Chapter 3
Mallory

It was hard to believe things could have changed so much.

Okay, so I wasn't a complete idiot. Ten years was a very long time, and I hadn't spoken to anyone but Jessi in that time, and even that had been years earlier.

But still, I'd clung to the belief that Stoneybrook was exactly as I'd left it. Kristy would still be sitting in one of Claudia's chairs, wearing a visor on her head and a pencil over one ear, and Mary Anne would still be clutching the record book and hiding behind her hair. Dawn would still be sitting right beside her, probably arguing with Kristy, and Jessi and I would still be sitting on the floor leaning against Claudia's bed.

My family had moved to Stamford in my absence to be closer to my father's place of work, which was where Jessi's family had moved, also in my absence, to be closer to her father's place of work. Ironically, I'd imagined that we 'expendable' members, the 'junior' members with no real purpose for being in the club, had been the only ones to actually leave.

I'd gotten a letter about Stacey's death. A formal, emotionless letter explaining where and when it had happened. But I got the letter several days after the funeral.

Once you leave, you aren't needed. The triplets had taken over my 'job' as the oldest Pike sibling, and Margo, Nicky, Vanessa, and even Claire seemed to look up to them.

I knew this because I had come home, after seven years at Riverbend, to a place where I was no longer a real part of the family. At eighteen, the seventeen-year-old triplets were the ones the kids looked up to. Vanessa no longer spoke in rhyme, and Claire no longer sucked her thumb. Nicky wasn't a little dweeb anymore, and Margo had become 'more than just one of the middle siblings.'

Now, though, after three years at home, I'd gotten used to being the one people came to when nobody else bothered to help them. I was the last resort, whereas I used to be the first and only.

Aside from our parents, of course.

But it was why I'd become desperate to find someone who had known me when things were still perfect, when I was, much like Nicky, nothing more than a socially-inept kid. I'd tried Claudia's old e-mail address twice before I got a response, and when I did, I was thrilled.

Until I read it. Claudia's message wasn't particularly short, but it was short. I mean that while it was a fairly lengthy message, the words sounded short, like she was stating facts, not talking to someone she knew. Or had known, either way. But it just sounded so unlike Claudia that I was, at first, sure I'd sent the message to the wrong Claudia.

But she mentioned everyone we'd known, and it all came as a surprise.

The biggest surprise was that Claudia lived in Chicago.

I'd seen the News while at Riverbend. I hadn't understood it all, since most of the details couldn't be released because Claudia and Dahlia and most of the others involved were underage.

But I didn't think, ten years later, that it would have changed her so much.

Then again, her tormenter was about to be released into the community, free to do as she pleased. No wonder Claudia wasn't happy.

But could I really do what I was about to?

My boss wanted an extensive report about Claudia. Dahlia's release was going to be all over the News, and when my boss found out that I'd known Claudia, one of the main victims, he wanted me to question her.

But dredging up such memories wouldn't be pleasant. And I wasn't sure I could inflict that on a former friend, and one of the only ones I had.

I hadn't contacted Claudia purely in a fit of nostalgia. I'd contacted her because it was business.

But not MY business. The past was the past, and I was sure Claudia would want this particular piece of the past to remain forgotten.

And I was about to rip open an old wound simply because the public would want all the juicy details about Claudia's imprisonment, and because it would be a story everyone would want to read and cash in on. My own job as a reporter would be extensively furthered if I could create a 'juicy' report on how a victim deals with such awful things as torture and imprisonment.

Did I have the guts?

The eleven-year-old Mallory in me was glaring. She would cross her arms and stamp her foot and probably say something about how she'd 'never, ever' hurt a friend. No matter what.

I decided to wait. If I wrote back to Claudia now, I'd probably let it slip that I wasn't just calling to remember good old times.

And that wouldn't do me any good. It was likely that Claudia thought I was still just a naïve wannabe-writer who was itching to talk about hair and makeup. Which was good, in a way. She wouldn't know I was about to ask some painful questions, and so she'd be more cooperative.

Besides, I was about to make contact with someone who had known me during some of the most awkward years of my life. I didn't even know what to say.

. . . .

Hi, Claudia! Oh, I'm so glad to hear back from you! It's hard to believe just how much the BSC fell apart. I know you wrote once to say it fell apart, but I didn't think you meant it literally. I thought you were doing what Jessi would have; telling me the BSC couldn't survive without me.

Too arrogant? Or did it sound bitter because I'd mentioned (as subtly as I could) that Claudia had only written me once after my transfer to Riverbend Hall?

Did I dare mention that I'd seen the News?

Maybe I shouldn't. She'd probably be upset because I'd seen the News and hadn't bothered to bring it up for ten years. Or bothered to contact her sooner.

"You're moping again," Jessi said, entering the room with a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. "Did you write anything to Claudia yet?"

"See for yourself." I moved aside and Jessi took my place in front of the ancient old computer. She scrolled through my messages, then Claudia's.

"'Jessi is completely avoiding answering me,'" Jessi read aloud. "I didn't know what."

"There's a lot I haven't told her. Like what the 'important' thing is I have to tell her. I can't just say I'm about four days away from losing my job because they didn't like that stupid article on teen clubs."

Jessi just gave me a look. "So when will you tell Claudia that you aren't actually interested in talking to her aside from in pursuit of a promotion?"

"It isn't like that. I do want to talk to her—"

"Yeah, about the whole bloody mess of a decade ago, when you were twelve and ignoring all of my letters to you at Riverbend. Which reminds me, why did you make me the bad guy? I wrote to you and yet I'm the one who 'completely avoided you.'"

"I was just doing that stupid thing about cutting people out of my life before they can do so to me," I defended myself, but she was right. "I'll tell her, don't worry. And I'm not going to bombard her with questions. I'm just going to ask, as a friend."

"And then publish it all for the world to read. Don't you think she'll figure that out?" Jessi gave me another look, settling down on my bed. Of the two of us, she remained worried about Claudia's feelings through it all. She would never have made a good reporter. You won't ever get a story out of someone if you constantly reconsider every question you have to ask. Maybe that, plus the fact that she's had an accident and couldn't be a ballerina, was why she was now editing books for publishing.

"Yes, but by then I'll be long gone."

"So you are just using her. I knew it! You promised to be considerate, Mal."

"I will be! Man, it's not like she was raped yesterday and I want every detail for a gossip column! It's the News, Jess. It's my job to report the truth."

"Yes, but then why not report on last week's oil spill, or something the environmentalists will go organic nuts over?"

"Because a story like this will be something everyone who remembers the atrocities of ten years ago will want to read. Very few details were released, you know."

"Atrocities, Mal. You mentioned last night that this could all 'reopen a wound.' I've got the feeling this one never healed, and all you can talk about is the fact that 'Ten Years Later' or 'A Blast of the Past' would both make great titles for your story. Which, by the way, isn't a fairy tale or a work of fiction. This was all very real to Claudia, and it probably still is. She isn't going to want to talk about it, especially now."

"What, because Dahlia's going to be out of jail soon?"

"Why are you even writing that thing? We have all of the details."

"It's the personal stuff that'll sell the story. You know, nightmares, flashbacks, lingering aches and pains, triggers. The stuff we don't like to think about, or shouldn't, and what most of us won't admit to thinking about, is the stuff people will buy the paper for. They love that juicy gossip. Humiliation, too."

Jessi was staring at me.

"Oh, come on! It was an example! I don't plan on humiliating Claudia!"

"Not after you dredge up all of her worst memories," Jessi scoffed. "Mallory, I'm not an idiot, okay? I know this article is important to you. But don't forget about the things you promised yourself. You were there when Claudia and Dawn were stranded and those reporters were asking their parents how they felt, and you vowed never to be like them. Don't let writing your story get in the way of promises like that."

Jessi left, and I sat there for a few minutes, my own mind plunged into the past. Jessi was right; completely and totally. I'd seen plenty of occasions on which reporters harassed people who were grieving and in pain for the sake of writing a story. I'd hated them, recalling Stacey's death and knowing that if someone were to ask me, with the world watching, how I was feeling about it, that I would have been mortified and furious.

Of course, I'd already written and published several articles that the human subjects of weren't happy about. But that hadn't stopped me. Maybe, mostly, because they hadn't been people I'd known and cared about and gone through so much together.

Still, I was a reporter. What had happened ten years ago was terrible, but Claudia was still alive. And it was my job to report the stories of the living and the facts of death. I'd wanted to be a writer my whole life, and while writing for the local newspaper wasn't the best job, it wasn't the worst. I'd always been nosy and interested in other people's business, and now I could report it. It was like being a legal and more or less respected gossip columnist.

But this was going to take some thought. Even if talking about it would help/hurt Claudia, it would definitely further my career, unless I wimped out. And like it or not, my boss wanted me to at least question (or, as it's called, "interview") Claudia. I could do that. I couldn't report anything about the BSC, so my questions would have to revolve around the one thing she didn't want to bring up—and the one thing Jessi was sure would hurt our friendship, or at least, the last shreds of it.

It was definitely going to take some thought.

. . . .

"Mallory Pike! What in the world is wrong with you?"

I felt my eyes fluttering open and a dull ache in my shoulders. I was slumped over, my head on my crossed forearms, at my desk. The bright afternoon sunlight had faded into a rosy twilight, and Jessi was stalking into the room, accusingly holding up a sheet of paper I'd been looking for.

"You made a list! About everything Claudia endured! You were trying to come up with questions about it, weren't you?"

I sat back and stretched, wincing at the sharp, tingling pain. "You knew I would."

"Not these kinds of questions! You can't ask the victim of something so heinous to answer questions like these!" Jessi flipped the page and I could see her eyes scanning over the list of questions I was supposed to ask (a list I hadn't yet edited to make sure the questions were okay.) But Jessi was beyond that. "'What kinds of things were done to you?' 'How did you feel about the explosion?' 'What kinds of tortures were performed?'"

"I have to ask questions, Jessi. It's my job. And that's not the list I'm going to be using when I interview Claudia. Those are just trial questions."

Jessi glared at me. "'Were any of the prisoners sexually abused or assaulted?'"

"Okay, so that's one I probably won't ask. I know Ashley was—"

"Yes, we do. So why not just make an article with the facts you obviously already have? People love facts."

"They also go for human stories where people recount and recall things that happened to them. Especially big things like this, when the story made the News and the victims all hid."

"I think they hid for a reason."

Her silent insult wasn't missed. 'Claudia was hiding from reporters, and you want to use your former 'friend' status against her.'

Jessi left in a huff, and I stood up and reached for the paper she'd dropped on my bed. Okay, so a lot of the questions were insensitive and even cruel. But I knew people often enjoyed it when people on the News or in interviews for newspapers showed real emotion over what they were talking about. Some reporters went as far as trying to get the people they spoke to crying.

I wasn't going to do that. I'd ask my questions and get out of there.

I logged onto the computer and finished my e-mail to Claudia, adding a bunch of memories from the past and stuff to make it sound more friendly, less arrogant and bitter.

If I wanted anything from Claudia, I was going to have to be nice.

Once I had sent the article to the publisher, everything would be fine. Jessi would go back to being my best friend, and maybe Claudia would be back in our lives. I'd go back to writing articles about car crashes and teen clubs and hockey games, and everything would be as it was before my boss found out I knew someone who could give us a potentially fantastic story, at the perfect time when her tormenter was about to be released. I could ask how she felt about that.

"Jessi, did you see my notebook?" I called, prepared to write up a list of questions I could actually ask Claudia if she and I got together. I wouldn't even have to tell her it was an interview, but that would make writing down everything she said much harder.

The only response to my question was the slamming of the front door to our brownstone, and I knew then that Jessi had heard me but wanted nothing to do with my questioning Claudia.

Maybe she's just jealous that I'll get to talk to Claudia before she can, or that I'm going to ruin her chances at even talking to Claudia.

I pushed the thought away and headed for my kitchen, where I'd probably left my notebook. I like to write while I eat or while waiting for the water the boil if I'm cooking. My book was lying next to the stove, and I grabbed it…just as something grabbed me.

Just as my hand wrapped around the spine of the spiral notebook, a strong arm reached around me and pinned me into whoever was holding me. They were strong; I was lifted several inches off the floor. (Then again, I didn't weight very much.) I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth prevented me from making anything more than a startled grunting sound. Something silky and black was wrapped around my forehead and eyes. I could hear an electronic beeping noise, and my first thought was that my attacker had a bomb.

The person pushed me down onto the couch and I didn't have time to react before a harsh kick to the ribs knocked the breath out of me. I gasped, and thought I faintly heard, over the rushing, ringing noise in my ears, that someone was saying 'Hello?' It sounded far-off, like someone was calling over the static on a phone. The air I'd managed to take in was pushed back out a coughing gasp as first a kick to the chest and then a blow to the head sent my sprawling. I felt someone step on the back of my neck—not hard enough to kill me, but enough to let me know not to move or the heavy leather boot would crush my throat—and I could distinctly, over the sound of my own gasping breaths, hear that the person who'd kicked me was talking on the phone. Then, as I felt my vision blacken and my head spin, I felt the pressure on my neck dissipate and heard the sound of heavy, quick footsteps leading away from me.

I was alone.

Author's Note: I know the attack Claudia heard over the phone took place before Mallory's second note reached her, but if the BSC timeline can be inconsistent, so can mine. I wrote that Mallory replies to Claudia (who doesn't respond until after Mal's second e-mail reaches her) when Claudia replies to the second e-mail…I think. I'm really confused. But anyway, I decided it was Mallory getting some of what she deserved for trying to use the worst of Claudia's past to help herself. Please review! I think this one's boring...