Actually, I must have dozed off. The clock in the lower right corner of the TV screen says 11:27 p.m.
The downside of Lucas being on the TV is that his face is larger than life, and that makes it hard to keep my expression that of someone startled awake, instead of someone who’s freaked out at seeing the man who killed my mom and raped me. Because even though I know Molly isn’t me, the dreams are so vivid and real that it’s sometimes hard to make that distinction.
He appears to be at the same desk as the Timm guy who woke me up this morning, but Lucas isn’t wearing a uniform—just a gray North Face jacket, unzipped partially to show a black dress shirt.
I turn down the volume, fighting a very strong urge to turn off the television entirely.
He gives me what he probably thinks is an amiable smile. “What you listenin’ to?”
“A book.” I grab the tablet and press the stop button.
“Well, duh,” Lucas says, still smiling. “Kind of figured that much, seeing that the Brit guy was saying he said and she said and what have you. You know who I am, right?”
“You’re Dacia Badea’s driver. I saw you in her car.”
Lucas’s eyes are a light-gray color that looks slightly exotic against his caramel skin.
That’s why he almost always wears gray. Someone told him it brings out his eyes. A Molly memory.
Those eyes are narrowed slightly now. “Just because you see someone driving a car doesn’t make him somebody’s driver. I don’t work for Daciana. Didn’t anyone ever teach you why it’s a bad idea to make assumptions?”
He raises his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
Oh, dear God. Does he really think that joke is original or witty?
“It makes an ass out of you and me.”
“I see you’re both smart and pretty.” He laughs and settles into another smile.
That’s the one he thinks is sexy. The smile he practices in the mirror.
I get a flash of a cartoon shark, and another Molly memory comes roaring in. This one is from when she was seven or eight, before she was frightened of Lucas. Back when he bought her Webkinz and Beanie Babies whenever she visited her mom. Before she started connecting the number and shape of the perpetual bruises on her mom’s arms with Lucas’s fingers.
On that particular day, when Lucas smiled at Molly’s mom, Molly thought for the first time that the smile made him look a little scary. A bit like Bruce, the shark in Finding Nemo. And not fish-friendly Bruce, but Bruce when instinct kicks in and he’s about to munch on Nemo’s dad and Dory.
I keep my face blank and file that memory away with the others.
“Listen.” Lucas leans toward the camera, moistening his lips with a quick flick of his tongue. “You’ve got an appointment later tonight. I just got here early because I was thinkin’ maybe you might be interested in a little trade for some info about your friend. But that’s probably somethin’ better discussed in person.”
He winks, and the screen goes black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I’m frozen in place for several seconds after Lucas’s face disappears. As soon as I’m able to pull in a breath, I run for the door, hitting the button that the nurse, Ashley, mentioned last night. I’m not sure what to expect—will someone speak to me through the security device?
“Yes, Anna?” The TV screen is on again. Lucas is sitting there, grinning. “If you’re looking for Timmons, we’re buddies. I told him to go for a smoke break, maybe Skype with his girlfriend. That I’d keep a very close eye on you ’til he got back. So it’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
“I was . . . looking for the nurse. A question about my medication.”
His expression makes it clear that he’s not buying it. “I’ll be sure to leave her a note.” He gives me the shark smile once more, and the screen is back to black.
I tear into the kitchen, looking for something, anything, that might be useful as a weapon. But everything is plastic, lightweight. No glass. Nothing heavier than the small tub of peanut butter. The most lethal tool in the entire place is a damned spork.
What I wouldn’t give for my pepper spray or my sock full of pennies right now. But I’ve spent nearly fifteen years in group homes. You learn to make do with what you have.
I drop the spork with the business end facedown on the floor and use a bottle of water from the fridge, cap down, to crack parts of the plastic away from the handle. It’s a half-assed shiv, but it’s a whole lot better than nothing. I shove it into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the bag of apples and a few bottles of water—anything I can throw at Lucas that might slow him down long enough for me to get away.
Except . . . I’ll need his identification to open the door.
Fine, then. Anything that might slow him down long enough for me to jab this shard of plastic into his throat—something that would give me great personal pleasure—and take his ID.
Except . . . leaving aside how unlikely that is to work, would attacking Lucas improve Deo’s chances of getting out of here alive?