Towering - By Alex Flinn Page 0,57

she would have given them the money for the ticket to Florida. Or maybe the police would have arrested Rick, and then, it would have been over.”

“But you didn’t do that?” Rachel said.

Her voice didn’t sound judgmental. I shook my head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I wouldn’t have either.”

“I just figured—I don’t know what I figured, that it wasn’t my place. I knew Tyler would be mad at me if I told. Now, I realize he was too scared, they all were, too scared of what might happen. Sometimes, people are more comfortable with sticking with what they know, even if it’s bad, instead of taking a chance on something that would probably be better but might be worse.”

She nodded. “Like this tower. I’ve been here for years. Obviously, I could escape. I left when I saw you fall through the ice, when I needed to leave. But I’ve always thought that maybe, there’d be something really bad out there, or someone, someone who’d hurt me, kill me. Or maybe I’d just starve to death. Here, Mama feeds me every day, like a . . . pet. I have no idea what’s out there. So I stay.”

She stood then, and paced the room, perturbed. “We all like to think we’d do the right thing, the heroic thing if we had to. But usually, we don’t because that’s not the comfortable thing. The easy thing is to stay put in your comfortable tower, even if that tower is actually a prison.”

“But you saved my life.”

“Because I couldn’t just watch you die, drown in the icy lake. Sometimes, you have to act. It’s a matter of life and death.”

I felt my stomach drop. “It was a matter of life and death with Tyler. I just didn’t know it. I didn’t recognize it.”

“What do you mean?”

I shivered, remembering what had happened next.

“A week went by, then two, and nothing changed with Tyler. They didn’t move out. Their mom didn’t leave their stepdad, and I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Tyler to be mad at me or whatever.” I shook my head. “Like that would be a big deal.”

It was hard to go on. I drew in a deep breath, and even though it was cold in the room, and my feet were wet, my face felt hot.

Rachel touched my hand. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head again. “No. No, I’m not, but I have to tell you anyway.”

She took my hand in hers. “Okay.”

I breathed in, then out. I could picture the scene, like it was frozen in time, my mom and I at the breakfast table, English muffins and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. I couldn’t see that table without remembering. It was a big part of the reason I’d left.

“We were eating breakfast. It was a Saturday. Tyler and I had played a big game the night before, and my muscles ached. Football. I was going to call him at nine, you know, to rehash it. But suddenly, there was this really loud noise.

“My mother and I looked at each other, and she was, like, ‘What was that?’ and I said, ‘I don’t know,’ but I did, and suddenly, I was screaming and running to the door, and my mother was pulling me back. She was saying, ‘Don’t go out there.’ She’d call 911—the emergency number. Then, there was another loud noise and a woman screaming. I could tell it was a woman, maybe Nikki or Tyler’s mom, and somehow, I knew Tyler was dead. I knew he was dead, and I was crying, screaming, yelling to my mom to call the police, and she did, but it was too late. It was too late. Then, the door to their house opened, and Tyler’s mom came running out. She was covered in blood, and I knew it was too late. But my mom was on the phone with the police, and I let Tyler’s mother in. I waited a second to see if anyone else was behind them, if Tyler . . . or Nikki . . .”

I stopped, unable to speak anymore. Tears were streaming out of my eyes, down my face and into my mouth. These tears didn’t heal anything at all. They were salty, and they hurt. I looked at Rachel, and she was all wavery like one of those weird paintings at MoMA, and I saw that she was crying too. She put her arms around me, her face against mine, her tears,