by Isla Jones
Blake made to whisper, but Bethany shushed her.
It would take Blake some time to acquaint herself with the stranger beside her, she realised. But, for Bethany, Blake would make all the time in the world.
The halls of Belle-Vue High were abuzz. Rumours carried from one student to another; it was a chain of gossip that roped throughout the corridors. Some said that Bethany and Zeke were under investigation for murdering their parents; a gross rumour. Others claimed that Zeke had blackmailed the football captain into inviting him onto the team; but for what reason? Whatever the rumour, Blake knew that they were total nonsense. But there was an obvious fact that she couldn’t ignore; Bethany and Zeke were different.
After the History lesson, Bethany had disappeared. Blake and Rachel had searched for her, but it was as if she didn’t want to be found.
Maybe it was unfair of her, selfish even, but Blake felt wounded, betrayed and abandoned.
Apparently, Rachel did too. With unrestrained rage, Rachel rambled on at the end of the school day. “I can’t believe her.” Rachel huffed, and shoved through the red doors. “Honestly, like who does she think she is?”
They stepped down the limestone stairs to the parking lot.
Rachel, nurturing her fury, continued, “She could’ve at least told us she didn’t want to hang out with us anymore. It’s not a good look for us to be wandering around the school, searching for someone who wants nothing to do with us. Since when did she turn into such a rude biatch? Are we not good enough for her anymore?”
Blake sighed. “I’m trying to understand, but … that girl I saw today wasn’t the Bethany I know. I guess she’s just having a rough time, and this is how she’s coping.”
“Oh, be quiet,” snapped Rachel. “Her parents died months ago. It’s time for her to move on, right? I mean, we’re her friends. We’re trying to be there for her. She can’t treat us like this!”
Blake adjusted her satchel strap over her shoulder. Bethany was handling the death of her parents in her own way. Who were Rachel and Blake to question her? Neither of them had ever faced real trauma before.
“Not to sound like a broken record,” said Blake, “but she needs time—oomph!” Blake was cut off as something solid smacked into her back. She slammed into the railing before a black blur whizzed past her.
“Oi!” bellowed Blake. “Watch where you’re going, Wolf!”
Hunter Jackson—the solid object—strode to the parking lot and replied with a middle finger raised in the air.
“Scum!” shouted Rachel.
Hunter didn’t care. He swung his leg over his black motorcycle and revved the engine. Within a few seconds, he was skidding out of the lot and off the grounds.
“He’s in a hurry,” observed Rachel as Blake righted herself.
“Probably has a house to rob or drugs to push.”
Rachel whipped out her iPhone. “That’s good. I’m adding that to the group chat.”
Blake rolled her eyes. They reached the bustling carpark and approached their cars. Rachel didn’t lift her gaze from the glowing screen as she said, “See you tomorrow, B!”
Blake said, “Bye,” and climbed into her creaky Jeep. Before she’d even turned on the ignition, Blake knew where she was headed. Bethany’s distant behaviour plagued her mind, and the reservoir was the only place in town where Blake could clear her head.
The reservoir was in the east side of Belle-Vue in the boggy bayous. A rusted railroad divided the two parts of town, separating the poor from the middle-class. The trailer park was a mile beyond the reservoir, but the Wolves lived in their cosy village—cabins and terraced houses hidden in the swamps.
Blake jerked in her seat as she sped over the deserted railroad. Pleasant Street turned into Bayou Boulevard. Weeds grew on the sides of the road, different to the trimmed grass in the west side; the paved road ended where a red dirt path began; and in place of traffic lights were wooden signs, broken and dangling from their rusted nails. Blake didn’t need the signs—she’d know the way to the reservoir blindfolded.
When she reached the tip of the hill, she wrangled the gearstick and rolled over the gravel. Two cars were parked; one at the entrance and the other down at the belvedere. The belvedere looked out over the bayous and swamps of the parish. Blake didn’t need to see the car wobble to know that those inside weren’t there to enjoy the view.
But her interest had been snapped to the first car by the entrance. It was one she recognised.
It was Zeke’s car.
3
The Wolves
Blake came to a stop behind the sedan and idled. Slitting her eyes into thin lines, she peered through the rear window of the car. There was movement—arms flailed inside Zeke’s car. It took Blake a second to realise that it was Bethany, sitting in the passenger seat and shouting at Zeke. Even through the distance, Blake noticed that they were both saturated. Droplets of water dripped from their soggy clothes and wet hair. Blake frowned. Did they go for a swim? They must’ve left school early, thought Blake, otherwise they wouldn’t be at the reservoir already, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be wet.
Blake thoughts were shattered when Bethany whacked Zeke’s head.
Blake’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. A lump swelled in her throat.
Zeke’s back trembled as he huddled over the steering wheel. It was obvious that he was in tears, a sight that curdled Blake’s tummy. Blake flinched as Bethany whacked Zeke again, this time upside the head. Neither of them noticed Blake’s Jeep idling behind them, and she didn’t want them to. Intruding on a private quarrel had Blake squirming in her seat. She lessened the weight of her foot on the brake and rolled away, parking her Jeep as far away from Zeke’s car as possible.
Hoping to go unnoticed by the twins, she climbed out and shut the door with a gentle nudge.
It wasn’t the first time Blake had seen Bethany strike Zeke—they were brother and sister, after all. They fought, then they made up, then they fought again. But there was something different this time. Something that Blake couldn’t quite put her finger on, but made her stomach churn with dread all the same.
Leaving her belongings in the car, Blake jimmied the door shut and took off down the steep slope to the reservoir. The path was flanked by overgrown bushes and tall trees. The dirt was muddy, yet the town hadn’t seen rain for a few weeks. The wiry branches reached out onto the path and snatched at her ankles as she slid down the slope.
By the time she reached the bottom, onto the stony shore lining the swamp lake, her charcoal lace ups were caked in dirt. Blake didn’t mind. Abe would wash them for her.
Dodging boulders and bogs, Blake went to the shore and plonked herself down. She was the only person in the reservoir. On the weekends, the reservoir was littered with people: school seniors throwing keg parties, couples canoodling, families taking a dip in the cool water. But on weekdays it was just as Blake liked it—peaceful and quiet.
The reservoir was Blake’s favourite place in town. It was the place where she could look out over the muggy water where soppy weeds stuck out, and think about her troubles.
The uneven pebbles pressed into her bum cheeks as she kicked off her grimy boots. She lay down on the jagged shore and watched two birds above swoop in a lovely dance. As she watched them move under the darkening sky, she felt at peace. But that peace was short-lived, as it always was.
The image of Bethany whacking Zeke crept into her mind again. Then, Bethany’s indifference at school and Zeke wearing the football jersey. They were changing, thought Blake. In fact, they had already changed. Were they trying to fit in, to blend in with the clones that filled the school? Was Blake not good enough for Bethany anymore?
Blake tried to endure the rejection, the isolation, the exclusion by her own friend. Bethany wanted nothing to do with her; that much was clear.
But, as Abe would say, ‘Even the darkest of clouds in the stormiest of skies has a silver lining.’ For Bethany, that might be true—she could
leave Belle-Vue, now that she’s inherited her parent’s wealth. After graduation, she could go wherever she pleased. That, thought Blake, was Bethany’s silver lining—her future wasn’t limited to Belle-Vue anymore.
It was a dream Blake had nurtured for years. She, too, wanted to leave Belle-Vue after high school. Her dads had saved for her college fund, and her wages from the diner had made a nice little nest of money. But to leave meant to leave Abe and Jack behind. It would break their hearts, even if they wanted it for her. Her college fund wasn’t enough to secure her a place in a good college, and her grades rejected any chance at a scholarship. And what would she study if she were accepted into college? What were her interests, her hobbies? Blake was at a loss … It was almost as if she didn’t know herself at all.
There was only one thing she knew for certain, one thing she knew in the depths of her yearning heart: There was something out there for her, something more than the mundane and the ordinary. There was a destiny, greater than the small town of Belle-Vue—
There it was again.
She hadn’t felt that since the night before when she’d left the diner. Eyes from all angles burned into her flesh. Someone was watching her. Blake knew it.
A ripple of worry brushed down her spine; goosepimples erected all over her skin. Craning her neck, she looked over her shoulder and squinted at the trees. They rustled and swayed in the calm breeze. No one was there. Nothing was there except from the trees and bushes.
Blake suddenly realised that the birds were gone. Even the water lay still, and the air was void of the whistle in the breeze. There were no chirps or sounds of insects.
And it was night. When had the sun set, she wondered?
Blake jumped to her feet, ignoring the water soaking into her socks, and looked around the shore. A fierce gaze raked over her face like a dry paintbrush. Blake shuddered. She stuffed her damp feet into her boots, and dashed over the rocky shore.
Her boots slipped as she scrambled up the slope to the parking lot, but she didn’t slow down. The unsolved murder of Mary-Jane and Maxwell meant that the town wasn’t safe anymore. Or, it had never been safe, but now that danger had been brought to light. Either way, Blake’s senses told her to run, to get out of there immediately. And her senses were rarely wrong.
The carpark was dark when she reached the top of the mudslide. Blake whipped out her phone, flicked on the flashlight and moved it around the lot. Zeke’s car was gone. But next to Blake’s Jeep was a glossy-black Chevy Impala. Even without much light penetrating the lot, the sleek car glistened. It was a stark contrast to the car parked beside it; her shabby, old Jeep with a peeling paint job and rusted doors.
The flash aimed ahead as she approached her car. The crunch of the gravel beneath her boots was the only sound. It was total silence, just as it was down by the water.
Blake stilled.
A chill clutched her spine. She blinked; her eyes focused on a shadow that flickered ahead. It stretched up—a silhouette, she realised, looming between the cars.
The black shape slinked between the cars, and stepped into the shaky light of her phone. Then, it was doused in white light, and the shadows vanished. In its place was a man. He was tall, wearing a white shirt and a pair of black trousers—he could’ve been a business man, she thought, but his angular face had such a youthful glow to it that she doubted it.
Blake knew everyone in Belle-Vue, but she didn’t know him. The light from her phone flashed in his eyes, and made them shine with crystal-blue hues. His dirty-blonde hair curled at the edges, and his lips had a deep-pink tinge to them—almost red.
Blake shivered, and curled her fingers around her phone.
He stepped forward and flashed a bright grin at her. His teeth were awfully sharp, she realised.
“My apologies,” he said. His voice was smooth, but there was danger there—like honey in a beehive. “I did not mean to startle you.”
With traces of adrenaline still lingering within her, Blake eyed him warily. Her clammy fingers and palm remained wrapped around her phone, and she kept the light aimed at him. He stood in the spotlight, hands in his pockets, and a devilish smile smeared onto his handsome face. She estimated him to be a few years older than her, nineteen years old at most.
Her muscles tightened in a grip of unease, despite his smiles. There was something off about him, she could feel it in the sudden chill around her.
He was handsome, with his faint golden-toned skin, tousled blonde hair, soft jawline, and blue eyes that swirled in the light. Yet, Blake only felt a churning pit in the bottom of her stomach, and it wasn’t butterflies of excitement.
“I was looking for the entrance to the reservoir,” he said. Each syllable was smooth, rolling off his tongue. It reminded her of molten lava, flowing through scorched valleys.
“You didn’t scare me,” she blurted out. “I just … I didn’t expect to see anyone up here, is all.” She jerked her head to the slope behind her. “The entrance is over there, beside the boulders.”
There was a whisper of patronisation in his sharp eyes. Blake suspected that he didn’t believe her—not about the entrance, but about her bravery. It was clear she’d been afraid at first, and perhaps even still. But he said nothing of it.
Blake cleared her throat. “It’s late, so it’s pretty dead down there. Everyone’s gone home.”
His small smile spread into a wide grin as he stepped closer. She was reminded of a dream she’d had, but one of those dreams that, no matter how hard she tried, it couldn’t be pulled to the front of her mind.
“But you’re here,” he said.
“I …” she hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her toes were icy within her sodden socks, and brain wrestled with the faint memory of her dreams. “I like the peace,” she said. He took another step. The dream vanished altogether in her mind. “It helps me relax, you know?” she said. “Sometimes you just need to get away to clear your head.”
He nodded, a pensive glint in his eyes. The distance between decreased by the passing seconds.
“It’s been one of those days,” she said. I’m waffling, she thought. Stop talking and leave!
He took his final step. Only a few inches separated her squirming frame from his looming figure, towering over her in darkness. He flashed another dangerous grin at her and lowered his face, as if to whisper a secret in her ear. He paused; close enough that she should’ve felt his breath on her cheek, but she didn’t feel so much as a whisper of air. It was as if he didn’t breathe at all.
“You should be more careful,” he purred. A shudder rattled her tense body. “The monsters come out at night.”
A shaky laugh crawled up her throat, and she stepped back. “Yeah,” she agreed, and fished her car keys out from her pocket. “You too.”
Blake pushed past him and fiddled with her keys. She unlocked the Jeep door and climbed in without another word. Even in the car, her heart punched against her ribs.
The engine growled to life, and she glanced out the windscreen. But there was no sign of the stranger.
He must’ve already gone down the slope to the water, she thought. But she didn’t hang around to find out. She yanked the gearstick into reverse and skidded out of the lot.
*
Not much had developed in the first two weeks at school. Bethany kept to herself, Rachel complained about it, and Blake accepted it. She’d tried—a lot—to bond with Bethany again, but the red-head just wasn’t interested. So be it, decided Blake. And she went on with her life.
Blake was rostered on at the diner. The end of her shift neared—to kill time, she distracted herself with cleaning duties. The steel scourer scratched against the linoleum in perfect circles. Beside her, Flora refilled the percolator and harvested a good old gossip with Mrs Walters—the nosiest widow in town without contest!
Mrs Walters lived across from Blake on Oak Lane. That’s where Abe got all his gossip from. When Blake was just a young girl, she believed that the el
derly woman’s nine cats were spies. How else could Mrs Walters learn all the dirty details in Belle-Vue?
“You didn’t hear it from me,” croaked the old lady. Her hoarse voice told of her life-time habit of cigarettes. “But Sheriff Cotton was down in the bayous all morning.”
“That isn’t news, Dolly,” said Flora. She pushed the percolator back into its holder, then leaned over the counter. “Sheriff’s always down there, fishing around for information. I reckon he’s gotten himself a couple of snitches, and he just likes to check up on them from time to time.”
Mrs Walters wagged her wrinkled finger at the waitress. “But he wasn’t down there to fish.”
“I didn’t mean literally,” said Flora. She couldn’t hide the exasperation in her voice. “He does raids without warrants, goes to the club house for a while, checks on his informants, and asks a few questions here and there. Last week, my poor Joey got held up by the Sheriff for a whole hour.”
“Why?” asked Blake. She rubbed lotion on her sore hands. “What’d he do?”
“That’s just it,” said Flora. “He did anything, not a damn thing. The Sheriff asked him about the Wolves and things Joey might’ve seen around the bayous. Then, he let my boy go. He knows better, that Sheriff—he knows I’ll spit in his coffee if he tries anything with my boys.”
Blake believed her. She’d done it before to the Deputy after he’d given her a speeding fine. Of course, the Deputy didn’t know he’d drank Flora’s saliva. That was one of the many things Blake respected about Flora—not the spitting part, but that no matter how bizarre her threats were, she always saw them through.
“Can I finish my story now?” snapped Mrs Walters. Her narrowed eyes moved to Blake, as if she had been the one to veer the conversation off track. Blake mumbled under her breath and grabbed a damp cloth.
“Now then,” said the old hag. “Where was I? Oh, that’s right. Sheriff Cotton wasn’t down in the bayous asking questions.”
