Unbullied

Chapter 4

Chapter 4When Charlie's hysterical shock finally let up, she grabbed her phone and texted her mother: Mom? A message shot right back from Mom: Hi honey. Do you need something?

Nope. Charlie blew out her breath as a wave of relief coursed through her. Later.

Next, Charlie called the elementary school. Deepening her voice, she told the secretary in the administrative office that she was Tim's mother; then, she asked if he was feeling well, because she'd thought he might be coming down with something.

"As far as I know, he's fine," said the secretary. "Do you need to speak to him?

"No, thank you," Charlie told her. "Just let me know if he takes a turn for the worse." She hung up before the secretary could say another word.

Then, Charlie threw herself back on the bed and let more waves of relief ripple through her. Mom and Tim were both okay. She hadn't dared believe it until she'd seen and heard proof from Mom and the school secretary. It would've been just like Conscience to lie about not killing them.

Slumping heavily into the pillow and mattress, Charlie stared up at the tile ceiling, remembering what she'd just been through. All of it had been for nothing--nothing but Conscience's sadistic amusement.

Why did he hate her so much? All Charlie knew was that he blamed her for making him do the awful things he did.

She wished she could understand why he said it was her fault. She wished she knew what she'd done to Conscience to set his crimes in motion.

Maybe then, she could stop him before anyone else died.

Raising the phone, she scrolled back through the parade of texts he'd sent her over the past six weeks. She saw the casualties in reverse order, announced by Conscience with all the gloating glee of someone who'd just won a hand of high stakes poker.

Louisa Morelli. Kelli Pale. Stephanie Ross.

The names of the dead were always the last things Conscience revealed. He told Charlie everything else every step of the way...how he was using threatening texts to tear each girl down until she killed herself. But Conscience only sent Charlie their names when they were dead; that way, even if she decided to defy him, she still couldn't help the victims.

Later, she would see their photos on the TV news and online, and she would feel sick. All three of the girls were her age; they'd all gone to different schools, schools other than Charlie's, and she'd never known them or even heard their names before.

But because Conscience had brought her into his nightmare, she felt partly responsible for their deaths. Though she'd done the only thing she could--texting him back, pleading with him to leave each girl alone--she still felt in her heart that she should have done more. She still felt like an accomplice for keeping his terrible secrets.

Even though the price for revealing them was moving to the top of Conscience's hit list, along with her family. Though, after what had just happened, Charlie was starting to think they were already there.

NEXT TIME ITS FOR REALS! That was what he'd written on the sticky note he'd left. Did that mean that she and her family would be the next to die? Was that why Conscience was turning up the pressure on her?

Rolling over on her side to face the wall, she curled up in a ball and cried. She hated the thought of dying; she hated the thought of Mom and Tim dying even more.

And she hated the fact that she found herself wishing there were more people ahead of them on Conscience's list.

"Charlie?"

The voice of a child piped up nearby, waking Charlie from a deep sleep. It was a voice she knew well, the voice of her little brother, Tim.

"Hey, Charlie?"

Next, she felt a finger tapping her shoulder, and her eyes flickered open. She was still facing the wall; she must have fallen asleep after curling up on her side.

"Charlie." Tim raised his voice. "Want to play Dragons and Nazis with me?"

Charlie uncurled and rolled over on her back. "What time is it?" If Tim was home, it had to be at least 3:30 in the afternoon.

"But I thought you wanted to play." Tim scowled. "I thought that's why you put this on my bed." He held out the yellow sticky note that Conscience had left in his room.

That was enough to snap Charlie to full alertness. Sitting up hastily, she snatched the note away from him and crumpled it in her fist. "That's exactly right," she said. "It's part of a game, but now I'm not feeling well enough to play."

Tim's scowl deepened. "But what does 'R.I.P. TIM' mean?"

Charlie thought fast. "It stands for 'Really Important Person.'"

"Cool." Tim held out another sticky note. "So Mom's a really important person, too, then?"

It was the note from Mom's room, and Charlie grabbed it in a hurry. "Absolutely! And she's gonna love this game. But don't say anything till I feel better, okay? Let's keep it a surprise."

Tim sat down hard on the bed beside her. "But you never play role-playing games anymore."

"But I will when I feel better," said Charlie. "Maybe tomorrow, who knows?"

Tim met her gaze with a frown. "You never do anything fun anymore, Charlie."

She couldn't deny he was totally right. All the fun had drained out of her life six weeks ago, and it wasn't coming back anytime soon.

Thinking about it gave her a pang of longing for the days before Conscience, back when she'd lived for RPGs, Bollywood movies, African music, and steampunk. Her life had revolved around these eclectic interests and a handful of geeky outsider friends; together with her family, it had been enough to make her happy.

Now, she did nothing she enjoyed, and she'd alienated all her friends. How could she be happy when every moment of her life was filled with dread? And how could she keep the gloom and doom from casting a shadow on her sweet and innocent ten-year-old brother?

"Well, the fun is on its way back." Charlie grinned and tousled Tim's sandy brown hair. "Just you wait, dude."

"You promise?" Tim looked doubtful.

Charlie nodded emphatically. "Big-time promise."

Tim tipped his head to one side and flashed his best puppy-dog eyes at her. "But not today?"

Charlie leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. "Trust me. I'm the opposite of fun today."