by Lindsey Iler
“Yeah, I got it, but what I’m dealing with is untouchable, so thanks for this visit, I guess, but I need to get going.” She reaches forward and brushes her fingers down my chest, paying extra attention to the lapels on my uniform jacket. “Unless you want to come inside?”
“I don’t think so.” I grab her wrist and remove her hand from me.
“You sure, baby?” She shifts forward, crowding my space. I’d believe her whoring ways if not for her trembling hand and bottom lip. I’ve had a lot of girls come onto me, but never have I felt the desperation and fear like with Reagan. It rolls off her in lethal waves. She behaves as if she is obligated to fall at my knees to please me.
“I’m positive.”
“Well, look at you, Marek Hawthorne. You’re the first prick on this campus who hasn’t considered my body theirs for the taking.” She shakes her head and slowly blinks. Dark circles encompass her heavy eyes, clear evidence of whatever horror she’s been living. The disheveled, greasy hair piled on top of her head proves she hasn’t bothered to care for herself in a day or two. This girl is exhausted.
“What do you mean?” I tilt my head to the side, hoping to get a glimpse inside her dorm room.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about girls like me.” She slams the door in my face, ending our conversation.
I have more questions than I do answers at this point. A girl doesn’t typically throw herself at a boy when everything else about her is closed off. She’d acted as if she owed me something, and I would have no real reason to say no.
What drives someone to believe their own body doesn’t belong to them?
*****
“Mom?” I call out, a shake in my voice that hasn’t gone away since that day I watched the paramedics attempting to revive Penelope. Two years of so many unknowns and confusion.
I walk through the house. It’s always quiet now. The hallways remind me of the museums my parents took me to when I was young. You were meant to observe, but not truly live.
“Mom?” I shout once more as I enter the kitchen.
She’s never in here anymore. It used to be her favorite place where she’d bake cookies with Penelope. Where there was once laughter is now nothing but stark white counters.
Out the large picture window, I spot her. Her long brown hair is tossed around by the wind. This isn’t where I’d expected to find her. She usually prefers her bedroom, lights off, and the sound of a thunderstorm coming from that stupid box on her bedside table.
“I’m hungry,” I announce as I walk out onto the patio.
At my age, I’m more than capable of making my own sandwich. That’s not the point, though.
“Go pour a bowl of cereal.”
“I don’t want cereal. I want real food.”
“And I want your sister back.” My mother spins on the balls of her feet and pins me with an angry stare. “I’m not going to get what I want, so why should you?”
What does one have to do with the other?
“Okay, Mom,” I whisper, afraid to push too far.
“You’re the reason she’s not with us. You’re the reason her life was cut short. You may as well have died in that pool with her. Do you hear me, Marek?” my mother yells in my face.
“Marek, don’t you know you’re the reason why your sister isn’t here? You’re the reason why my sister is dead,” Palmer calls out, racing towards us. In the reflection of her sunglasses, I see I’m no longer the little boy, but the eighteen-year-old version of myself. “Are you happy with yourself, that everyone you love ends up dead?”
I pat my hands against my shirt, uncertain of who I am in this moment. Am I young, or in high school? My head tilts to the sky, stretching my neck for relief. I look down to see Palmer sprawled on the cement. Blood covers her clothes, and her body is bent at an impossible angle.
“Wake up, Marek.” From out of nowhere, Reagan appears from behind my mother. “It’s time to wake up. WAKE UP! Wake up now! Open your eyes!” she screams in my face.
Jolted from my dream, I spring from the bed and rush into the bathroom. Bent over the sink, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face. Out of breath, I sit on the edge of the tub, covering my face.
What did that dream mean?
“Open your eyes,” I repeat Reagan’s words.
What do my mother, Palmer, and Reagan have in common? Reagan clearly was attacked by someone, but she made it seem as if she knew her attacker. Palmer was attacked on campus, but she didn’t know who it was.
Could it have been the same person? But that still begs the question, what kind of person walks around an academy campus attacking women? Will he strike again? Will someone else not be as lucky as Palmer and Reagan and not get away, much like Georgina Matthews?
“Shit!” I hurry from the room and race down the back steps and into the kitchen.
“I was just about to come upstairs to get you,” Breaker announces, moving to the side to expose an unexpected guest.
“What are you doing here?” I shout, moving towards her.
She takes a step back, proving I’m no longer the little boy she can ignore. I’m bigger and stronger this time around. I’ve learned the acceptance of my mother doesn’t mean shit after being physically and emotionally abandoned. She may as well have left me for dead.
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“Are you sure, lady, because that seems to be your MO when it comes to your son?” Dixon, the silent attacker, waltzes into the kitchen with confidence, fully prepared to go to battle with and for me.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes shift to Dixon.
“Oh, don’t clutch your pearls now, Mrs. Hawthorne. We know all about you, so please tell me why we shouldn’t eliminate the problem right now?”
“Are you going to allow your hoodlum friends to threaten me like this, Marek?” Her arms cross over her chest, attempting to make her look regal and in command. She has another thing coming.
“What delusional world do you live in that you think you hold any sort of power under this roof?” A large step puts me nose to nose with a shell of the mother she could have been to me. Resentment has my jaw clenching as I prepare to slice her wide open with my heaviest weapon. Words.
“Threaten you?” I laugh manically. As I do, my boys flank my sides. “We don’t make threats, Mother Dearest. Trust me, if we wanted to scare you, we’d have you rocking in the corner, trembling in seconds.”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble by coming to town,” she pleads, sliding along the wall until she hits the doorway.
I’m on her before she can bolt out the door, slamming my palm against it to keep her trapped.
“Didn’t you, though, come here for trouble? It’s evident you didn’t come here to reminisce about my childhood and catch up. You’ve hidden in the shadows of Henry’s inner workings long enough. Do you want to know the truth, Mother?” I jab my finger into her chest, pushing her harshly into the door. “He’s been whoring my presence out all over campus for the last three years, expecting me to play the grateful godson. Did he pay you to let him do that?”
“Marek, you don’t understand.” She tries to grab my shirt.
Byron steps between us, slapping her hand away. “He may not put his hands on you because he’s a good man, but when I say I’m not afraid of giving you what you deserve, I mean it.”
“The only good thing you’ve ever done is let Dad get you pregnant with Penelope, but even then, you couldn’t protect her.” I slam my hand against the door directly next to her head. “Always so afraid of your image being tarnished that you allowed the world to believe I was to blame, instead of owning the fact that you left us with a sociopath like Henry.”
“Please move.” I get a sick satisfaction from hearing the fear in her voice.
“Don’t ever show your face on this hill again, or I’ll let Byron deliver on those threats, and his morals are loose on a friendly day. Imagine what it would be like if you crossed him.” I move to the side, jer
king the door open for her to leave.
“It’s true, Mrs. Hawthorne!” Byron shouts after her, grinning like I’ve dangled a toy in front of his face.
The door slams, and I turn to see Breaker, Dixon, and Byron staring at me. My mother arriving in town isn’t a coincidence. Reagan being beaten is a direct connection to Palmer in some way. I’m certain of this part the most. What is the missing link between the three?
Somewhere on this dark and twisted campus, Palmer is exposed, left alone to fend for herself. She’s too damn stubborn for her own good. I can admit my faults and decisions have directly brought us to this situation, but if she’d stop playing games, she’d be in my bed right now, safe in my arms where she belongs.
“What’s the plan, Marek?” Byron asks, knowing the wheels in my head are turning a mile a minute. We’re the same in that right, trying to be two steps ahead of the game.
“We can’t leave her alone,” I say, realizing I’m projecting a lot of my own bullshit into our current situation.
“I already hired a guy,” Byron announces, waltzing into the kitchen as if we didn’t just do what we did. He stops in front of the stove, pulls a dish out of the oven, then places it in the middle of the table.
“What kind of guy?” I ask, sitting down at the set table, and lean back in the chair, overcome with relief and frustration with myself. How could I have been so stupid not to think of this before? I’ve left her unattended, so distracted with everything else that I have been too blind to realize she could be in danger.
Dixon nods, understanding my guilt for leaving Palmer in the grips of the unknown monsters on campus. Breaker relaxes into his chair, popping the back of my head, proving I’m not alone.
“He may or may not be keeping an eye on her when we can’t.” Byron offers me the tongs, and I help myself to the pasta he’s made. “He’ll fit right in with the rest of the elite bodyguards lingering around campus these days.”
“You did that for me?” I grab my fork and pop a piece of chicken and bow tie pasta into my mouth.
“We did it for her. You just happened to be an added stop on the giving train.” Byron pats me on the back as he takes the seat next to me. “We knew that, at some point, you’d wake up and realize leaving her be isn’t the way to go.”
“We fucked up, bad.” I rest forward on my elbows, squeezing the fork handle until my hand hurts.
“No matter our reasoning for what we did, I’m the one who pushed it to the place it shouldn’t have gone. You shouldn’t have to shoulder my mistakes,” Byron says, matter-of-fact.
“Well, if he’s willing to take the blame, I say we let him.” Breaker grins, shoving a large piece of chicken into his mouth. “Maybe Delaney will beat the fuck out of you from now on.”
We collectively laugh and freeze, simultaneously coming to the realization that it’s been a while since we’ve done something as simple as finding something amusing.
“Thanks, dickhead.” Byron shakes his head. “But there’s still a lot of things we need to discuss.”
We spend the rest of the night enjoying dinner and rolling ideas off each other. At the end, when we stand, we’re left with more questions than answers. I leave out the strange encounter with Reagan. If there’s nothing there to link us, I don’t want to be the one who spills the horrors she’s been through.
I still haven’t built up the nerve to ask Byron how he got to that point on the rooftop. We were only supposed to publicly scare her, in hopes that whoever witnessed it would see her as weak.
I stop halfway up the stairs and glance over the banister to see Byron stretching the stress from his neck.
“Whoever it was that forced Palmer into the woods that night, is the person who killed Reed. I know it, and we’ll figure it out, Byron,” I plead. “You may have pushed it to a place no one foresaw, but we’re willing to do something a little crazy for the ones we love.”
“All I can think about is her being alone. That’s what kills me. Every day, I imagine what she must have gone through in that dorm room. I should have been there to protect her.” He turns his head to hide the sheen in his eyes, but he’s not fast enough to stop me from seeing it.
Even the disturbed have the ability to love deeply. Byron Decatur is proof of that.
The floor creaks, and I cut my eyes to see Breaker and Dixon whispering in the hallway outside the kitchen. Their eyes widen, and their whispers become hushed. Breaker pushes Dixon away, and they go in opposite directions.
What the hell is that about? Those two are up to something.
“Listen, man, Palmer will never forgive you, and I get it, but I mean it when I say Reed will get the justice she deserves.”
“Are you doing it for me or you?” Byron asks.
“I’m doing it for Palmer. She needs to bury her sister, to feel settled for once.” I turn and head up to my bedroom.
As I lie in bed, realizing how fucked up my life is right now, I close my eyes and fall asleep. Slumber doesn’t bring the reprieve I had hoped for. Gargling water, flailing arms, and blood are on a constant loop of a nightmare.
It’s not Penelope like it usually is.
The hand that reaches out to me, fighting for survival, belongs to someone else entirely.
Chapter Four
Palmer
“How’s Rocky doing?” Breaker asks as soon as I walk into the classroom. He pushes off the wall and follows me to my usual seat.
“Delaney’s fine. Still a little shaken up, but I have a feeling it has more to do with you than me.” I slip in next to him, taking out my notebook.
“What do you mean?” The question is in his eyes. I know Breaker, though. Sometimes, I think we are made up of the same parts. He isn’t as unaffected by Delaney as he wants everyone to believe.
“Come on, Breaker. That girl likes you.” I tilt my head, daring him to deny what I’m saying.
“I’m not good for her.”
“No shit?” I feign surprise. “None of you are good for anyone, but here we are.”
“Speaking of not being good, where’s your boyfriend?”
At the mention of Marek, I sigh and rush the question out I’ve been carrying around with me. “Why haven’t you guys told Marek yet?”
I’ve walked around campus on eggshells, waiting for Marek’s verbal assault. Someone doesn’t think her dead sister is alive without dealing with repercussions. If he knew I believed this to be true, he’d be on my ass in a second, demanding answers from me.
With a gleeful smile in place, Breaker spins in his chair. This boy lives to cause trouble. The only thing is, it’s never malicious. His antics and games hold a purpose, and this is no different.
“I figured you would want to.” He shrugs, slouching down in his desk. “Not exactly my crazy theory to tell.”
“So, you think I’m crazy then?” I ask, searching for an honest answer. Insanity isn’t something I’ve ruled out.
Every night I lie in bed and think about it. What if she is alive? What if the day I thought my heart stopped beating was a lie, and she’s been walking around in the world, well and alive?
“I think a sister would do anything for her sister to still be alive.” His sad smile hits me right in the chest, surfacing an ache I try to ignore most days.
“How do you explain the necklaces? She put it in my hand, Breaker.” The mere thought of her being in the hospital room causes panic. She would’ve been close enough for me to reach out and touch, and I was none the wiser.
“Or someone put it in your hand.” He stands, placing his hands on the edge of my desk, and leans forward. “How do you know the person who’s responsible for her death isn’t fucking with you, Palmer? It could very well be the person who attacked you . . . twice.”
“I don’t know.” Sadness settles into the deepest parts of my heart.
“Listen, I know you want it to be true. Trust me, if I could do anything, it would be to bring back your sister.”
“You’re afraid I’ll
get my hopes up,” I whisper, letting Breaker’s kindness soothe the sadness.
“Maybe.”
“You care about me, Barrett Davenport.” I swoosh up my nose, making a cute face at him.
“You’re like that pesky dog that won’t stop tucking itself under my arm until I give it attention.”
“HA!” I laugh. “Hardly. Just admit it, Breaker.”
“Okay, fine. I care about you. Are you happy now?” He grins as he straightens. “Now, you get to decide if you want to bring Marek into this circle of secrets, because I’m telling you, if you do, he’ll run with it. He won’t stop until he finds her.”
“Because he loves her.” Try as I might, I can’t keep the sadness from leeching into my voice.
“No, darling”— he checks over his shoulder, then returns his attention to me— “because he loves you.”
He loves you. No, that can’t be true. Why can’t I stop myself from wondering what it would be like to be loved by someone like him? The fact I’m even toying with the idea makes me want to bash my head through a brick wall to knock some sense into myself. Marek couldn’t possibly love me.
When Breaker moves to the side, Marek is standing right behind him. Instead of taking the seat next to me, Breaker moves to the row behind us. He might as well have put a sign that reads reserved for Marek Hawthorne. Even without the sign, Marek settles in next to me, owning the space.
I have two choices. Stay put and endure the awkward tension between us, or I can bolt, run for the fucking door, crawl under my covers, and pretend I don’t have a decision to make. We’ve been playing this back and forth game of silence all week.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Marek whispers.
I breathe out a lungful of air, but no words will form. I’ve basically forgotten my sense of decency, and I’m taking the hands-off approach. If I don’t respond, he will have no choice but to leave me be.
“That may have worked before, but it won’t anymore.” He leans into me, and I hiss in a breath. “Actually, who are we kidding? It never worked.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.
