Pretty Savage

by T. A. Kunz

  “Did you just give me your number and add a picture to it?” I ask with a nervous smile.

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?” Unlike mine, his smile is full of confidence.

  I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  “Good. Be sure to let me know about tomorrow, okay?” He rounds his truck and climbs into the driver’s seat. The passenger side window rolls down. “Are you sure you don’t need a private escort to your house? I could follow behind you the whole way. I swear, I don’t mind.”

  “You’re good, but I do really appreciate the offer.” Inside, I’m kicking myself for not taking him up on it. Then another question comes to mind. “Hey, Connor?”

  He pauses his attempt to start the truck. “Yeah?”

  “Why do you always put a five-dollar bill in the tip jar? Twenty percent of a drink is, like, just over a buck.”

  I can’t believe I just came out and asked that.

  He laughs to himself. A suave-as-hell grin takes over his mouth. “You’re worth way more than just twenty percent.”

  Wait, does this mean he only does it for me?

  I go to reply, but instead, a noise issues forth sounding like I’m speaking in tongues. Absolute gibberish … most definitely not English. Instant humiliation.

  “Night, Donovan,” he says as he starts up his truck.

  “Y-Yeah. Good night,” I finally reply, but I’m not sure I even said it loud enough for him to hear.

  The truck’s taillights fill my vision as he drives away. I can’t hold back the heavy sigh as it travels from the pit of my lungs and out of my mouth. I pinch myself just in case that was all a dream. It hurts and I wince in pain, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that what just happened was indeed real.

  Hold on, was I just asked out on my first date?

  Drea

  I am numb.

  Emotionally numb.

  My mind is tangled in a thick web of confusion. I stare at my ceiling in a daze. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve traced the grooves above me with my eyes. I’m unable to move an inch. The position I’m lying in on my bed hasn’t changed since I came up here hours ago. I’m not even sure how much time has passed. It feels like time has stopped and sped up all at once.

  My mind has decided to stall at the anger stage of grieving. Heat lashes my body as rage froths up in my throat like bile. It’s all focused toward the one individual who is most likely responsible. I slam one fist down by my side, leaving an impression in the sheet, followed by the other as I grit my teeth.

  Trent.

  A soft knock sounds at the door, ushering in my mom. “I saw your light still on. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t fallen asleep without turning it off,” she says from the doorway.

  I roll over to face her. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not going to get much sleep tonight.”

  “I see you didn’t eat your dinner either,” she says, picking up the plate sitting outside the door and setting it on my nightstand.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  She tucks the stray strands of hair in front of my face behind my ear. “I know, sweetie. But you need to at least try.”

  “Can you blame me for not having an appetite?”

  She sighs while shaking her head. “Of course not.”

  My eyes fix on the brown paper-wrapped package from this morning tucked under her arm. She notices it has caught my attention and presents it to me.

  “By the way, do you know what this is? I found it on the kitchen counter and assumed it might be yours. Your dad has no idea, and neither do I.”

  I’m surprised to see it in the state I left it in earlier. I would’ve thought she’d have opened it already. My mom usually can’t help but snoop into things.

  “I was actually going to ask if it was yours,” I say. “Especially considering your Amazon purchase history.”

  She scoffs friskily while tapping my arm. “Hey, I only buy the essentials through Amazon. Besides, there’s no shipping label or anything on it, so there.” We both giggle, but mine sounds forced to my ears. “Want me to open it?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Whatever. Like I said, I don’t know what it is.”

  She tears away the bit of brown paper encasing the object, revealing a small, hardcover book. The entire cover is black with a small neon pink geometric outline of a fox’s head on the front, but nothing else. She flips the book around in her hands.

  “Hmm. Maybe I bought this for you from Etsy,” she says, handing it over to me.

  I take it before abandoning it off to the side of the bed. “Gee. Thanks, Mom.”

  “But, of course … anything for my daughter,” she says with a light laugh before placing a kiss on my forehead. Her face then becomes serious. “They’re going to find who did this, you know.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I say as I escape her stare.

  She trails the back of her hand across my cheek before collecting the dinner plate and alighting from the bed. “Please try and get some sleep, sweetie.”

  “Will do, Mom.”

  She closes the door behind her as she leaves. My eyes land on the diary. I slide it closer to me and flip it over, and then back to the front cover. It doesn’t look new, and even seems worn around the edges, but maybe that’s the look the seller was going for. I open it to the first page and see someone has already written in it.

  “Mom better get her money back,” I mutter.

  This diary belongs to Carrie Phillips.

  Carrie Phillips? Why does that name sound familiar?

  I think Lori mentioned her once or twice before … something about them being friends, but I struggle to recall any specific details.

  Why would someone leave this on my doorstep?

  Page after page has entire sections scratched out with erratic pen strokes, like the work of a crazy person. It’s seriously giving me some creep-tastic vibes. Some pages have even been ripped out completely, leaving only shreds behind in the fold. My hand hovers on a page with an intricate sketch of an old, weathered barn. It’s so detailed I get the impression she’d been there many times, or at least was drawing it from a reference picture. There are more sketches on other pages that are just as detailed. One of a willow tree, one of the theater downtown, one of a boat dock, and one of an old-fashioned looking truck parked off to the side of the barn featured in the previous sketch. There’s even a recreation of the fox head from the front cover. Under the image, the words Fox Hunt are dug into the paper with heavy pencil strokes.

  I feel weird flipping through this. Peering into the personal thoughts of this Carrie girl just feels strange. Wrong. I’m still not sure why someone left this.

  As far as I can tell from the legible entries, this Carrie girl is highly self-conscious and very sensitive about how others perceive her. She’s also glad this group of people has accepted her as one of their own. She has a crush on a couple guys at her school, but their names are crossed out. At one point in the diary, she mentions a potential sleepover with some girls from the group that has her excited.

  I wonder if Lori was one of those girls.

  It’s hard to get a grasp on who any of these people are because most details have been frustratingly removed. There’s even a multiple-page entry retelling what I gather is a story about watching one of her crush’s perform in a band inside someone’s garage, but it jumps around so much due to missing pages and omitted details that it’s hard to follow.

  I thumb through the rest of the pages until I reach the final entry. It looks to be fully intact.

  I can’t take this anymore. I need to tell them all tonight. I need to tell my friends this secret I’ve been holding in for a while now. It’s been eating away at me, as only you know, Diary. I have to come clean. I plan to bring it up during our game night tonight. Maybe the game will soften the blow, and that way I’ll feel like I can actually say it. I know they’ll support me and help me through this. They’re partly to blame for me meeting him in the first place. I will be devastated i
f they treat me differently after this. If HE treats me differently because of this.

  I just might die….

  The last line is engraved into the paper with deep red ink near the bottom of the page. It doesn’t resemble the handwriting from the rest of the diary and seems to have rage behind it.

  Really disturbing.

  I flip back a few pages and try to find any reference to the event she’s talking about. If it was something she was keeping a secret, she had to write about it somewhere. I find an entry talking about going to an end-of-eighth-grade party with a bunch of people. Her first big party. Most of it is scratched out, but there are a few details that remain. It was apparently held at a popular girl’s house, but just like with every other important detail, the name’s been removed.

  Maybe it was Sophia’s house?

  I shamefully admit that living vicariously through this girl has proven to be a welcome distraction. I still keep wondering about the significance of this diary. The fact it was left at my house has to mean something.

  Does this have to do with Lori’s death?

  The hint of voyeurism I feel while flipping through the diary is still present, but I can’t seem to pull myself away from it. I’d freak the hell out if I found out someone ever invaded my privacy like this.

  I shut the diary and toss it onto my nightstand as remorse overpowers my curiosity. I flop back against the pillows gathered behind me and return my gaze to the grooves in the ceiling.

  If only it were a sky full of stars.

  Memories of Lori flood my mind. We used to take her car out to this clearing near Lake Wilson late at night, well after our curfew, and just stare up at the stars. We’d lie on her car’s hood and look at the sky for hours, just talking. She couldn’t wait for the day she’d be able to leave Haddon Falls behind. I wanted to leave with her too. But now that all feels like another life entirely.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever meet someone quite like Lori again.

  My phone pings, signaling a message. It’s from a number I don’t have saved in my phone.

  Hey, it’s Donovan. How are you?

  I’m one hundred percent positive he’s texting me because, just like the rest of the town, he now knows the truth about Lori. It’s so weird how death draws people together.

  There are so many things I want to write back, but I’m finding it hard to convey all of those feelings through a text message. I want to both stay silent and scream at the top of my lungs. Like with most of my texts lately, I decide to be direct and straight to the point.

  I can’t believe someone poisoned her.

  I stare at the screen, waiting for his response. My eyes keep rereading the words I sent over and over, but the more I read them, the less sense they make. I was already having a hard time accepting the fact Lori died by suicide. It didn’t make sense at all. But her being killed by someone doesn’t make a lot of sense either.

  Who hated Lori that much?

  My initial feelings about Trent being the main suspect begin to crumble under the weight of the facts assembling in my mind. My gut points to him, but even though he’s the absolute worst, does that automatically make him a murderer?

  My mind keeps drifting back to when Donovan punched him. He went down so easily. Is Trent just all talk and no bite? Maybe he killed Lori by accident?

  Thoughts swirl wildly around in my head, and I realize it’s easy to blame Trent. The scarier thought is what if it was someone else.

  My cell beeps as Donovan’s next text comes through.

  I know. It’s crazy. I can’t sleep, and still don’t think it’s all sunken in yet. We really need to talk in person tomorrow. Meet in the morning by my locker first thing?

  I impulsively type out yeah, sounds good, and then wonder what it is he needs to talk to me about that can’t be said over the phone. I hit send and he replies back with, see you then.

  I conclude there are three things on my must-do list for tomorrow. And every single one fills me with uncertainty over how they’ll go.

  Talk to Donovan.

  Ask Sophia about Carrie Phillips.

  Confront Trent Blakemore.

  Donovan

  Why am I so damn jittery?

  Oh yeah, maybe it’s because I have three cups of coffee coursing through me. All blonde roast. All back-to-back. At this point, I’m pretty sure I can see sound with this much caffeine in my system.

  Long night and no sleep makes Donnie a shell of a person.

  A lack of sleep isn’t the only reason for my nerves. There’s a hint of uncertainty and anxiety building underneath the jitteriness. The relief I’ll feel once I talk with Drea in person will hopefully help ease some of it.

  The halls are bustling with activity as I keep a look out for Drea. I was hoping to have enough time to cover everything before the bell rings, but at this rate, we’ll have to resort to a quick hello with the promise of talking later. I’m even considering ditching first period and making her do the same thing to ensure we’ll have enough time. I’m pretty sure a life or death situation calls for drastic measures, and the last time I checked, attending calculus wasn’t that dire.

  I glance down at my phone and exhale. There’s still no reply to any of the three recent texts I’ve sent Drea. My anxiety surges again. I begin to type out a fourth message before stopping myself.

  She’ll answer when she can.

  I delete the text and drop the cell to my side, resuming my lookout. Something I wasn’t expecting to see this morning is the sheriff and Deputy Owens. The sheriff says something to the deputy before splintering off down the hall leading to the principal’s office. Deputy Owens, on the other hand, continues moving toward me. I feel turned to stone watching him close in.

  He flashes me a smile of greeting as he removes his broad-brimmed hat. Then his face turns serious. My mind immediately jumps to the worst possible scenario.

  Did something happen to Drea?

  “Morning, Mr. Walsh,” he says, stopping in front of me.

  I hitch my backpack further up on my shoulder when it starts to droop. “So formal, huh? I must have done something serious,” I say, trying to bring some levity to the situation.

  He fiddles with the brim of his hat. When his eyes meet mine again without a change of expression, I can’t take it anymore. What is this all about?

  His low laugh interrupts the silence between us. “Sorry, Donovan. I get so used to talking with older civilians in this town. It’s a respect thing.”

  “No worries. I was just joking anyway.” I close my locker. “So, did you need something?”

  “Actually, yeah. But it’s probably best coming from the sheriff himself,” he says, prompting my stomach to sink to my toes. “Could you follow me to the principal’s office, please?” He gestures forward, wanting me to move ahead of him.

  My nerves are as follows:

  Shot.

  Fried.

  Dead.

  Something else must have happened. My mind is going crazy trying to figure it out.

  “Are you sure you can’t at least give me a hint?”

  “Sorry, Donovan, wish I could. I was only ordered to bring you to the office.”

  I mean, I get it. He could possibly get in trouble for divulging anything too early to me, but any information would be appreciated. I’m finding it increasingly harder to deter my mind from leaping to insane conclusions.

  The main office is like an ice box when we enter. I almost expect to see my breath. Either the air conditioning is stuck on tundra or my body is having a severe reaction to my current situation. The bell rings and I resign myself to the fact that I’ll be late to first period yet again this week.

  We’re met by Gloria, who tells me to have a seat in one of the chairs lining the wall. The door to the principal’s office creaks opens and Mrs. Grayson steps out. Her hardened facial features are pulled back tight, just like her high bun. She waves me over.

  I swallow hard and rise from the chair. My feet feel lik
e they’re stuck in quicksand, and every step I take feels like I’m sinking deeper and deeper. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. It’s so loud I don’t even hear what the principal says to me as I round the corner and see the sheriff seated behind her desk.

  He motions to the chair in front of him and I take a seat, but no words are exchanged. I feel like I’m either on trial for something I haven’t done or I’m about to receive information that will make me wish I’d never gotten out of bed this morning.

  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Walsh,” the sheriff says. “I know you’ve met Deputy Owens before, which is why I asked him to collect you.”

  “Yeah, we go way back.” The nerves in my voice immediately make me wish I hadn’t replied.

  The sheriff clears his throat, jostling his thick, bushy mustache. It’s painfully obvious that my attempt at humor is lost on him. His expression never changes as he disregards my comment and continues.

  “I hope you’ve been able to get back to some semblance of normalcy these past couple of days. My apologies for having to interrupt that again. Hopefully this won’t take up too much of your time. The fact is, Lori Stine was murdered, and you were one of the two people who found her body.”

  I breathe an internal sigh of relief that this isn’t about anything happening to Drea.

  He leans back in the oversized comfy desk chair resting clasped hands in his lap. “Now, we still have your statement on file. All we’re looking for is any other possible leads you might be able to give us to help with this investigation.” He leans forward, planting both elbows firmly on the desk, perching his chin on the back of his knuckles. “Do you have any other recollections from that night? Any detail you might have remembered since our first meeting?”

  I comb through my memory trying to think of anything I can say that will help, but I got nothing. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this since that night anyway.

  The intercom system chirps to life. “Could Andrea Sullivan and Trent Blakemore please report to the principal’s office?” Gloria’s voice comes through.