by Tara Kelly
“Can he be here with the kids when you’re not?”
Mom’s eyes darted back and forth between me and Sandoval. “Definitely. I was planning on that… Do you think that picture was meant as a threat?”
Sandoval shook his head slightly and made a shrugging motion. “We don’t know what the intention was at this point.” He turned his attention to me. “I highly suggest you avoid being alone, especially going out alone. We can’t offer you twenty-four-hour protection, but we can have a patrol car drive by the house regularly.”
“We’ll take you up on that,” Mom said. “Thank you.”
“If you get another message or if you hear from Alex, contact us right away—okay?”
I agreed.
Sandoval rose, handing Mom his card, as if he’d assumed we tossed the last two. “My cell is on there, if you have any concerns or questions.”
Mom nodded and asked something about the patrol car. I didn’t know what exactly—I’d already tuned them out.
Maybe I should’ve been more worried about my safety. But in my dazed, sleep-deprived state, all I cared about was finding the truth. And that would be impossible with a babysitter twenty-four hours a day.
When we pulled up to the diner, Gramps and Brandon were out front with buckets and rags, scrubbing at the entrance window.
“Shit,” Mom muttered under her breath.
Ask About Our Killer Special was painted in sloppy bright red letters across the glass—clearly by someone who hadn’t used a spray paint can much. My money was on a cake.
There was glass on the ground as well—someone had thrown something through the front door.
Guilt burrowed itself deeper inside my stomach, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. My family was still going to lose business they couldn’t afford to lose because of who my best friend was. Some people probably figured I was involved, too.
I offered to help Brandon, so Gramps could go inside and start preparing the kitchen. Gramps gave my hand a quick squeeze and kissed my forehead, but he didn’t say a word about the vandalism.
“Mom and Brandon are going to handle all the tables,” he said. “You can hang out in the back and help me, okay?”
“Thanks.” Part of me wondered if I should wait tables, like normal. The distraction might help hold me together. But all it would take was hearing the wrong conversation, getting one bad customer…anything could set me off.
Brandon gave me a nod and a quick smile. His dark bangs hid his eyes, so I couldn’t tell if it was sincere. “How are you?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“It was a dumb question—sorry.” He handed me a razor scraper. “Me and your grandpa already washed it down. Now we have to scrape.”
I took the razor and scratched at the paint, the feeling all too familiar. Glass. Red letters. Humiliation. Only this time I didn’t have the energy to be angry.
Brandon joined me, working on the other end of the window.
“They sent me a picture of Christian’s body—whoever killed him.”
His scraping stopped, but he didn’t look in my direction. “That’s… You must be freaked.”
“You could say that. Whoever sent it obviously knows me—which means I probably know them.” I glanced over at him, watching for any reaction. He resumed picking at the paint, his hair still hiding his eyes. “It’s kind of hard to wrap my head around.”
“Yeah…”
I put more pressure on the glass, making larger chunks of paint disappear. Organized killers were often socially “normal,” charming even. They tended to blend in without a problem. That could be Brandon. That could be a lot of people around here. But Brandon had been openly expressing his hatred for the cakes since the day he started here. He kept his cards close to his chest. And he was the police chief’s son, which gave him access to information the rest of us didn’t have.
God, I really was losing my mind. This was Brandon. Geeky, awkward Brandon who’d shown me nothing but kindness this summer.
“Careful,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “You don’t want to scratch the glass.”
I loosened my grip on the razor and took in a deep breath.
“Did you hear about Zach?” Brandon asked, his voice cautious.
My heart immediately reacted, making my fingertips go cold. What now…? “No…”
“He had a full-on breakdown. It took, like, four cops to hold him down.”
That sick feeling was swirling inside me again. “Where is he now?’
“Psych ward at Tillamook, last I heard.”
A little relief washed over me hearing that. It really was the best place he could be right now.
My body tensed every time a car passed us, especially if it slowed down. I kept expecting something to be thrown at my back.
“Do they have any leads yet?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” There was something about the way he said it, a hesitance maybe. It didn’t sound like the truth.
I stopped again and faced him. “You must’ve heard something…”
The fingers of his free hand tapped against his leg. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t talk about it or can’t talk about it to me?” My eyes stung, and my chest felt heavy. “I already know they think it’s Alex.”
He finally turned toward me, but he focused on everything but my face. “My mom isn’t on the case, so she doesn’t know much. The detectives talk to each other and the DA, and that’s about it.”
“But you know something.”
“I can’t,” he repeated more forcefully this time.
I ground my teeth together to keep from crying. If I started now, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “I don’t know where he is… I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
He let out a breath, his pale brown eyes finally meeting my gaze. “Those aren’t answers me or my mom have.”
“Brandon. Please. Just give me something.” I felt pathetic, begging like this. But there was still that doubt in me, the doubt that said I was only seeing what I wanted to see.
“My mom could lose her job, Nova.”
Another car slowed as it passed us, a newer black Mercedes. I could feel the eyes of the occupants on us, making the muscles in my legs stiffen. The driver gunned the engine and the car took off, turning the corner onto Second Street.
My paranoia had reached epic levels—it wasn’t as if the entire town was out to get me. But it sure felt like it.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said.
He went back to work on the glass. “I’m sorry. I wanna help. But don’t put me in this position.”
I remained frozen, the razor scraper dangling from my fingers, waiting. For what, I didn’t know. It wasn’t like he’d suddenly change his mind. “See you inside,” I said, swinging the door open before he could respond.
Monday mornings were never our busiest, but we’d at least be half full during tourist season. By 10:00 a.m., we had only a handful of customers. An older couple who Mom said were making their way up to Alaska. Joan and Linda, who’d only miss Gramps’s $2.99 salmon omelet and pancake special if they were dead. And Jack Cervantes, owner of the only pet store in town—they were closed on Mondays.
“Tourists are fleeing like there’s a damn tsunami coming,” Gramps said, frying up Joan’s and Linda’s salmon omelets. “The Inn’s only a quarter full.”
“Can you blame them?” I added fresh blueberries to the pancake batter, the smell of sugar and cinnamon making me even more nauseous.
Gramps shook his head. “This town’s going to have a hard time recovering from the stink. If it ever does.”
I glanced behind me to make sure Gavin was still reading his Harry Potter book in the back office, out of earshot. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to be completely straight with me.”
“Okay.”
“Do you think Alex is doing this?”
He flipped the omelets onto a plate and turned o
ff the gas on the stove. Then he looked over at me, pursing his lips. “I think there’s a whole lot that doesn’t make sense. So I don’t know. That’s the best answer I got right now.”
A sinking feeling hit me hard and fast. I wanted him to be sure of Alex’s innocence and list all the reasons why. I wanted someone I trusted to tell me I wasn’t crazy.
“I’m going to give Megan a call,” I said. “See how she’s doing.”
Gramps nodded. “Ask her if they need anything.”
On my way back to the office, Brandon’s gray-and-blue backpack on the floor underneath our coatrack caught my eye. He had this black sketch pad inside that I’d seen him writing and drawing in on breaks and during lulls. I’d never thought much about it—I figured he was working on his manga storyboards. But what if it was more than that…
It didn’t matter how much I liked Brandon on the surface—there was so little I actually knew about him. He’d never told me exactly what happened with Gabi, only saying she’d stopped talking to him for no reason. I’d bought it because of whom she chose to hang out with. People who chose to hang out with Christian were either weak, like Zach, or assholes—usually both. Still, Brandon and Gabi had been friends since freshman year. Why cut him off now?
Then there was what Jenika said—about Brandon stalking Gabi.
Gramps was busy pouring pancake batter onto multiple skillets, Gavin still had his face buried in his book, and Brandon had just taken a smoke break about fifteen minutes ago.
I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Gramps’s back was still to me and took soft footsteps, keeping my eyes on Gavin. Without stopping, I picked the backpack up by the handle, making sure to lift it slowly. It was heavier than I’d expected. Keeping my steps light and steady, I went straight for the back door.
Once outside, I unzipped the backpack gently, as if Brandon could somehow hear through walls. This felt wrong on many levels. But so did not doing anything at all. I remembered a documentary I’d watched where some big-shot New York City homicide detective said you only find the guilty when you’ve excluded everyone else.
Brandon’s backpack was filled with graphic novels and comics, mostly manga. Two packs of cigarettes were in his front pocket, along with two fancy-looking Zippos. One had a smiling pirate on the front. There was an abundance of pens with chewed lids and empty granola bar wrappers. Nothing even remotely surprising.
Then there was the black spiral-bound sketchbook he hovered over every chance he got. Even if it only contained art, it would at least give me a peep into his mind.
A male voice hollered something, making me freeze. Then I heard the unmistakable thwonk of skateboard wheels hitting cement. The skaters around here loved the parking lot of the old Pacific Sunrise motel almost as much as they loved showing off their battle scars.
I flipped through the pages, mostly half-finished sketches and random scrawls. Almost every female “character” he’d sketched had the same face. Gabi’s. One in particular sent goose bumps down my arms. Brandon had given her giant pupils, making her eyes look almost completely black. Red lines ran down both cheeks, as if she was crying blood. Her lips were a hypothermic blue.
It wasn’t exactly like Amber. Brandon’s strokes were neat, measured, and full of erase marks. But the effect was eerily similar.
Underneath he’d scrawled, Pull the trigger.
The breeze suddenly felt like ice on my skin. I couldn’t bring myself to flip the page, to see what came next.
But I had to.
The door to the diner flew open, and I thrust the sketchpad behind my back. Not that it would do any good.
Brandon emerged, and his eyes went straight to his backpack at my feet.
I had no idea what to say. There was no good excuse. All I could do was keep breathing.
He walked toward me and grabbed his backpack by the handle, rummaging inside. “What’d you expect to find?”
I held his sketch pad out to him, keeping my distance. “I’m sorry…”
He snatched it away, making the cardboard scrape against my thumb. His nose wrinkled, and there was a glare in his eyes. “Fuck you.”
With that, he headed back inside, letting the door slam behind him.
I stayed outside for a few minutes, the image of Gabi’s face and her bloody tears flashing in my mind again and again. It was still just a drawing. And the words on the page were only words. Pull the trigger could’ve been a title. I couldn’t exactly go in there and accuse him of murdering two people. Gramps would tell me just that and go off on me for invading Brandon’s privacy. And he’d be right.
I needed more.
The back door opened again, but this time Gramps poked his head out. I let out an audible breath.
“You doin’ okay?” he asked. “Brandon said you needed some air.”
“He’s… Is he still here?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?” He came outside to join me. I wanted to run into his arms and hide, like I did when I got scared as a kid. His bear hugs always made me feel safe from anything.
“We had a fight. He wouldn’t tell me what he knows about the case.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be giving that information to anybody. And you got no right ask.” Even with everything going on, the disappointment in his voice still got to me.
“I think he might be involved.” I knew I sounded idiotic, but I had to warn him somehow.
“I think you’re trying to find demons wherever you can right now.”
“He hates the cakes. He’s obsessed with De Luca’s daughter—he draws all these pictures of her and writes these weird things.”
Gramps held up his hand. “Bein’ a lovesick fool doesn’t make him a killer, Nova.”
I described the drawing to him, including what it said underneath.
His face scrunched up. “He showed you this?’
The wind picked up, making me shiver. I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “Not exactly.”
“Ah…” He exhaled a long breath, and for a minute we stood in silence, watching the skateboarders fly off their homemade half pipe and fall on their rears.
“Are you going to say anything else?” I asked.
“About you nosing through his stuff? I don’t have to.”
“Gramps…”
His dark eyes followed the skaters across the parking lot. “He’s a young guy into macabre art. They grow ’em on trees these days. It’s not a smoking gun.”
I folded my arms, hoping to stop the shivering. But it seemed like the cold was coming from within now.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, after a minute. “What am I supposed to do?”
He reached out and pulled me into a hug, mashing my nose into his chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the tears came out anyway. Warm and uncontrollable. My body went limp and breath escaped my lips in short, quick bursts. Every time I thought I was done, another little explosion came out of me, my lungs filling with more air than they could handle.
He rubbed my back, staying quiet until my muscles stopped quivering. “Me and your mom are here for you. No matter what, okay?” He squeezed me a little harder, kissing the top of my head. “No matter what.”
I wished I could say his words comforted me, made me feel a little safer in my own skin. They didn’t. Because he didn’t have an answer for me. Gramps always had some kind of answer.
After I went to the bathroom, put myself back together, and cleaned up, I called Megan. The phone rang until the answering machine popped on. I started to leave a message when there was a click followed by Megan’s voice.
“Nova?” She sounded almost panicked.
“Hey—what’s going on?”
“We’ve been getting these calls from some guy. He said he’s going to hunt…” The machine beeped, blocking out half of what she said.
“I missed that—he said what?”
“He said he’s going to hunt Alex down and shoot him on sight.”
Knowing some of the gun-toting cr
azies around here, he probably meant it, too. “Did you call the police?”
“Yeah, they said they’re going to trace it.” She let out a breath. “We probably won’t have a phone for much longer anyway.”
“Why?”
“Phone company left a message, saying we’re two months behind. They’re going to shut it off any time now. Alex was going to pay it, but…”
“We’ll take care of it.” I glanced over at Gavin. He was watching me, his hazel eyes filled with curiosity. “I’m going to come over, okay? I need to talk to you about something.”
“You probably shouldn’t…” Her voice got softer. “There’s been news trucks outside. I mean, they’re staying back for now, ’cause we don’t want to talk. But I don’t know. Our house is a mess and—”
“I don’t care. I’m coming over.” I hung up, not giving her a chance to answer. She had to know something about Gabi and Brandon’s relationship. And if she didn’t, hopefully she could get me in touch with Gabi.
“Mom isn’t going to let you go anywhere,” Gavin said, still watching me.
Sneaking out would end with her calling the cops at this point. But it was dead enough that she’d probably be willing to drive me.
On my way out of the kitchen, I passed Brandon, who was delivering an order. He acted as if I weren’t there, keeping his gaze straight ahead. I swallowed back my guilt—I’d feel guilty when I knew he wasn’t involved.
Mom was pouring coffee for Paul Cross, one of only two customers in the whole place now. I motioned for her to come talk to me by the bathrooms.
“What’s up?” she asked, still carrying the pot of coffee.
“Can you drop me off at Al—Megan’s?” I could still say his name. He still lived there.
“Hon, you should stay here. Why don’t we pick her up?”
“Their house is a mess. Their phone is about to be shut off. Cindy’s distraught… I told her I was coming by to help.”
Mom sighed. “I’m not comfortable with—”
