by T. A. Kunz
He tucks my head back onto his firm chest as the sprinklers die down to a dribble.
He’s going to pay for this.
Donovan
The rush of confidence I’d felt in my decision to go to the station fades more and more the further away I get from home. Thoughts back to the night I was chased rear their ugly little heads and cause paranoia to sprout in my mind. I refuse to slow for anything. I’m not making the same mistake I did last time by stopping to look at my phone. It’s buzzed a few times in my pocket, but I’m laser focused on getting to the station.
I need an explanation for all of this.
My bike makes quick work of the parking lot in front of the station and I park near the double glass doors at the entrance. My phone vibrates out of control and I sigh before retrieving it. There are a couple missed calls from Drea and even more texts.
Trent burned Lori’s memorial.
The sprinkler system ruined the dance.
Everyone’s leaving.
Please be safe and don’t do anything dumb.
Anger and confusion fill my mind as I read through the messages. I should’ve been there. Maybe I could’ve helped stop this from happening. My eyes rise to peer through the glass doors at the officer sitting behind the front desk before returning to the phone. My heart is leading me one way and my gut in dragging me in the opposite direction.
What am I going to do?
I release a sigh and tap on Drea’s missed calls and redial. It just rings. No answer. I try again and decide to leave a voicemail after the prompt.
I engage the bike’s kickstand and head for the entrance. As my hand’s about to take hold of the door handle, my phone buzzes. I can’t pull it out quick enough. The text isn’t from Drea though, it’s from Marcus.
S.O.S NEED HELP AT WORK!
And now my head is telling me to help Marcus.
Dammit, body, make a choice here.
It’s almost nine o’clock. Closing time at the café. And I’m sure he needs assistance because he usually works at Mae’s on Fridays. I type out a quick message to him, be there as soon as I can, before entering the station.
The bright lights overhead assault my eyes while they adjust from being outside. The officer behind the front desk raises her head and watches as I approach. She scans me head to toe. Her face is at first puzzled, but then turns more welcoming.
“May I help you?” she asks, sitting up straighter in her chair.
“Uh, yeah, my friend was brought here earlier. Just making sure he’s okay. And I was wondering if there was any chance I could see him.”
Her eyes squint at me and her mouth scrunches as she leans forward. She’s just about to answer when our focus shifts to the sheriff emerging from the door behind her. He’s surveying a packet of papers in his hands. His eyes move up from them and land on the officer before shifting over to me. They widen and then narrow, causing his brow to furrow.
“Mr. Walsh. What are you doing here?” he asks, lowering the papers to his side.
“I wanted to know if I could see Connor. You took him in earlier,” I answer. My voice wavers at the thought of being denied.
He grumbles while moving his free hand up to smooth down the ends of his salt and pepper mustache with his thumb and index finger. “Sorry, no. Mr. Easton’s in some serious trouble. He can’t have visitors other than family.”
“What did he even do?” I ask.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “I can’t reveal those details. Just know it wasn’t anything good.” The serious look never leaves his face. “I suggest you head home, Mr. Walsh, or else you’ll be wasting a lot of time out here for something that will never happen.”
I sense him growing more exasperated the longer I stand there not obeying. It’s as if I was in one of those Wild West stand-offs, but unfortunately for me, it seems my participation won’t get me anywhere.
“Can you at least give him a message for me?” I ask, hoping he says yes.
He relaxes his stance and exhales deeply. “I can’t promise anything, but if you write something down, I’ll read it and decide if he’ll get it or not.”
He motions for the officer to present me with a notepad and a pen. Suddenly I’m struck with writer’s block, and the pen in my hand just hovers over the page. There’s so much I want to say, but my brain refuses to relay it through my hand. A grumble nearby has me glancing up from the page to see the sheriff staring at me, clearly losing his patience. I refocus on the paper and press the pen down to begin writing the first thing that comes to mind.
Connor, it’s Donovan. I don’t know what happened, but just know I’m here for you and I support you. Hopefully this was all a misunderstanding. We’re going to get to the bottom of this, I promise. I miss you.
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” the sheriff says.
He moves up to take the pad and pen away. I take a step back as he looks it over. He tears the page from the pad and looks me directly in the eyes.
“I’m going to go give this to him, but in return, you have to leave.”
I nod. “Thank you, sheriff,” I say before taking a step toward the entrance.
All he does is nod, his facial expression unchanged. A message comes through on my phone when I get outside. It’s from Marcus.
PLEASE HURRY!
His text has me mounting my bike and taking off toward The Pour Over. It’s only a few blocks away from the station, so I should be there in no time. Weaving through the streets as fast as my legs will allow me, I arrive at the café in seemingly record time.
The interior is dark, lit only by the over-the-counter lights. When I pull on the door, it’s locked. I press my face up against the glass and scan the inside but see no signs of movement. I take out my phone and shoot off a text to Marcus.
I’m here. Where are you?
A few seconds go by as I stare at the dots at the bottom of the screen before his response comes through.
Dealing with the trash situation. Come around back.
I abandon my bike and make my way to the alley behind the store. When I turn the corner, no one’s there. The only sound I hear is the wind sweeping through and dragging the leaves across the gravel.
“Marcus?” I ask into the night.
No response.
I take a few steps forward and catch myself on the dumpster when my foot slips on a patch of loose gravel. Regaining my composure, I take my phone out and tap out another text to Marcus.
This isn’t funny, Marcus. Where are you?
The dots never appear. I’m left staring at my screen with zero activity. My head pops up when a commotion comes from inside, just beyond the back door. I draw in a deep breath and move toward it, apprehension trying to seize my movements. My hand trembles as I reach for the door’s handle.
What the hell am I doing?
With a swift yank, the door flies open, and I’m bathed in the lights from the back room. Framed in the doorway is a welcomed sight. I breathe a huge sigh of relief as I see Marcus standing there muttering to himself while restacking a few boxes of product that he clearly just knocked over. I take note of the earbuds in his ears and assume he did this while dancing to his music. It’s happened several times before.
“Marcus,” I call out to him, trying to be louder than his music. I take a few steps in and allow the door to close behind me. “Oh, Marcus. Marcus!”
His head whips around at me and he rolls back on his heels before plopping to the floor, flat on his ass. A startled laugh erupts from him as he removes the earbuds. I join in.
“Damn, you scared me,” he declares with his hand placed firmly on his chest. “You can’t just sneak up on someone wearing earbuds, boy.”
“Sneak up? You knew I was here.”
“What? No, I didn’t,” he replies, his face filling with confusion as he makes his way to his feet.
“Stop playing. You texted me to come help you out.”
The more I speak, the more perplexed Marcus looks
. It’s honestly starting to bother me.
“Boy, please, bye,” he says. “I haven’t messaged you at all. Why would I? I knew you were at the dance, silly.”
I pull out my phone and show him the texts. “Okay, stop joking around,” I tell him. “I have the texts, Marcus.”
He looks over the screen and then his eyes move up to mine as he hands the cell back to me. “Donnie, I swear I didn’t send those.”
“Uh-huh. Where’s your phone then?” I ask, presenting my hand for him to give it to me.
He glances over his shoulder and motions to the front of the café. “It’s on the front counter. I was taking advantage of this opportunity to work on my new squat routine by lifting the boxes of new product. Since the phone bulges too much in these tight pockets, I ditched it.”
I move to the front counter and see nothing there. No phone anywhere. “Where did you say you left it?” I ask when he joins me.
“I swear I left it right here,” he replies, tapping the space by the cash register. “Where the hell did it go?”
“Okay, this is officially not cool.” A sudden chill rolls across my shoulders as an edgy prickle sprouts beneath my skin. “I’m calling it,” I say, pressing on a previous missed call from him.
“It’s ringing in my earbuds. Hold on.”
Marcus struggles to find the power button with them around his neck. The ringtone sounds from the back of the café. I take the lead, leaving Marcus by the counter to go in search of the phone. The closer I get to the source of the sound, the more I realize it’s coming from the same table Connor and his group usually occupy. More specifically, the phone is on the chair Connor usually sits in.
“Did you find it?” Marcus asks.
I turn to see him standing in front of the open doorway leading to the back area. “Yeah, found it.” As I head toward him, I see the back room is now dark when moments before the light was on. “Marcus, did you shut the lights off back there?”
He turns to look behind him and then back at me before shaking his head. “Not that I remember, no.”
My eyes grow wide. A sudden flash of a neon pink light appears over Marcus’s shoulder. I swallow hard. The words get caught in my throat when I try to yell, but then they burst through.
“Marcus, behind you!”
As I shout those words, the mask’s light vanishes. Marcus pivots to face the back room and I hurry over to him. My legs can’t pump fast enough. Terror clutches my entire being.
“The door, Marcus! Close the door.”
He grabs the door’s handle and begins swinging it closed. I assist by gripping the elongated old-fashioned brass handle next to his hand and pull it along faster. The tip of a boot slips into the gap, halting our progress. A guttural scream leaves our collective lips as we both fight to get the door shut. A gloved hand grips the door’s edge, revealed by the lights above the front counter. I dig down harder and help Marcus pull with all my might. Marcus stomps on the boot with his heel, but it seems to have little effect.
The gloved hand releases the door and thrusts through the opening. It swings wildly for Marcus. He dips, bobs, and weaves away from the person’s grasp. A quick glimpse of the neon pink mask appears in the gap as the person strains to reach him. Marcus swats the hand away and kicks the front of the boot lodged between the door and the frame. It slips back, allowing us to close the door on the person’s arm. A growl rings out from the other side, but the person still refuses to give up.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
The thud of metal on wood resounds throughout.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Our eyes focus on the tip of a knife as it breaks through the middle of the door. It’s ripped out, splintering off tiny pieces of wood around the resulting hole before it plunges back through. It digs back and forth, twisting, and turning, trying to breech further.
A pair of scissors we use to cut open stubbornly wrapped pastries rests on the counter just out of my range. “Marcus, grab those scissors,” I grind out while maintaining my hold on the door.
He turns to look and then stretches out for them. The door gives a little and opens partway. Marcus returns his grip to the handle and pulls the door back to the position it was in before.
“I’ll pull harder, just get the scissors,” I say through clenched teeth.
He reaches out again. His fingertips graze the scissors. He strains to reach further. He takes a step toward the counter and extends his hand, finally able to snatch them up. He rears back and drives them into the gloved hand.
A deep cry of pain erupts from the other side of the door. The person’s arm disappears from view. We slam the door closed and continue to hold on tight.
“One of us needs to call 911,” I say.
“So on it,” Marcus says, just as breathless as I am.
He grabs his phone from my coat pocket and dials for help. My eyes move to the front windows of the café overlooking the street. I watch as a figure dressed in black closes in on my bike. They turn to look into the store and their fox mask briefly lights up in neon pink before going dark again. I release my grip on the door’s handle and take a few steps toward the entrance. The figure raises their hand into the air and waves.
I rush to the door and try to pull it open, but it’s locked. The figure jumps onto my aunt’s bike while I’m trying to disengage the lock. The figure takes off down the street as I jerk the door open.
“What the hell are you doing? The deputies are on their way,” Marcus calls out to me as I stare at the bike being ridden off into the distance by some unknown person.
“Dammit, they just took my aunt’s bike,” I say, turning back to face Marcus.
“A bike?” he echoes. “All of this was over a damn bike?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply as my gaze drifts back down the street.
Was all that just to send a message?
Drea
I shiver in the front seat of Harrison’s car even with the vents pointed at me blasting hot air. A towel he grabbed from the gym’s supply closet is draped over my shoulders. Harrison is in the driver’s seat, and I can feel every time he glances over to look at me. I sense he wants to talk, but he has yet to say a single word since we entered the car.
“Sorry I’m getting your car seat wet.” My eyes are pinned to my lap. “Are you sure this won’t ruin the material?”
“I’m sure,” he replies gently. “Besides, that’s not important right now. Is the heat helping?”
I nod. “Sort of.”
“Good.”
A knock at my window pulls my gaze. Deputy Owens is standing there, tapping the butt of his flashlight onto the glass. Harrison hits the button to roll the window down.
“Hanging in there, Drea?” the deputy asks.
“Did you catch him yet?” I reply, pivoting from the question. It’s pretty clear how I’m doing.
He shakes his head. “No. We did find the box of matches and small gas can we think he used, but that’s about it. We’ll get him though. Eventually a criminal always slips up and makes a mistake.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say.
Another deputy calls out to him and draws his attention. “Well, it seems a deputy’s work is never done,” he says as he turns back to us. “You take care of yourselves tonight, okay? We’ll be in touch.”
Harrison rolls up the window as the deputy leaves. We’re alone in the silence of his car again. The only thing I can think of is how the deputy hasn’t left me with much confidence they’re going to actually find Trent.
“Did you believe him when he said that they’d catch Trent?” I ask.
“I don’t know. With everything going on lately, it’s clear that the officers in this town weren’t prepared for stuff like this to happen. I mean, before Carrie, I don’t think anything really ever happened here.”
I turn to face him. He’s staring at me already. His damp hair is still to
usled from when he dried it off with a towel. A smirk forms on his lips before he turns his attention elsewhere.
“I know I already said it, but I’m sorry this is all happening. I know it’s not my fault, but I’m still sorry,” he says while gazing out at the nearly empty school parking lot. He looks over at me again. “I can’t help but feel terrible over how much this is affecting you.”
My heart swells. “You like me that much, huh?” I ask as I dodge his stare and return my eyes to my lap.
He releases a faint laugh. “Yeah. Thought we already covered that.”
“We did, I just like hearing you say it.” I lift my head to take in that grin I knew would be there. Old Reliable. “Hey, I never did say thank you for what you did at the party over the summer,” I say. When I sense him about to interject, I continue, “I know you’re going to say that I don’t need to, but what you did that night, saving me from Trent, was sweet. At first when you told me, I thought it was a little strange, like I was this prize you two were fighting over, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you were just doing the right thing. So … thank you.”
He releases a deep sigh. “You’re welcome. And just so we’re clear on this, I would’ve still done it even if it weren’t Trent. You were clearly being affected by something, and it wasn’t just the alcohol,” he says. “Actually, I wasn’t completely on board with the idea of leaving you in the room. It was Lori who pushed the idea. I did find it weird she didn’t just take you home, but then she kept saying that your parents would kill you if they saw you like that. I countered with why she didn’t just take you home with her, but she kept insisting that leaving you at Sophia’s was the best option.” He frowns. “She was acting really bizarre about the whole thing. Super defensive about everything, which is why I ducked out. I figured your close friend knew what was best for you. Not to mention the whole ‘her needing to undress you’ thing.”
“I’m still so confused by why she lied to me and didn’t say anything at all about it.”
“Yeah, I don’t know,” he replies with a shrug, and then digs into his coat pocket. “Oh, and I rescued this from the memorial. I hope you don’t mind that I removed it.”
