Stolen by Lucy Christopher Page B

and held your gaze. Your eyes turned to slits. You knew exactly what I meant. They’d stolen you, just as you’d stolen me. “Am I your way of getting back at them all?”
    You were quiet for a long time. But I didn’t drop my gaze. Once I could see you weren’t going to get mad at me, I felt pretty brave. Eventually it was you who had to look away first.
    “No,” you said. “It’s not that. I’ve saved you from all that. Saved. Not stolen.”
    “I wish you hadn’t.”
    “Don’t say that.”
    You glanced back at me then, your eyes wide, almost pleading. “This place is better than Dad’s,” you said firmly. “Nobody’s bought this land, not even us. And no one’s going to want it, either. It’s dying land … lonely land.”
    “Like me, then,” I said.
    “Yes, like you.” You chewed the corner of your lip. “You both need saving.”

     
    That night I couldn’t sleep. But there was nothing unusual about that. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the creaks and groans of the house. It sounded alive. It was a ginormous animal lying in the sand, and we were in its belly.
    I thought of ways to kill you. I imagined the gurgling you’d make after I stuck something sharp into the side of your neck. I imagined the blood gushing out, flowing over my hands and staining the wooden floor. I imagined your blue eyes turning still and hard.
    But those images didn’t send me to sleep. So I thought of things I would say to my parents if I could see them again: apologies, mostly.
    I’m sorry I broke Mum’s favorite vase.
    I’m sorry you caught me drunk that day.
    I’m sorry we were arguing in the airport.
    I’m sorry I got abducted.
    I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….
    And then I was in the park. I tossed and turned, trying to get myself out of that dream, but it was too late.
    I was walking fast. The smell of warm, musty earth was clinging to my nostrils … the remnants of a balmy summer’s day. Gnats were hovering all around, getting caught in my hair and flying into my eyes.
    He was there, only a few feet away. Gaining on me. Following. I heard the rub of his jeans, the thud of his footsteps. I picked up my pace. I looked around at the trees and the bushes, hoping for something I recognized, but the trees were thick and dark, with their leaves rustling, rustling.
    He was so close I could hear his breathing, heavy with a summer cold. I took a wrong turn and headed toward the pond. He sniffed. He was behind me, talking to me, telling me to slow down. But I started to run. It was stupid, really; I knew this guy. And anyway, it’s not as if there was anywhere to go out there on that pathway—only the pond. My feet slipped on the wood chips, my breathing quick. And the water was so close, approaching so fast.
    His shadow crept up on me, overtook me, covered mine with its darkness. I started to turn, tried to think of something to say … about schoolwork, or Anna, or something.
    Then he stopped. And I saw him. Only it wasn’t him this time, it was you.
    You were wearing the checkered shirt from the airport, your arms outstretched. Your hands were shaking.
    “Please, Gemma,” you were saying. “Please … don’t.”
    But I turned away from you and ran straight into the pond. I let the water cover me as I sank down, down, into the cold, dark deepness, and my hair got tangled up and caught in the weeds.

     
    There was a thudding sound coming from the veranda, a steady thump of something being hit. I swung open the wire mesh door and stood for a moment, my feet bare on the wood. The morning sunlight was softer that day, not quite so intense. I didn’t have to wait the usual couple of seconds before my eyes adjusted.
    You were to the left of me, in a tattered pair of shorts and a thin, holey undershirt. A punching bag was swinging between your fists and the air. I hadn’t noticed it before, so perhaps you’d only just put it up. You were on your toes, bouncing slightly, hitting the bag hard with