by Isla Jones
Blake pursed her plump lips and looked to her right. The decayed terraced-face of Town Hall rotted under the moonlight. It was quiet; no drunkards, purring car engines, wind, birds, or even those blasted crickets that plagued the town.
Belle-Vue was never this quiet.
The hairs on the back of her neck tingled as she stood at the gutter. Another shiver ran down her spine. She stepped off the pavement and swept her gaze up and down the street. The soles of her sneakers crunched against the gravel. Blake felt the hush of Main Street press down on her—
A loud clang came from behind.
Blake whipped around. Her heart thrummed against her chest. She exhaled shakily and peered into the alleyway.
An empty beer bottle rolled down the humid street. But no one was there. Not even the whisper of a breeze lingered.
The frantic rhythm of her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Blake hugged her black satchel to her chest and bolted across the road to her car. A grunt escaped her lips as she stumbled to a stop and collided with the car door. She thrusted her hand into the satchel and fished for her keys. When she felt the jagged metal against her fingertips, she snatched the bundle of keys and yanked them out. Blake had never unlocked her car as fast in her life. Within seconds, she threw her satchel inside and jumped in after it, slamming the door behind her.
Once the Jeep choked to life, Blake drove home, faster than the speed limits, and the Sheriff, would’ve liked.
2
Belle-Vue High
Blue decorated the bedroom on the second floor. The gush of early-morning sunlight poured in through the panelled window, and snores vibrated through the calm morning air. Blake rubbed her crinkled nose, tossed and turned, and murmured in her sleep. The feathery duvet rustled as she kicked her legs and slurred incoherent words. But once the rose-gold alarm clock vibrated to life on the nightstand and rang through the room, Blake started in the antique bed.
She jolted upright. Her sweaty chest rose and fell as she caught her breath, tangled in the saturated sheets. Fingers clutched onto the bedding, entwined in the material, as her dream flittered away from her foggy mind.
But one specific image clung to her mind; blue eyes, as clear as glass, piercing out through stark-white skin. He was a tall man with a haunting beauty. He had smiled slightly, a cruel gesture, masked with allure. His hand had raised as he reached out to her to drag his fingertip down her cheek to her lips. Then, she’d noticed his lips—coated in crimson, down to his chin. His smile had spread into a feral grin and she’d screamed. Only, the sound had not been a scream; it’d been her blaring alarm clock, waking her up.
Blake loathed nightmares. Most people did, but hers were so vivid that the horror lingered her for hours. One time, she’d dreamt that Rachel called her dads ‘a pair of homos’. She hadn’t spoken to Rachel for two days after that.
Heaving a sigh, Blake rubbed her clammy hands over her face and fell back on the mattress. The springs creaked beneath her.
“Blake!” It was Abe, calling from the bottom of the stairs. “Blakie Bear! Are you up? Breakfast is ready!”
Her lips parted to shout a response, but her words morphed into a yawn. The yawn was too powerful, and she quickly stretched out her limbs to better enjoy it. She was a sucker for a good yawn. “Be down in a minute, dad,” she sang in a tired voice.
“I made vegan bacon,” he chanted up the stairs. “And gluten-free toast!”
He knew her too well.
Thoughts of her nightmare vanished as she whipped the sheets from her body and jumped out of bed. Blake imagined that her shower time of thirty seconds could earn her a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records.
Once rinsed off, she gussied her face in the mirror of her ensuite bathroom, combed her mousy-blonde hair to spill down her back, and pinched her cheeks.
Her back-to-school outfit was a pair of black skinny jeans; a loose-fitted grey t-shirt; and charcoal lace-up boots.
Blake hurried downstairs to the kitchen in a desperate pursuit of caffeine and vegan bacon. By the stove, Abe wore a pink apron as he cooked up vegetarian sausages for Jack. Jack would eat meat at work later, but Blake daren’t tell on him. Abe’s wrath of meat-eaters in the house was formidable.
“Morning,” she greeted, dropping into a chair at the table. Abe approached and fussed over her wavy mane. As he combed his bony fingers through her hair, she filled her favourite mug with steamy coffee. The mug had been a gift on her sweet sixteenth birthday; it was pink and had ‘World’s Best Daughter’ printed on the ceramic.
Jack sat opposite, reading the morning paper. He folded it and placed it on the table, revealing his shaven face, though some silver stubble remained on his chin, matching his greying hair. “How was work last night?”
“It was ok.” Blake shrugged and piled bacon strips onto her plate. “I made seventy bucks in tips all up, and Flora let me leave early. I didn’t realise how much I needed the sleep.”
His stern blue eyes swept over her pale face, and lingered over the dark circles above her cheekbones.
“You look tired,” he said.
“Thanks, dad,” she said. “You look old.”
Abe tapped her head. “Manners,” he said.
“Sorry.” Blake scowled.
Abe continued to twist her hair into a fishtail braid as if he hadn’t just hit her on the head with his bony fingers.
Jack smirked and wiggled his brows at Blake. Sometimes he was more like an older brother than a dad. Despite being older than Abe by five years, Jack maintained a childish spark in his blue eyes, which was mirrored by his juvenile behaviour at times.
“I saw your lights on when I left work last night,” said Blake between sips of her coffee. “Why were you at the garage so late?”
“Doing the books,” he said. “Though, you’ll want to know who came in before I closed up.”
Abe patted her on the head. His work of art was complete. He returned to the stove to finish cooking.
“Who?” she asked.
Jack took a swing of coffee. He licked his lips, swallowed, and set the mug on the table. Keeping her interested gaze, he said, “Bethany and Zeke.”
Blake jolted to the edge of the seat. “They’re back? Did they say if they were staying or not? Are they coming back to school?”
Jack quirked his brow as a gentle smile tugged at his lips. “They didn’t say anything. They stayed in the car the whole time.”
The corners of her eyes wrinkled as she cocked her head to the side. “They just parked at the garage and sat in the car?”
“An old woman—their grandma, I imagine—put gas in the car, came into the shop and paid. That’s it.”
“How’d you know it was them?”
“Recognised the car,” he said. “It was their mother’s.”
Blake slumped over the timber table, placed her elbow on the edge, and propped up her chin on the heel of her palm. “If they’re back in town with their grandma, they’re probably just collecting stuff from the house.”
“Maybe. But is that a bad thing? I can’t imagine anyone living in that house again, let alone Bethany and Zeke. God help those sweet kids for what they’ve been through. Maybe their grandma is that help.”
“What do you mean?”
“In Belle-Vue, whether in that house or another, Bethany and Zeke will be haunted by what happened to their parents. It’s not something they’ll be able to outrun. A change of scenery might do them good.”
Blake’s face scrunched into a deep scowl.
Jack filled his mug with decaf and explained, “If they move away with their grandma, they won’t have to walk down Main Street where their dad’s old office is, or go to the drive-in where their mum took them every Friday night. It might not be what you want, but you just have to be there for them when they need it, whether it’s here, or over email if they move upstate.”
“I know,” she sighed, reclining back in her chair. “I just want to know how they are. Bethany hasn’t replied
to any of my texts. Rachel hasn’t heard anything from her, either. It’s like she doesn’t want anything to do with us, anymore.”
Abe scrubbed the stovetop with a damp cloth. “It’s not you, Blakie Bear. It’s Belle-Vue. Bethany doesn’t want anything to do with the town her parents were murdered in.”
“What’s the word on that?” asked Jack.
“On the case?” Abe tossed the cloth into the sink before peeling off his rubber gloves. “Mrs Walters across the road said she overheard the Sheriff and Deputy talk about it the other night at the diner.”
“And?”
“They’re looking at the Wolves as suspects. Not surprising, is it? They’re the only criminals in town.”
“Criminals with no connection to the Prescotts,” added Jack. He didn’t believe that the Wolves had anything to do with the murders. But each time Blake inquired, he was tight-lipped on his own list of suspects. He wasn’t a gossip.
Blake glanced at the industrial clock on the wall. Abe had picked it up in New Orleans a few years ago at a flea market. He adored it, but Jack and Blake endured its clash with the surrounding cosy décor. The longer brass needle on the clock ticked over to the cog at the bottom. School started in thirty minutes.
“I have to go,” she said, rising from the chair. The wooden legs scraped over the tiles as she grabbed her satchel. “I want to get there early in case Bethany turns up.”
“Will you be home for dinner?” asked Abe. “I’m making parsnip-pear soup with almond bread.”
“Sounds yum,” she lied. “It’s a date.”
The wheels rolled over the concrete as Blake pulled into the school parking lot. Ahead of schedule, she took advantage of the free car spots and parked beside Rachel’s convertible. The dark-skinned beauty sat on the hood of the Mercedes, her thumbs dashing over her iPhone, texting whatever gossip she’d learned to everybody in her contacts. Blake turned off the ignition and hopped out of her rusty Jeep.
“Hey.” Rachel’s brown eyes stayed on the glowing screen of the iPhone as she slipped off the bonnet. “You’ll never believe what I just heard.”
Blake smirked and swung her keys in circles around her index finger. “Bethany and Zeke are back in town?”
Rachel’s dangerous gaze lifted from the screen. “How do you know that? Did Bethany call you? If she called you and not me—”
Blake laughed. “My dad told me.”
Rachel had to be the first to know everything. She’d make a decent journalist one day.
“He saw them at the garage last night, driving into town,” said Blake. “They were with their grandma.”
“Well,” said Rachel. “My sources tell me they’re at the office, re-enrolling and sorting out their classes, as we speak.”
“Seriously?” said Blake. “What are we waiting for, then?”
Rachel rolled her eyes and tucked her phone into her leather bag. “I was waiting for you, obviously.”
Blake grabbed Rachel’s arm and hauled her through the car park. The dank grey school loomed ahead, dark even under the morning sun. The iron bars on the window reminded Blake of a prison. The only splash of colour in the grey cloud that was Belle-Vue High was the red double-doors.
Blake shoved through the doors, dragging Rachel alongside her, and dashed down the corridor to the office.
As they pushed through the door, the cheap shutter blinds rattled against the glass. Blake’s eager gaze darted around the ordinary office in search of Bethany and Zeke. Instead, she spotted Hunter and his cousin, Clay, lounging on the seats against the wall. She guessed that they were waiting for Principal Tait; a stern woman who had it in for all thirteen bayou students.
Hunter, the grease-ball, met her gaze before he gave her an icy once-over. Blake stuck out her tongue at him.
Rachel marched over to the receptionist.
“Looking good in those jeans, Harper,” came Clay’s sleazy voice. “When did you get an ass?”
Hunter scoffed; in disagreement or distaste, she didn’t know. Her narrowed green eyes slewed to Clay. “Why don’t you focus on your own shabby jeans and flat ass,” she spat. “Wolf.”
“Careful.” Clay grinned, unfazed. “Wolves bite, Harper.”
Rachel appeared beside her, arms folded over her chest, and hip cocked to the side. “But you’re not a Wolf, are you, Clay?” she said. “You’re more like a Chihuahua playing dress up. In fact, that might make the most delightful rumour. You, prancing around in a pink tutu in the slums you call home.”
Clay lunged from the chair and towered over Rachel. She looked up at him, her eyebrow arched and her lips twisting into a smirk. Hunter rose from his chair and smacked his hand on Clay’s shoulder. He steered his cousin back to the seats.
“As riveting as this is,” said Blake, looking over Hunter’s shoulder through the window, “I found Zeke.”
Forgetting all about the bayou boys, Rachel’s eyes snapped to the window to see Zeke in the corridor with Jake Crosby, the football captain.
Blake titled her head as she watched Jake hand Zeke a football jersey. “What the hell?”
Rachel whipped out her phone and slammed her thumbs against the screen, alerting everyone as to what she witnessed. Zeke—the bookworm and science geek—took the jersey and tugged it on over his grey shirt.
“What on earth is he doing?” whispered Rachel.
Hunter scoffed, and his murmured words reached Blake: “Problems of the rich.” Clay snickered as Hunter added another comment, too quiet for them to hear. But Rachel and Blake weren’t at all interested in what they had to say.
“C’mon,” said Blake. “Let’s find Bethany.”
Before Rachel could agree, the school bell rang. Classes were about to start.
Mr Anderson—a middle-aged man wrapped in tweed—scribbled his name on the chalkboard. Behind him were two rows of double desks with linoleum tops, and hard-wood chairs that wore the carved names of the students who had sat there in the past. Blake shoved through the crowd of students pouring in through the door. A blow of anxiety struck her gut as she noticed the freckled red-head at a desk by the window. It was Bethany, unpacking her schoolbag at their usual table.
Blake pushed herself through the crowd. Her alert gaze never strayed from Bethany, who hadn’t even looked up from her supplies. She didn’t have to. The moment Blake reached her, Bethany staggered from the sheer force of the attack—a mixture of an embrace and lunge. It took Bethany a few moments to realise who had tangled herself around her. The moment she did, she stiffened in Blake’s arms.
Blake mumbled into fiery red hair, “I missed you. I didn’t think you would come back.”
“As you can see,” said Bethany, “I have returned. And now, I can’t breathe.”
“Oh,” uttered Blake, peeling herself from her friend. “Sorry. I just—”
“Missed me,” finished Bethany, straightening her jumper. “You said that.”
Something passed through Blake’s eyes. But it was gone before Bethany noticed.
Blake forced a smile onto her face. “Are you staying for the school year?”
“No,” replied Bethany. She dropped into the chair and scooted closer to the desk. “I merely like to re-enrol and attend classes for the fun of it.”
Blake sat beside her. Out the corner of her eye, she studied Bethany. The red-head sat in the chair, spine stiff, chin raised, pen in hand. It was a stark contrast to the Rachel that Blake had known too well. Only a year ago, Bethany had lounged in that very chair, chewed bubble-gum, texted under the table, and showed Blake memes she’d found online. One time, they’d even carved their initials onto the underside of the table. Blake would bet that they were still there.
In Belle-Vue, not many genuine scandals occurred. Occasionally, someone would cheat on their partner, and the whole town would know about it within the week. That was as juicy as it got in town…until the murders of Mary-Jane and Maxwell Prescott. It wasn’t shocking that Blake was ill-equipped in dealing with Bethany’
s recent trauma.
As they sat side-by-side at their usual desk, Blake pondered various conversation starters, but dismissed them all as either inappropriate or hollow. She didn’t know how to speak to her friend. It was an obstacle she hadn’t anticipated. All Blake had thought about was seeing her friend again. Now that she had, a new challenge presented itself—reconnecting with her.
“So, um,” hesitated Blake. “Do you want to go to the drive-in later? I’m not working tonight—We could go to the diner. Oh! We could hang out at the reservoir, just you and me if you want. How does that sound?”
Blake was certain that the mention of the reservoir would grab Bethany’s interest. It had been their favourite spot in Belle-Vue since they were children. They used to play pirates on the shore, sometimes with Rachel, but mostly just the two of them.
But Bethany’s mask of indifference remained slipped over her freckled face.
Blake shifted in her seat. “Did you hear me, Beth?”
“I heard you,” she said. “I have plans.”
“Another time, then,” said Blake.
“Maybe.”
The door swung open. Hunter and Clay sauntered in. Neither of them bothered to explain why they were late to Mr Anderson. They took their seats halfway down Blake’s row.
Blake turned back to Beth. “Does your grandma not let you out after school? My dad said he saw her last night at the garage. Is she strict?”
“Yes.” Bethany paused to eye Blake. “Your dads should be, too. There’s a killer on the loose, after all.”
Blake’s face paled at the mention. Yet, a light pink blush crept onto her high cheekbones, tinged with shame. Her lips parted to issue a profuse apology, but before the stuttered barrage of words poured out, Mr Anderson began the lesson at the front of the classroom.
