Nausea rose in the back of my throat. I’d had my arm broken. Multiple times. Sometimes by accident, sometimes deliberately. The sharp pain—and the sound, oh God, the sound was the worst, that horrible crack that took you apart at the seams, signaled you were mortal, frail, and broken.
The screen bobbled, Mara crying as she tried to hold the tablet steady, and the image of Quinn froze and then broke apart smoothly into blocks, a fancy fade to black.
I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached. Clearly, someone fancied themselves a filmmaker, concerned about effects and appearances in what amounted to a torture video. Oh, I would show them all kinds of effects when I got ahold of whoever had stood by and filmed this.
Words appeared on the screen in a slow scrawl, each line bumping up the next, Star Wars style.
His arm appears to be fractured in two places.
His ribs may be cracked.
He resisted.
That is unfortunate.
With timely medical care, a full recovery is likely.
Provided infection doesn’t set in.
It was like a horrible (and misguided) attempt at poetry. The video started again immediately, but it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since the previous segment.
Quinn was calmer now, swaying slightly in his seat. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about school,” he mumbled. His eyes were glassy, his skin now an unhealthy shade of grayish green. Either they’d given him something to address the pain or he was moments from passing out. “I was going to…Maybe you can send the tuition check to these bastards instead.”
Zane sent a questioning look to his mom.
“He was having trouble adjusting, failed a few classes,” Mara choked out. “They cut his scholarship last semester. Your dad found out when he called the school after he got this video. Quinn wasn’t answering his phone, and his roommates haven’t seen him since Sunday.” Her voice dissolved into a barely contained sob.
“That’s why he didn’t come home this summer,” Zane said, more to himself than either his mother or me.
“And tell Zane I’m sorry,” Quinn said, his words muzzy with exhaustion.
Next to me, Zane jerked as if he’d been struck. I slipped my hand into his, and he squeezed it tightly.
“I should have been a better brother,” Quinn said as his head dipped down to his chest—whether he was succumbing to the drugs or passing out, I wasn’t sure. The screen faded to black again—this time by making the image ripple and wobble into nothingness—and my stomach clenched in anticipation. Another message was coming, no doubt. They hadn’t yet gotten to the point, but they would. They weren’t going to all this effort just because they could.
And sure enough, seconds later, the word scrawl started again.
Ariane Tucker:
Exit 340 on Interstate 94
2
P.M.
Tuesday
Even though I’d been expecting to see my name eventually—what else could this be about? It wasn’t like Quinn was a highly desirable ransom target in any other situation—it still sent a shock through me, the familiar letters in such a strange context. And that punctuation after my name, one little colon, made my stomach fall.
It changed everything.
This message was addressed to me. I’d known this was my fault, but seeing it spelled out so clearly made me want to throw up.
They’d sent to this to the chief, counting on him to get Mara involved, which would then, eventually, lead to us.
The worst part was that they couldn’t have known I’d get the message or even that I’d be close enough to meet their deadline. There were any number of places where their plan could have fallen apart. But Dr. Jacobs didn’t care. He was arrogant—or desperate—enough to take Quinn and hurt him anyway.
Zane’s fingers tightened on mine, and I realized I’d already begun backing up, heading for the stairs.
“You aren’t going,” Zane said, his voice rough. “We’ll find another way to get him back.”
Before I had a chance to respond, the words vanished from the screen and another image of Quinn appeared.
I froze. I’d thought the video was over. Threat implied, message received.
But Dr. Jacobs wasn’t done with me yet. No, that would have been too kind.
On screen, the frozen image blinked into movement and Quinn bent over, retching from the pain and moaning every time his arm and ribs were jostled. But he couldn’t stop. It was an awful, vicious, escalating cycle that devolved into hoarse screams and whimpers within seconds.
Even the cameraman seemed affected, the focus on Quinn slipping momentarily to the wall before fading to black.
But the screaming continued. It was a loop, I was pretty sure, of previous audio, but it was horrible just the same.
The color washed from Mara’s face, and tablet slipped in her grip, dangling from her fingers.
Zane grabbed the tablet and thrust it at me before taking his mom’s arm and helping her to the edge of the bed.
I fumbled with the device to pause it. The sudden silence in the room made my ears ring.
“It’s okay,” Zane murmured to his mother, who had her face buried in her hands. “It’ll be okay.” He gave me a helpless, pleading look. One that begged me to make the words he’d just said true. His family might have been messed up, but it was still his family. His brother suffering and his mother in pain because of it.
But I couldn’t respond. Something was gnawing at me. Something wasn’t right. Obviously. But beyond Quinn and the message and the entire situation.
I’d missed…what? What was it that had triggered this additional unease, the growing sense of dread in the pit of my stomach?
I frowned. It was in those last few seconds of footage; it had to be. Right when the otherwise unflappable auteur had lost his cool and gone to the wall. Something about that didn’t sit right with me. Why include it when the rest of the video had been ruthlessly edited? Clearly it wasn’t an accident or a lack of skill.
I found the volume buttons on the side of the tablet and turned down the sound all the way before pulling the slide bar back on the video to the final segment.
Somehow it was more gruesome without sound, possibly because there was nothing to distract from the image on screen. But I forced myself to watch.
And…there. Flash to the wall. I hit pause.
“Ariane?” Zane asked with a frown.
“Hang on,” I said tightly.
The walls were nondescript, but upon closer inspection a very specific kind of nondescript. One I recognized.
And I should. I’d spent enough hours staring at those walls. They had a plastic sheen, likely for easier cleanup and sanitizing, but with a nubby texture to them that was faintly visible in the close-up.
At night, I used to lie on my cot and put my feet up on the wall to experience the texture (everything else in my cell was relentlessly smooth). I would pretend I was Outside and it was grass.
In fact, if I squinted hard enough at the image on screen, I felt I could almost see the slightly darker spots on the wall where I’d put my feet, night after night.
Quinn was in my cell at GTX.
And Dr. Jacobs wanted me to know it.
I closed my eyes, my breath slipping away as my chest tightened in fear and frustration.