"SO," MR. BECKLY SAID SLOWLY, LOOKING AT ME, "THIS guy, Andrew Cruise, kidnapped you?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying," I stared intently at my former English teacher. "He sent a guy named Knot to get me, then when he met me, he said, 'You are a victim of a higher power. My higher power', " I explained, shaking my head in confusion.
"Well, it wasn't the first time you've been kidnapped," Mr.Beckly recounted bitterly, gritting his teeth hard.
I was surprised at his words. "What do you mean?" I stuttered. "I was kidnapped before?"
"Yes, by your parents now. Yours too, Melissa." Mr.Beckly stood up, shadowing Melissa and me. I glanced at Melissa and snorted as she asked sharply,
"Then who are my real parents?"
Mr.Beckly's eyes darken and he turned to the window. "That question may have an answer, only if it is asked," he murmured."I am your father of both of you." Mr. Beckly stated firmly. "You were stolen from me. I couldn't take you here because the school forbids it, and I would lose my job."
I stared at Melissa. I was related to her- as a sister?
But the moment of wondering did not last. Mr. Beckly turned swiftly to us. "Come," he said, striding out of the office with my bully and me at his heels. "We must report to the police what has happened so we can put a stop to this madness."
My sister- no, I mean Melissa- called the police on the way down to the station, sitting in Mr. Beckly's car. I could swear at one point she was flirting with the person on the phone- presumably a very cute boy- but she had wrapped up her call before I could ask. "They are waiting for us," she informed us.
"Thank you Melissa," Mr. Beckly commented as we pulled into the parking lot and walked inside the police station. A man, decked in black clothes, led me to a questioning hall and helped me pull up a chair. The detective walked into the room some time after.
"Hello, Ms.Frostwater," she said politely, shuffling the file on her desk. "Now, who kidnapped you? Do you have his name?"
"Yes," I said hurriedly. "His name is Andrew Cruise." I said eagerly.
The detective gasped and her reading glasses slid onto the tip of her nose. "Cruise died a year ago," she exclaimed. "He is dead. He cannot have kidnapped you."
I handed her a picture of him. She pressed a hand to her heart as she gazed, dumbfounded, at the glossy, recently-taken photo. "It can't be," she said bluntly.
"And yet it is," I finished the sentence for her, waiting for her reaction.