Page 68 of Concerted Chaos

“Die!” she screams as she throws a second handful. Now I unfreeze enough for a minor reaction. I put up my hands to block it and jump to my feet, trying to brush off the flour. This might be the weirdest thing that has ever happened to me, and considering I toured with a ’90s boyband, that’s saying something.

“What are you doing?” Everything has been so bizarre in the past twenty-four hours that my mind is having a hard time processing this. Did she really just attack me? With flour? Really? Am I dreaming?

“You killed our father, so we’re going to watch you die.” Silas’ voice is cold, and now he’s studying me like a scientist. He’s waiting for an anaphylactic reaction, but they picked the wrong Corbitt for that.

“Who’s your father?” I pinch myself, and it’s not a dream. But I’m frozen in place. My limbs are heavy with shock. I should run, but I can’t control my body. Fight, flight, fawn or freeze? Apparently, my trauma reaction is to choose freeze. I wish I’d known that before.

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember,” Whitney taunts. “Frank Markoff? The reporter?”

“I’ve met lots of reporters, and I haven’t killed any of them.” I have no idea who she’s talking about, and I want to think this is a strange joke. The condo has numerous interior security cameras, maybe they know about them? Maybe they have an online prank show and they’re doing this for laughs? They’ll expect me to hand over the footage later so they can post the video to their channel. But the powder does taste like real peanuts, and their expressions are deadly serious.

“This isn’t a game, Cassidy,” Silas tells me. “Our father was a respected journalist, until you and your brother sued him. You know exactly who he was!”

The name still doesn’t ring a bell, but the mention of the lawsuit bangs a huge gong.

“Are you talking about the tabloid reporter who falsified the story of Powell and me sleeping together? I didn’t even know he was dead!” I assumed that guy was living in a trailer park in the desert with all the other washed-up journalists who screwed up an article. I always imagined him drinking cheap beer and shaking his fist at the sky.

“He didn’t falsify anything. He had a source, a valid source. But a true journalist can’t share that information, even when held in contempt of court. So he didn’t. And he ended up hanging himself in disgrace when he lost his job. That was you, Cassidy. You and Powell killed him, so we’re going to kill you.” Silas delivers the whole speech in a calm monotone. He’s a psychopath, I realize. No wonder I was instinctively creeped out by him before. And no wonder he mentioned that story on our date—he kept it stewing in his mind for a decade.

“It was you all along? You’re the bombers!” I’ve solved the mystery, but far too late. Were they working with Tanner this whole time? Or no, wait. Did they frame him? I can’t worry about that right now. All I know is I have to keep them talking so I can formulate an escape plan. There’s a table between us, but they’re blocking both my exit and the nearest panic button. And I’m covered in a substance that will kill my brother, so I can’t make a dash to warn him. I can only hope he hears the commotion and calls the police, without leaving his room.

Of course my luck isn’t that good. The next sound I hear is Powell’s bedroom door opening and his sleepy voice asking, “What’s going on, Deedee?”

“Get back in your room and barricade the door!” I scream. Powell has worked with dozens of directors and choreographers through the years, and I must have matched their authoritative tone because he obeys immediately and without question. His door slams shut and the lock clicks. My eyes slide to the charger in the kitchen, where I count four phones. Crap. He doesn’t have one in his room.

“Actually, Powell,” Silas calls in a sing-song voice. “You’re going to want to come out. You should at least try to save your sister.”

“It’s a trap! There’s peanut dust ...” and that’s all I’m able to say before Silas punches me in the face.

I’ve never, ever been hit in the face before. Not ever. Not accidentally in a gym class, not in a mosh pit, not even when I was in an explosion. It hurts. It hurts! The pain is so agonizing it chases every thought from my head and I reel back, pressing a palm to my eye in shock. I think I heard my cheekbone crack.

“Why isn’t she reacting yet?” Whitney asks Silas.

“Because I’m not allergic to peanuts,” I say, which is a tactical error. I should have faked anaphylaxis, collapsed on the ground, then waited while they tried to unlock Powell’s door. Then I could have crept up behind them with a weapon. Not that we store weapons in the condo, but I’m sure I could improvise something. It would also have given me a chance to press the nearest panic button. I’m going to assume Powell activated the one in his room and help is on the way. That means I just need to survive a few minutes. I’m tough, I can survive anything for a few minutes.

Here’s the problem, though. I am stronger than the average woman. I’m in great shape and I’m fast. But Silas is a big man. He’s bigger and stronger. Maybe not faster though, but Whitney might be. And it’s two on one.

“I guess we have to do this the old-fashioned way,” Silas says and lunges at me. I dodge and manage to get in a good kick before he tackles me to the floor. “Hey, Powell, I’m killing your sister now. You should come watch; it’s going to be fun!”

I struggle under his weight. “Whitney, please, I thought we were friends, please help me.”

She flinches. I hope she regrets her decisions here. But she doesn’t change them. “My father died because of you. I told you, I’ve been plotting revenge for ten years. I’m not going to let a few happy hours and movie nights take that away from me.”

I had always thought that if I were ever attacked, I would fight. I would be ferocious, and tenacious, and I could defeat any bad guy who came my way. Silas disabuses me of that notion rather quickly and decisively. He incapacitates me with another excruciatingly painful face punch, and then his monstrous hands come around my throat. I can’t breathe, which sends me into blind panic. I writhe and squirm and try to pry his fingers off, but he is far too strong. My vision starts to darken, and I feel ... regret. Surprising, that my last emotion would be regret, but it is. I regret not spending more time with my mom. Not being able to save my brother. Not being able to apologize to Tanner for mistaking him for being a terrorist. So many things...

I close my eyes, surrendering to the darkness. But before I succumb, Silas’ grip loosens. He’s not going to finish killing me? I stay still, unmoving, waiting. My mind is slowly forming tendrils of actual thought again, and I can feel emotions beyond panic and regret. Now I have time to formulate a plan. My left eye is swollen shut, but I crack my right eyelid the smallest bit I can, hoping to see what’s going on. Silas is still on top of me, but he’s undoing his pants. I keep my breathing as even and shallow as possible. Let him think that he choked me into unconsciousness. I’m only going to get one chance.

“Hey, Whit,” he warns. “You might not want to watch this next part.”

“Do whatever you want, I’m still working on this lock. I bet she has the keys somewhere.” Whitney is getting frustrated with Powell’s door, which if my brother is smart, he barricaded. I hope he didn’t think he was dreaming when I told him to get back in his room, that he didn’t fall down on his bed and go back to sleep. I hope I’m not struggling in vain. I want us both to escape alive, and the only way we will is if he triggered the panic button. Or if he develops a time-travel machine and goes back to last night when he told Mike he didn’t need him to stay over. I’ll pin my hopes on the button.

Silas grabs the neckline of my shirt and rips, tearing it right down the middle and exposing me to his evil hands. I concentrate on not moving at all, not even twitching, no matter how much he hurts me. I’m still peering out from a tiny slit in my eyelid, waiting for him to get in the right place. He leans over me and ... now!

Using the strength I’ve gained from thousands of abdominal crunches, I slam my body upward as swiftly as I can, smashing my forehead into his nose. My angle is slightly wrong, so I don’t drive bone shards into his brain to kill him instantly as I had hoped. Instead, he yelps in pain as hot blood sprays my body. I use the distraction to roll over and try to crawl out from under him, but Silas catches me by grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking me backwards, sending a new shockwave of agony through me.

“You’re going to pay for that,” Silas hisses directly in my ear. He’s holding me so tightly I can’t get away. That’s when Powell’s door flies open and he runs out, wearing a T-shirt tied over his face so that only his eyes are exposed. It must’ve taken him so long to come to my aid because he was constructing an anti-peanut mask. He’s brandishing one of the heavy wooden curtain rods that used to be over his bedroom window, which is probably the closest thing to a weapon he had in his room. I hope it’s effective.

“Deedee, are you okay?” he calls out, at the same time winding up and hitting Whitney hard in the head, sending her to the ground. She tries to get up, but he whomps her again, this time in the spine, and she collapses.

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