Loser || WlW

Forty-Seven

    "Zachary!" I'm screaming, pushing myself against the wall, trying to put distance between me and the woman who wants me dead. "Zachary, this isn't funny!"

She kneels in front of me and reaches out. Her hands are duct-taped together. She shakes her head and scoots away from me.

I turn my face away; suck in quick breaths.

"You're okay." Brittany's voice is soft. "Hey, you're okay." She nods, flashing a warm smile. "We'll be okay. I have a plan."

I roll my eyes. "Brittany, you're not having sex with my brother."

She smirks. "You know me so well."

The door swings open and Zachary comes bounding down the stairs, this time clutching a kitchen knife in his fist. He glances between me and our mom before he snorts. "You're still afraid of her?" He points the knife at her and bursts into a booming laugh.

I glare at him.

He kneels in front of me. He's so close I can feel his breath on my face "Baby girl." He shakes his head. "She never tried to drown you."

His lips pull into an ominous smile. "Tell me." He wraps both hands around my neck and shakes his head so his long locks fall in front of his face. "Does this look familiar?"

Everything clicks at once as my mind races back to the day of Prom. Brittany sat on the edge of my bed and rested her palm against my cheek as she applied my mascara. She asked me why the lights went out when my mother tried to drown me. I never thought about it before. I always chalked it up to her being too ashamed to murder her own child in broad daylight. But it wasn't that at all.

It was Zachary. Hiding his face so he could frame my mother.

I shudder. I trusted him. I dumped thousands into rehab programs to get him clean.

"Get off me," I order, quietly. "Why is she here?"

"I need someone to frame for the murders." He shrugs, pulling his clammy hands from my neck. "Just like I framed Trevor for breaking her out. And those anonymous texts."

I think back to the night at the Motel. How Trevor's truck sped away from the parking lot. He's been playing me from the beginning.

"Then you made me think Brittany was the murderer," my voice shakes, "with those texts from Kyle."

"What?" Brittany snaps.

"That was a good one." Zach points the knife at me, his smile growing. "I hadn't even planned on that but you left her phone with me at the hospital." He's giddy, bouncing on his toes like a kid. "All I had to do was change Kyle's name to my burner phone, slip it into your backpack, and send one text and you were convinced Brittany was using you."

"Good plan, Psycho," Brittany says. "So, what happened? Halfway through drowning your sister, you decided you'd spend the rest of your life murdering anyone who looked at her wrong?"

I can imagine her crossing her arms over her chest and popping her gum aggressively if she wasn't tied up.

The hand wrapped around the knife twitches. He chuckles before he lunges at her.

"Zachary, stop!" I'm screaming again, trying to stand; slipping in blood.

He grabs her by the hair and pulls her to her feet.

Brittany winces. The movement is minor. She doesn't cry out, doesn't whimper.

She's going to get herself killed.

"Zachary, come on," I beg.

He faces her and holds the tip of the knife to her throat.

She stares at him, a blank expression plastered to her face.

"If I wanted to kill my sister," he licks his teeth, "I would have." He applies more pressure to the knife, making an indent in Brittany's skin.

"Zachary, stop!" I'm begging.

"That woman..." He swings the knife in the direction of our mother. "It was her fault! She was so drunk that night. Could you imagine? She put her in the bathtub and blacked out on the couch. Jordan could have died in there."

My head cocks to the side. I was eight. There was no danger. Zachary has been psychotic since he was a kid.

Brittany's eyebrows pull together as she tilts her head to the side.

She's going to say something sarcastic.

"I had to get rid of her." He shakes his head. "So, I framed her. Baby Jordan was so hysterical. No one ever doubted us."

"I think there's a system for that kind of thing," Brittany says.

"Brittany!" I hiss.

"A government-funded department, maybe? One that specializes in providing healthy living situations for children." She pretends to think. "What is that called? Oh, right. Child Protective Services. A phone call may have worked."

Zachary's face flushes red. His fists are shaking as he mutters, "That's it." He drags her toward the stairs.

She doesn't fight back, only winces as he pulls her hair.

"Zachary, stop!" I scream. He's three steps up when I shout the only thing I can think to stop him. "Zachary, I love her. Please."

Brittany's cheeks flush pink. Her eyebrows pull together as she looks at me.

I open my mouth to say something to her, but nothing comes out.

Her lips pull into a small smile as she looks at the floor.

I can feel Grace's body go stiff.

Zachary pauses and glances over his shoulder. "Jo." He shakes his head. "You don't know what's good for you. I know what's good for you."

He's beginning to take another step when I say, "I'll end it. Don't test me." I pull against my wrist restraints behind my back.

If I could just get free.

"The second you let me go. I'll end it all."

"You're lying," he spits.

"No." My lip quivers. "I almost failed theater class. You think I could lie about this?" I slam my wrists into the wall behind me.

"No!" He throws his hands down like a frustrated toddler. "You don't know what's good for you!"

"I need you to let Brittany go. Just let her leave. I'm begging you, Zach."

He stares at me. His face distorts as he drags Brittany back down the stairs. He shoves her to the ground next to me and shakes his head.

"I need to think," he spits and turns back toward the stairs. He stops mid-stride as a loud knock sounds from upstairs.

"Zachary?" My dad's loud voice is muffled. "Jordan?"

Zachary sprints the rest of the stairs and waits on the other side of the door, holding the knife out, ready to strike.

My heart catches in my chest. "Zachary, you can't hurt Dad," I whisper.

He glances at me and focuses on the door again.

"Zach, please. That's our Dad." My voice shakes. "Please. I can't live without him either." Tears are running down my cheeks.

"Zach-o?" Dad's voice is getting closer. "Jo?"

I want to call out; tell him to leave. He wouldn't listen though. A wave of nausea forms in my throat.

"God, no," I whisper.

Please, Dad. Turn around.

It's quiet for a long moment and I think maybe he's leaving when the doorknob begins to turn.