Change Of Season (34 page)

“Babe?  You
need
to get another room.”

NINETEEN

Oakville; November 24
th
, 2011

It had been nearly a week since Autumn had managed to sleep through the night and it was painfully obvious each time she found herself before a mirror.  Raccoon eyes, sunken and bruised, glared emotionlessly as she brushed her hair, tugging it back into a ponytail most days to avoid drying it.  The daylight was her safe harbour, and hitting snooze that one extra time felt decadent.  Eating seemed arduous now, every motion of fork and knife exhausting.  She’d taken to skipping breakfast in lieu of sipping Red Bull in her room.

She had Biology in twenty minutes, but she remained motionless on her bed, staring at the computer screen and a blinking cursor.

Today, she’d do it: she’d email the blogger, the mysterious
JustGotWicked
of Toronto, and demand more information on his theory of the Casteel curse.  She needed evidence, something more than histrionic conjecture on a free platform and cryptic disclaimers.  She’d been repeating this ritual for days now, fingers hovering – perhaps even dashing out a sentence or two – only to hit discard and slam the lid shut in a fury.

“This is stupid,” she admonished herself.  “It’s a fucking email.”

Emails were dangerous, risky.  Wasn’t that why she had a draft sitting for over a year in her account, never to be seen by Heather?

Her eyes drifted to the now nailed down and secured floorboard, remembering the spots of blood beneath. 
I have to know.  Even if it’s all a lie, I still have to know
.

Wearily, she tapped out a quick message, the drone of students in the hall piercing her temples.

Hi.  I know you don’t know me but I go to Casteel and I need to talk to you.  There’s shit happening here and I need answers.  Evidence.  Please answer.

Chugging her energy drink, she hit send before she could second-guess herself any further, heart pounding as the loading symbol spun then refreshed her inbox. 
Done
. 
No going back now
.  Her finger scrolled to close the window, halting as a message bolded in the list.

New mail.  From Fiona.

How did she get my email? 
Autumn felt her stomach lurch as the subject line seemingly glowed: 
Him
.  Fiona dared not even write
that
name – why?  And how did she find her?  Shaking, she scrolled over the message and clicked to open it.

Autumn, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important.  I asked Corrina for your email, said I’d run into you this summer and lost the paper you wrote your email on.  She’s not very bright.  Anyway, him.  You know.  Things have been… weird.  My cell phone rings at all hours from blocked numbers.  No one speaks.  Just breathing, then a click.  I just got this phone number so I don’t know how, but…  I know.

The cops traced it back to Burlington, so he’s local again.  Just be careful, okay?

Fi

“He can’t be…”  But she knew it, just as Fiona knew.

Chris Miller had come back.

Mom.  Dad.
  She was due to go home this Saturday.  How could she go home if
he
was around?  He could follow her back here, back to her refuge.  Home was out of the question, at least for now.  They were safer if she remained absent.

Working quickly, she sent a text to her mother, feigning calm as she apologized, blaming school projects and "not wanting to be distracted".  She promised to call later, tucking her phone into her purse as she hurried to class.  Professor Grant was going to be miserable if she arrived late and the thought alone worsened her burgeoning migraine.  At least her restless nights bestowed ample reading time, even for boring textbooks full of pompous, long-winded theories of genetic abnormalities.

Sure enough, she slid into her seat at the sound of the bell, earning a glare from Grant as he scrawled diagrams on the whiteboard in crimson pen.  She flipped frantically to her homework, betting on at least three unexpected questions in the next two hours – par for the course when he’d drawn a target on someone’s back.  In her head, she heard Fiona’s words, a broken record battering her body as he’d done:
He’s local again.  He’s local. 
She could run – had already run – but could she truly hide from someone who’d evaded police for two years?

It seemed a strange, sadistic competition now.  Who would get to her first: the ghosts of the campus, or the ghost that destroyed her innocence?  And did it even matter?

She would be dead, either way.

***

Autumn thanked the talents of the Casteel Drama program for blessing her with a lonely lunch.
Spring Awakening
had been extended through the upcoming weekend, and Professor Hurst had demanded a full rehearsal promptly after dinner, which left Veronica dashing to the practice rooms with a sandwich in hand.  Feigning attentiveness in class was taxing, but forcing normalcy for her friend’s sake begged a patience she simply couldn’t dig deep and pull out today.  She absently grabbed her lunch – snack items, mostly chosen for the sugar rush – and waited in line with her student card to swipe out, tapping her toe impatiently.  Maybe she’d hole up in the library, try and finish the stupid diagrams Grant assigned.  Math was out of the question before her after-class nap – factorials were dizzying and she was already delirious.

Hand swiped plastic and she slipped it back into her purse, tucking her treasures into her bag. 
Maybe I should just ask Emma to excuse me from homework tomorrow
, she mused. 
She’s understanding like that
.  Rubbing her eyes, she made a sharp turn for the exit, eyes averted lest anyone she knew spot her. 

“Autumn!”

Too late
, she lamented, pushing on through the throng of excited bodies. 
Of course he finds me today, of all days
.  Andrew’s voice rang out again, and she hurried out onto the quad, the frigid air a knife in her chest.  Where to go?  There was no hiding out here.

She’d have to face him.  Her stomach turned, the panic swelling to a crescendo. 

“Autumn, please!” 

She spun slowly, wincing at his pained expression.  She’d been dodging him since the night of the party, writing in the library or her room, keeping her distance from the Media Studies building and, consequently, any need to explain herself. 
He deserves better than that
, she admitted to herself.  He’d done nothing wrong.

“Hi, Andrew.”  Even her voice betrayed her exhaustion, hoarse and low.

“Are you okay?”  His breath hitched in surprise, and she understood why Veronica seemed compelled to hug her hello and goodbye lately:  she apparently looked worse than she assumed.

“I’ve had a lot of headaches lately,” she said, which was true enough.  “Have another today.”

“No wonder you bolted from the dining hall.”  He edged closer, hands thrust in his jacket pockets.  “Maybe you should see the doctor?”

“It’s just stress.  I get them sometimes.”  He wasn’t buying it.  She could tell from the way he looked at her.  “I have homework I need to get done,” she added, ignoring the sway in her knees.

“I miss you,” he whispered.  “What did I do?”

“What?  You didn’t do anything,” she replied quickly. 

You cared for me.  You made me feel safe. 
He’d done everything right by anyone’s standards and still she pushed him away.  The worst part was knowing that she’d give anything to rest her head on his shoulder, but didn’t dare.  Not with
him
possibly watching…

“You haven’t come since Halloween,” he countered.  “Since we hung out.  So I must have.  Done something, I mean.  Are you sure you’re okay?”

Autumn felt the world shudder and spin once and blinked hard to steady herself. 
I don’t know anymore, Andrew
.  With a small nod, she shrugged, mumbling something about being busy.  His blue eyes suddenly seemed blinding, a shock of neon that stung to stare at.  Even the grass seemed
greener
somehow. 

Who do you think you are?
a familiar voice roared in her skull. 

“Huh?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Andrew whispered.  “You’re so pale.”

You whore!  You goddamn bitch!  Is this how you respect me?
  She could smell him, could feel his breath upon her neck as his chest heaved in rage. 
He’s local
! Fiona screamed. 
He’s here
.

“You’re not here,” Autumn mumbled, gagging on cologne and sweat.  “Not…”

Fingers gripped her arm and she screamed, flailing as her knees buckled beneath the weight of memory.

***

“Autumn?”  A gentle voice, female. 
Not him
.  “Are you awake?”

A flutter of eyelashes, a radiating throb as light struck cornea.  Migraine.  “Hmm?”

“Autumn, it’s Emma.  Do you know where you are?”

Emma
?  Startled, she shook the shackles of slumber and glanced around, shielding her eyes from the fluorescents overhead.  Her school shrink sat anxiously beside her, long, loose curls framing her worried visage.  With a knowing look, she reached out and turned off the lights, plunging the room into near-blackness.

“Thank you.”

“Feeling any better?”

“Not that much,” Autumn admitted.  Glancing around, she realized where she was and groaned.  “How’d I get here?”

“A student watched you faint and called for help.  He and security brought you here,” Emma replied. “Do you remember feeling ill?”

Andrew. 
What was he thinking of her now? 

With a sigh, she rolled onto her side.  “Sort of.  My vision got weird, and my legs felt weak.”

Emma leaned back in her chair, reaching for a cup of coffee on the nearby counter.  “Have you been feeling sick?”

“No.  Just can’t sleep.”

“Any particular reason why?”

Autumn shook her head furiously.  There was no way in hell she was doing this today, or tomorrow. 
He
was her problem, and until she knew more about the calls to Fiona, there was nothing to say. 
So close to freedom
, she worried. 
What if she keeps me here now
?

Maybe that was for the best.

“Autumn, I’d like to tell you a story, if that’s alright,” Emma said suddenly, leaning forward.  “I can see how tired you are today.  Plus, I’m always asking you to tell me your stories, so turnabout’s only fair, right?”

Autumn shrugged, somewhat relieved. 
At least she’s doing the talking
.

“When I was a little girl, my parents never seemed very happy,” Emma began.  “They were pretty young – I wasn’t planned, by any means – and my mom did the best she could.  My father… well, he wasn’t happy about being saddled with a baby at nineteen.  He liked to act as if my mom got herself pregnant all on her own, just to ruin his life.”  Emma paused here, grimacing.  “So he wasn’t home often, and when he was, they fought a lot.  I don’t remember them being happy very often.  A day here and there, maybe.  I remember… There was a lot of yelling.  I used to hide under my bed until it stopped.”

She was wide awake now, watching Emma as she unfurled her tale.  The cool poise of the doctor had been shed.  This was the earnest fragility of a woman just like her.

“One night, when I was twelve, they were fighting again.  Nothing new around my house.  But when the fighting abruptly stopped, I got worried.  He hadn’t left as usual, or I’d have heard the door slam.  So I crept out of my room and down the hall, not sure what was going on, but I knew it was bad.” 

Autumn knew it, too.  Emma was trembling, her fists balled tightly in her lap.

“He had a belt around her neck, her hands caught up in it, stopping him from…  He punched her hard, her right side, and her head just
swung
… It seemed so impossible, how it moved.  I remember screaming, throwing something at him and screaming…”  Brushing aside a tear, she whispered, “He ran out, and I haven’t seen him since.”