his feet and untied them.
“Are – are you letting me go?”
“No,” she picked up the gun, “but I am going to do something about the smell.”
She rummaged in the closet until she found the key to the cuffs. “I’m going to unlock you and you’re going into the bathroom to take a shower. When you’re done, you can come out with cuffs on your wrists and we’ll proceed from there.”
She unlocked him and he slowly sat up.
“You want me to take a shower? Are – are you going to be in there –”
“Don’t be gross! You stink and you need to wash. With soap. And a loofa. Maybe some sandpaper.”
She pointed to the bathroom with the gun and he stumbled in front of her into the good-sized bathroom. He was at least six inches shorter than her, but the lankiness of his limbs suggested he was at the beginning of a growth spurt.
With the gun partly aimed him, Veronica took out a loofa, washcloth, towel, and bar of soap. She stooped to open the bottom drawer of the sink compartment and pulled out an unopened toothbrush.
She put everything on the counter. “Scrub everywhere hard. There’s facial scrub in the shower to use on your face. Get all the oil and dirt off. Clean everywhere or I’ll do it myself. Leave your clothes in the trash.”
“And wear what?”
“I’ll find you some exercise clothes. Get busy. You have fifteen minutes.”
She stepped out, closing the door behind her. A minute passed with no sound. Then the shower turned on.
Veronica smirked as she sat down on the chair to wait. In the other room, her cell phone rang insistently in her purse. She ignored it and watched the closed door.