Tied (All Torn Up 2)

Instinctively, my hand rises in self-defense when my mother reaches out to touch my face, and she starts to cry so hard my father has to console her and guide her away from me. I let my mind drift back to my stories, where it’s safe and comfortable.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl…

“Holly? Are you listening?” My brother has pulled a chair next to my bed and lightly touches my arm. “Holly?”

“Huh?” I shake my head and blink at him. I didn’t realize he was talking to me. I forgot Holly is me.

“You’re going to be okay,” he says hesitantly. He smiles, but when I don’t return it, it falters. “I always knew someday you would come home. I missed you. We all did. We just can’t believe you’re really here.”

I nod and hug my backpack tighter. He reaches a hand toward me again, but I shrink back. He blinks at me with a look of surprise and hurt at my reaction and pulls his hand away.

“Whatever happened, it doesn’t matter. It’s all behind you now.” He pauses, his expression sincere and almost hopeful as he leans forward. “All that matters now is that you’re home where you belong, and you’re safe.”

I listen, but my eyes are on my parents, who are now out in the hallway talking to doctors and police people. And a cute little blond girl holding my mother’s hand.

“Who’s that?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

Zac’s eyes follow mine questioningly before he turns back to me. ”That’s Lizzie,” he says carefully. “Our little sister. She just turned six.”

My teeth clench together as I scan her from head to toe. Lizzie looks almost exactly like I did before the bad man came and took me away. A perfect, happy little girl with braided hair and clean clothes, hanging on to Mommy’s hand. She glances around nervously at the people walking by, and Mommy pulls her closer to her, protectively.

The bad man hadn’t been lying about a replacement.

Zac’s mouth is set in a thin line as he watches me for few long moments. “Mom didn’t think you’d be ready to meet her yet,” he says, his tone flat. “They didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed isn’t what I’m feeling at all.

I’m feeling like this is a show I never want to watch again.

3

Tyler

I’m not sure how the news traveled so fast, but somehow what happened in the woods has spread like wildfire in this small town. By the time the cops bring me to the station, a crowd of crazy, pissed-off people are waiting in the parking lot, yelling names and accusations at me as the cops try to maneuver me through them to get to the door:

Kidnapper!

You’re a monster!

Pedophile!

You’ll burn in hell, you freak!

Murderer!

Rot in prison!

Lock the psycho up!

I use my shoulder to wipe someone’s spit off the side of my face and keep my head down. I became an outcast in this town when I was sixteen years old, so I’m used to people staring at me and treating me like a sideshow freak. But I still can’t believe these idiots think I could actually hurt a young girl. I’m the one who found her and saved her from that psychopath. Doesn’t that make me the hero? Fucking morons.

“What were you doing out in the woods so early in the morning?”

I stare at the wall behind their heads, craving a cigarette really fucking bad and getting edgier by the minute. The bright light of the room is bothering my eyes, and the walls are closing in on me.

For hours the detectives have had me holed up in this tiny, stale room at the station, asking me the same questions, which I don’t try to answer. After the display in the parking lot, I don’t trust anyone. Especially when they’re all trying to pin kidnapping and murder charges on me.

“We know you can talk, Tyler, so cut the shit,” Britton says. The haggard-looking older detective doesn’t hide his disgust for me. He checks his watch for the hundredth time then glares at me. “We’re tired. Answer the fucking questions so we can all get out of here.”

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and thrum my fingers on the table between us. Nobody understands how hard it is to make myself talk, how much my own ears hate hearing my voice, or how difficult it is to just get the words out of my head, especially when I’m stressed out. I’m not stupid—I know part of it is psychological and part of it is physical, but that doesn’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference to me.

Britton leans forward, his small eyes narrowing even more. “One more time, what were you doing out there?”

When I don’t answer, the younger detective—Nelson, I think his name is—impatiently pushes a pen and a pad of paper across the table to me. ”Just write down your answers, then. We can’t sit here all day.”