“No, I think you watch too many crime shows. Not everything’s a clue, you know. Some things are just…things.”

He’s right. But it’s not just the “things” that are bothering me. It’s the feelings that go with them.

When I see the holes in my door, I think of what bad people do to keep good people trapped. I think of Martin and Gary and all the monsters I’ve never met. I think of what happens behind front doors that look just like ours but hide something terrible. We’ve lived behind those doors, so I know they exist. And I know there are people out there who lock others in, because it’s just what they do. And, when I think of the words on my wall, I imagine the person writing them. I feel their fear and picture their frantic hands working in the dark, pleading to no one but themselves. I picture those things because I’ve lived them.

I remember them because Mum and I felt trapped for so much longer than we should have.

I could tell Zak because he knows about my old life, except, sometimes, I worry that it’s a story he doesn’t want to hear over and over again. I know he’d listen, and I know he’d understand. But I feel guilty for reminding him of a version of me he never knew.

Instead, I say, “One of us is right.”

He nods like he knows it’s him, and I sigh, desperately hoping it’s not me.

37

I need to know, one way or the other, if Amy wrote the words on my wall. If I ask her, again, she’ll say no. But that’s not the only possible answer. The only way to be certain is to compare her handwriting with the scribbles now hidden beneath three coats of paint.

Whenever I get too close to her notebook, she puts it away, and I wonder what she doesn’t want me to see. Is it what she’s written or how she wrote it?

We’re at lunch when it happens. Amy stands up and says, “I’m going to the bathroom.” And perhaps it’s because she trusts us now, or maybe she forgets or doesn’t care, but she leaves her bag under her seat. I watch her leave the cafeteria, then pull it close and unzip it.

“What are you doing?” Zak asks, but I don’t answer.

Her notebook is wedged at the bottom and, as I pull it out, something else comes with it—a T-shirt way too small for her.

“Put it back,” Zak whispers.

“Just tell me when she’s coming.”

“She’ll freak if she catches you.”

I stare at him. “Then make sure she doesn’t.”