Jane Anonymous Read online

  I grabbed my notebook and began a draft:

  Dear (I’m not sure what your name is),

  I should probably start with the basics. My name is Jane Anonymous. I’m seventeen years old, and I live with my parents in Suburban City, New England State. I was supposed to be entering my senior year of high school, but instead I’m here, wondering what happens next.

  In my free time, I love poetry, running, and animals—in that order. Writing is pretty much my life, so thank you for the notebook and pen. I’m guessing you know a lot of this stuff already, seeing as you also know what kind of snacks I like, products I use, and clothes I wear. But I also can’t assume that the person reading this letter is also the person that took me.

  But if this is you, the guy at Norma’s that day, I’m curious if you know me from somewhere. Have we met before? I know it may not matter in the grand scheme of things, but it definitely does to me.

  I’m also curious if you have a plan. Maybe you’re looking for money. Or maybe you had a plan, but now it’s fallen apart and you’re not sure what to do. You can talk to me, by the way—to explain the next steps or your side of things. I’m willing to listen. I’m even willing to help if it means my freedom.

  Think about it and write me back. Since I have questions for you, I imagine that you have them for me as well.

  Sincerely,

  Jane

  In truth, I doubted he had questions for me. But I wanted to make him feel as though I didn’t think he was crazy, as though I believed he could’ve had a perfectly acceptable reason for taking me.

  It took twenty-six drafts to get there.

  I tore the letter from my notebook and slid it through the cat door, figuring I could leave him a new letter each day. I pictured a whole stack, collecting on a desk somewhere. How many would I have to write until he decided we were friends? Or accidentally left a letter out for someone else to see?

  After thirty-one letters with no response, I knew I needed a craftier approach. And so, I came up with the idea of hiding a message among my words—not a letter this time, but a poem I’d write. When I was finished, I could crumple the poem up and throw it in the trash. What were the odds of some random person finding the poem and cracking the code?

  Probably another long shot, said the Shelley voice, at last.

  Still, I was willing to give it a shot.

  broken Me

  wrench me like a sponge

  until everY drop is released

  peel me opeN as a letter

  And unfold my every crease

  stretch ME like taffy, as far as you can,

  untIl the thinneSt thread

  is formed

  Just keep in mind,

  i cAn oNly twist,

  bEnd,

  spirAl,

  turN,

  cONtract

  and Yield

  so Much

  befOre i crUmble,

  SHatter,

  and tEar.

  before nothing eLse is left

  except broken Pieces

  and broken ME.

  I copied the poem at least a dozen times, changing words, shifting phrases, and playing with the lettering to try to make the message* appear less obvious. But in the end, I flushed the poem down the toilet, along with any hope.

  * MY NAME IS JANE ANONYMOUS. HELP ME.

  THEN

  30

  With the sides of the mattress torn, I pulled up on the fabric, tucked back the top layer of foam, and exposed the network of coil springs. I wrapped my hand around one of the springs and pulled—hard—trying to get the coil to break, but the metal was surprisingly thick.

  I continued in a back-and-forth motion, imagining my arm like a machine and the coil like a lever. With enough cranks, gold would pour out and I could stake my claim.

  Finally, the metal yielded—a slight bend, right at the base—but I could no longer feel my forearm, and my skin was bubbled with blisters. Deep red lines had formed across the center of my palm. I needed to try something else.

  I’d yet to check each individual tile in the bathroom, or knock on all the walls in search of hollow spots.

  Now you’re thinking, said the Shelley voice inside my head. Basements aren’t exactly known for their fine construction and refinishing.

  She was right. They weren’t. The basement back home had a cheap drop ceiling and paper-thin walls.

  I got up and went into the bathroom, triggering the motion detector light, per usual, and suddenly the question occurred to me: What would happen if any of the bulbs went out—either here or in the main room? He hadn’t left any spares, not that spares would’ve helped with the locked metal screens. Would he come in here and change them? Or did he not expect me to be locked up for long? The answers to both of those questions scared me more than the thought of being in the dark.

  I searched the wall tiles, trying to stay focused, looking for a crack in the grout. But it was so hard—keeping track, not losing my place. Pops of light appeared in front of my vision. I closed my eyes to keep them from playing tricks, then checked and rechecked the spaces surrounding the hopper and the storage cabinet. Nothing looked unusual.

  Stepping into the shower, I jiggled the knobs to make sure they seemed fully affixed, then ran my fingers over the shower insert: a large sheet of acrylic that’d been glued to the three walls of the stall. What could I use to dissolve the glue? Nail polish remover? Rubbing alcohol? Would he give me those things if I cashed in my star points? My gut told me no.

  I moved toward the sink, and the room started to wobble. The floor felt unsteady beneath my feet. Was it sloping downward? Were the walls always so slanted?

  I grabbed a facecloth and ran it under the running faucet. With the dampened cloth pressed firmly against my forehead, I peeked into the mirror, and that’s when I spotted it—behind me, on the wall.

  One of the ceramic tiles looked chipped, right at the corner. I turned to check it out. A thin, wiry line traveled down the length of the tile square. I wedged my fingernail into the space and tried to pull the tile upward, but my nails were all broken. I needed something pointed and sharp.

  I swung open the toiletry cabinet and riffled through the supplies. Shampoo bottles tumbled onto the floor, along with tissue boxes, toothpaste tubes, hand sanitizer, and packages of cotton balls. I grabbed the hairbrush, wondering if I could yank the bristles out. But they felt too soft, like horsehair.

  I sat down on the floor in the center of the room, hoping to see the space in a new way. My father used to say the same—used to pledge the importance of thinking outside the box, trying to find the unseen solution. And so I looked. Again. At the toilet flusher and the knobs in the shower. I studied the fixtures beneath the sink and the handle on the cabinet. I visually scoured every inch of the cement floor before stretching out across it and staring up at the ceiling, wondering about the cages that covered the lights. Could I pry the wire free? Or find something to pick the locks?

  Finally, I got up, having to pee, my head still spinning; my mind wouldn’t stop racing. I started to pull at my sweatpants when an idea hit. I lifted the cover of the toilet tank and looked downward. The scent of stagnant water wafted in my face, reminded me of dirty laundry.

  Inside the tank, a thin metal rod joined a fixed pole with a floating rubber ball. I set the cover down on the seat, dipped my fingers beneath the surface of the water, and pulled the rod from the ball. Surprisingly, it came free. To my complete and utter amazement, the rod separated from the pole. In my cold, wet hand, I held a six-inch metal tube.

  I brought it over to the broken tile and wedged the tip beneath the edge, where I suspected the tile had been lifted before. I pulled upward, feeling a little give. The tile fell from the wall. I caught it from hitting the floor, and I peeked into the crevice. There wasn’t much space—maybe an inch at most, where the tile had been glued.

  I went to go stick the tile back into place when I spotted some scribbling on the back, done in pencil:<
br />
  If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.

  I blinked hard before rechecking the words. What were they supposed to mean? Did I even want to know?

  I stumbled back to the room and curled up on the bed. My heart wouldn’t stop racing. My lungs felt full of glass. Staring at the wall, I silently counted to fifty, trying to slow the motor inside my brain. There was no sound, and yet everything seemed loud, like inside a machine shop.

  Please! I shouted inside my head. If only my parents had brought me to church—if only I had a god to pray to. But I prayed nonetheless—to whatever spirit would hear me: Please help me. Please guide me. Please show me what to do. I have no idea what to do. Please, please, please … I’ll do anything. Just give me another chance.

  I prayed.

  Until.

  Every star in my mind’s galaxy had turned as black as the night sky.

  Until the glass in my chest had dulled, and I was able to fall asleep.

  THEN

  31

  A scratching sound woke me up. It came from out in the hall. I clutched the box of brownies. The tile from the bathroom was still clenched in my fist.

  Where was the toilet rod?

  Not in my hand.

  Did I return it back inside the tank?

  “Jane?” Shelley’s voice. “What do you think you’re doing? Get up. Get up!”

  I wanted to get up, but I couldn’t move, and the scratching sound continued. It was at the door: scratch, scratch, scratch, chisel, scrape, clink.

  “Listen to me, Jane,” her voice continued. “I’m going to get you out of here.” Was she outside the door?

  I struggled to get up, but it was as if my legs were made of lead, as if a thousand-pound weight were pressing hard against my chest.

  “Jane, honey?” Mom’s voice.

  My heart soared. I tried to shout—to let her know that I was here. But I had no voice. And I still couldn’t move.

  “Look around,” Mom said. “Is there anything that can help you? A weapon? Something sharp?”

  “Jane?” Mason’s voice. “Is everything okay?”

  “Janie?” Grandma Jean? Was that her? “Be strong now.”

  Were they all out in the hall? Were the police on the way too?

  “I’m here,” Shelley said as though answering my thoughts. “Can you meet me?”

  Meet her?

  “Eggs & Stuff,” she said. “Let’s salvage my birthday disaster.”

  “Jane?” Mason again.

  Knock, knock-knock, tap, thud.

  Knock.

  Knock-knock.

  Tap.

  Thud.

  Finally, my leg moved. I kicked out—thwack. Was that the slamming of a car trunk? I shot up.

  I was in the bed, at last fully conscious.

  The voices of Shelley, Mom, and Grandma Jean had faded away. Only the scratching sound remained. It was coming from the wall.

  I stood up.

  “Jane?” Mason’s voice.

  I heard the familiar knock. I scooted down by the dresser, able to see a hole, like for a mouse. Mason was using his screwdriver to chip away at the drywall.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “I’m here.”

  “I wasn’t sure. I kept knocking and calling.” Without another word, he stuck his hand through the hole. His skin was dry and calloused. The creases of his knuckles looked cracked and deep.

  Honey-colored hair sprouted from his wrist, where there was also a spray of freckles—orange, tan, and brown. Without a single thought, I placed my hand in his. My eyes pressed shut as our fingers clasped together. A hot, tingling sensation spread like wildfire across my skin.

  How long had it been since I’d experienced human touch? Was this what it felt like for people in prison? Like a thousand exclamation points coursing through the veins? Dancing down the spine? Igniting every nerve? Did something weird happen to the body—to the vessels or the neurons—after such a long absence? Did the skin become more sensitive, sort of like when a limb falls asleep and the blood comes rushing back to the affected part of the body—that surge of electricity …

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  I didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking him about the hole or telling him about the tile. Instead, I curled up on the floor, hoping to get a glimpse of his face. I lay with my cheek pressed flat against the cement, but the hole was way too low—only about four inches tall, barely big enough to fit his wrist, never mind allow either of us to peer through.

  Still, I watched his fingers move across my palm, gliding over my cuts and blisters. His nails were short, as though from biting. His fourth finger looked slightly crooked, as though it’d once been broken.

  His thumb rubbed against my wrist; somehow, I felt it in my knees. It was all I could do not to let out an aching moan.

  Neither of us spoke, and I’m not sure how long we stayed like that, just feeling each other’s hands—if it was for two hours or ten. But at some point, I must’ve nodded off.

  When I woke up again, his hand was gone.

  But the hole still remained.

  THEN

  32

  Once I’d reached enough star points to request a second prize, I thought long and hard about what that prize should be. There were things I’d wanted to ask for—items I could’ve used for escape (tweezers, food utensils, art tools, a nail file…)—but they were all too obvious to even consider.

  The monster wasn’t stupid.

  My mind kept coming back to a book I’d read—the first in the Survivalists series. Jordan, the main character, a retired military officer, survived a plane crash and had to live on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere. The most intriguing aspect of the story was Jordan’s unique talent of turning the most seemingly random items into essential pieces, and so she made a hunting spear from popsicle sticks, a telescope from a magnifying lens, and a pair of shoes from duct tape and banana leaves …

  I needed that kind of inspiration—to get ideas, to think outside the box. What could I do with my bedsheets? How might I utilize the hinges on the cabinet? Was there some other use I could find for a coil spring?

  I remembered having wanted to read the second book in the series—when Jordan supposedly gets trapped inside an underwater tank—but I’d never gotten the chance.

  It was the perfect idea.

  With the tiny wooden pencil, I wrote down my selection: Book 2 in the Survivalists series.

  A few days later, when my prize arrived outside the cat door, I pulled it inside, feeling a pit lodge in my gut. The cover was cotton-candy pink, rather than olive-camo as I’d anticipated. The title was different too: Forbidden, written in pretty loopy letters, with no indication it was one of the Survivalists books. The picture on the front featured a red-haired woman, all bundled up for snow, walking toward a ski lodge.

  I flipped the book over and read the description on the back. Forbidden told the story of a twenty-two-year-old college student who falls in love with an estranged family friend, whom she meets during winter break while recovering from a bad breakup.

  Clearly, this wasn’t the right book. He obviously didn’t want me to read something in which the main character survived. I lowered my head to the floor and breathed through the impulse to scream.

  Just hold it together, said the Shelley voice inside my head. There’s no time for self-pity. You need to keep moving forward.

  She was right. I had to figure out a next move, and it had to be a whole lot more cunning.

  NOW

  33

  I sit in the living room to earn my tenth star. I know, it’s stupid. I don’t need stars, don’t have to earn them. But despite that basic logic, they’re one of the few things I have.

  Five minutes tick forward on the mantel clock. Then ten.

  Fifteen.

  And finally, twenty …

  Mom notices me sitting. “It’s so nice to see you outside your room,” she says. “Dad and I thou
ght we could all go to brunch. How does that sound?”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But I have some things to do.”

  “Schoolwork? We won’t be long.” She sits down in the armchair across from me. “Also, I wanted to talk to you about the other day … when Jack came. I’m sorry for the way things ended up.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, no longer even sure what the word fine means.

  “I should’ve told you he was coming. I just thought it might be a nice surprise.”

  “It was.”

  “I want you to be happy, and if Jack doesn’t make you happy…” She twiddles her fingers as though knitting without the needles.

  “It’s not about Jack.”

  “I know.” She sighs. “That came out wrong. I don’t seem to know what to say anymore.”

  That goes for the two of us.

  “I feel like I just keep apologizing,” she says.

  “It’s fine,” I say again.

  “But I’ve been doing a lot of research,” she adds. “Trying to understand things more.”

  “What things?”

  “People who’ve experienced situations like yours. One girl in Montana…,” she begins, not even realizing she’s erecting an invisible wall. “She was fifteen years old when she got taken from a highway rest stop. She was missing for more than ten years.”

  “Ten years.”

  “I know.” She shakes her head and covers her mouth. “And you should see the girl’s picture. So pretty. And people said she did well in school and had lots of friends…”

  As if a less-than-pretty girl who sucked in school and had no friends would be less deserving of sympathy.