They’d burn alive.
Parker could already smell it. The air sizzled as the lights went out. In the darkness that followed, he pushed out the words, “She’s desperate to know who killed her brother. And you’re desperate to make up for—”
“I can’t make up for it. I can’t bring him back.”
“You’re right. But if you gave your life to save a house full of people, that would more than make up for it. Man . . .” Parker shook his head, as if impressed. “She really is brilliant, offering you that. But you could never take it. I mean, I’d never let you take it.”
In the dark room, Brett sat very still, passing the brass knuckles from hand to hand. He looked like a child. Like a little boy who’d been abandoned by the person he needed most. That was how Parker had found him, all those years ago. He’d taken Brett under his wing, taken Brett into his family, because Brett had lost everything. His mother. His home. He and his father had to squeeze into a one-bedroom apartment, and Brett couldn’t even afford to buy lunch at school. So Parker had done it for him. He’d taken him on weekend trips to the coast, and when Brett turned sixteen, Parker gave him the Jaguar he’d learned to drive in.
Over and over, Parker had saved him. Now he was the one who needed saving. Carefully, he placed his hands over Brett’s, saying, “Don’t even think about doing what she wants. Your suffering will end, eventually.”
Brett inhaled, the metal clinking in his hands. “It won’t,” he said after a minute. “It gets worse every day. And if someone else dies because of what I did . . .” He pushed off the bed. “I can stop it.”
“No.” Parker darted after him, through the darkness. He reached out as Brett opened the door. But he couldn’t stop him. Or rather, he didn’t stop him. He felt a little scared, and a little sick, thinking about what he was doing, but underneath the panic, there was something else.
Relief.
He was going to escape. He was going to survive, and that was what mattered. By now, Brett had reached the bottom of the stairs, and he pivoted left, heading for the patio doors. He didn’t know they were locked. He didn’t know about the line of gasoline either, but still, he was trying to save them. He really was courageous. Parker would make sure everyone knew what he’d done for them.
He followed Brett into the dining room, his eye catching a blur of white out on the patio. A pang shot through his stomach. Could he really do this? Could he really offer his best friend up to the slaughter?
“Wait,” he called, as Brett wrestled with the patio doors. At the sound of Parker’s voice, he turned. Their eyes met. Parker smiled softly, happy to see his oldest friend looking at him. “Don’t—”
Brett pulled a chair from the table. Whipping around, he let it fly through the patio door on the left. Then he was climbing through the opening, shards of glass tearing at his skin. In one swift movement, he tossed the brass knuckles across the patio, toward the figure standing on the other side.
“It was me,” he said, as Brianna bent to retrieve his offering. “I’m the reason your brother’s dead.”
31.
BRUTAL BALLET
Juniper’s nightmare was coming true. Here she was again, immersed in icy water, and when she broke the surface, all she could see was that face. Moon-pale and porcelain, both cracked and smooth. That garish mouth. It might’ve been covered in actual blood; she’d never really know, and it didn’t really matter.
What mattered was the hand.
Pale fingers sliced through the air. Pale fingers, glinting like metal. Was Brianna holding a knife? No, this was different. The metal clung to her fingers, like some kind of demented ornamentation. Nearby, Ruby and Gavin were splashing, their mouths making unintelligible sounds, but nothing settled and nothing separated. It was chaos. It was anarchy, and their circus tent was falling down.
Then, a twist in the narrative. A change in the story. The girl with the face of a doll swept right past them, stalking the boy by the patio doors. Brett. His deep purple suit was dusted with glittering shards, and he made no move to defend himself as Brianna took a swing.
The move was elegant, almost balletic, like a move Ruby would make in an ordinary kitchen on an ordinary day. Something lovely and out of place, and eerily slowed down, until she made contact with Brett’s stomach. Blood flew to his lips almost instantly.
The dance wasn’t beautiful anymore. It was brutal. Brett’s body jolted each time she hit him, but she didn’t slow down. She sped up, her fists slamming into him so many times, it seemed impossible.
A betrayal of space and time.
And yet, Juniper thought, maybe it was her fault, for pausing on the balcony. Swaying with Ruby. Kissing Gavin on the lips. Maybe she’d been selfish, taking a moment with each of them, to let them know how much they mattered, not just to her, but to the universe. They needed to feel that now, so close to the end, and she was happy to be the one to show it to them. Juniper had always wanted to save everyone, and she’d always, always failed, but in that moment she’d felt successful.
Like the universe wanted her.
Now, watching blood blossom on Brett’s white shirt, she slid through the water, believing she could save him, too. Her friends were screaming at her back, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t slow down. She’d made it halfway across the pool when Brett crumpled to the ground.
Brianna leaned over him, saying, “It would’ve been swift. It would’ve been sweet. But you chose to lie to me, darling, and now it will be slow. It will be agony.”
Then, like a wraith who’d fulfilled her duty on earth, she backed away, into the shadows. Away from the pool. Away from the long, twisting pathway that led to the front of the house. She was practically begging the others to make a run for it. Now was their chance! No ropes stood in their way, and no fire could touch them. They were free, finally, but if they ran . . .
Brett would die.
“Go,” he mumbled from his place on the ground. “It was my fault. It was me.”
“Liar, liar, pants on . . . Well, let’s see if the rhyme comes true, shall we?” Brianna plucked a long white taper from a bag on the ground. God, she must’ve had weapons stashed everywhere. Candles on the patio. Brass knuckles on her hands. At least the rope was accounted for, and Juniper couldn’t even think of the gun in that moment. Ruby had sworn it wasn’t loaded (it wasn’t, was it?) and either way, a gun was meant for silencing people, and Brianna wanted them to talk.
No, she wanted Brett to talk. Why?
“Why not talk to Parker?” Juniper gestured to the head peering out of the shattered patio door. The golden head, framed in glass. “He got your brother wasted. Then your brother drove off in his car. Coincidence?”
“Parker will never confess to hurting my brother,” Brianna said coolly, lighting her candle. She knelt on the patio stones, just outside the line of gasoline. If she tipped that candle down, Brett would go up in flames. Parker, too. “I lashed Ruby to a chair, and pushed her down the stairs, and still, he wouldn’t admit to making a video. It wasn’t until I slid a rope around Ruby’s neck—”
“I am not the villain here!” Parker shouted, easing his body through jagged shards of glass. But he didn’t try to tackle Brianna, or kneel beside Brett. He kept his distance from both of them. “All night, I’ve been trying to protect everyone, but I won’t confess to something I didn’t do!”
“Why not? Brett did.” Brianna’s gaze cut to the boy on the ground, her eyes finding his. “Your name is the Iron Stomach. You are secretly in love with the Human Torch. Your weapon is your fists because you love pounding things you’re not supposed to. And your greatest secret is—”
“Stop,” Brett whispered, his voice pleading.
“You will die to protect him.”
Brett’s eyelids fluttered closed. It seemed like a self-fulfilling prophecy, like everything Brianna had written was coming true. But Juniper had never believed in destiny, just as she didn’t believe a chosen one would save them. In real life, you had to
make your own destiny.
To choose to be the one.
Slowly, she inched toward the front of the pool. There was little chance of leaping out of the water, racing across the patio, and tackling Brianna to the ground, but if she could create a big enough splash, she wouldn’t have to leave the safety of the pool. The water would slide across the patio, diluting the gasoline, and that candle would be rendered useless.
She just needed a distraction. Glancing behind her, she saw Ruby climbing the ladder at the far end of the pool, while Gavin treaded water, unwilling to abandon Juniper to the depths. Her cheeks flushed, and she tore her eyes from him, finding Ruby’s in the darkness.
Help me, she implored silently, gaze flicking to the water, then the patio. Distract Brianna, and I will save us.
Ruby didn’t acknowledge her. Instead she strode to the left side of the pool, where the doll of Shane Ferrick was bobbing on the water. “Of course Brett’s protecting Parker,” she said calmly, reaching for the doll. “If Parker handed his keys to Shane, when Shane was wasted out of his mind, then Brianna will kill him. And Brett will have to live with that for the rest of his life. He can’t stomach the burden, after everything that happened last year.” Ruby lifted the doll out of the water, laying him gently on the ground. Then her gaze shifted to Brett. “So give the burden to me.”
“What?” Brett murmured, struggling to focus.
“You shouldn’t have to tell Brianna what Parker did. The burden is too great.” Ruby stepped toward him. “But if you tell me what happened, she’ll let you go, and I’ll have to decide whether to hand over Parker or take my chances with the flames.”
“No.” It was Juniper who said it, and it should’ve been a scream, a horrifying wail that ripped through the fabric of space and time. But it wasn’t. It was less of a battle cry and more of a croak, something small and pathetic, as if a hand encircled her throat. In reality, a hand encircled her arm, as Gavin pulled her backwards, away from the edge of the pool. “Trust Ruby,” he whispered. “She escaped Brianna once. She can do it agai—”
“No!” Juniper wrestled out of his grip, drawing Brianna’s attention. That candle dipped closer to the ground. Juniper cringed. Her plan to soak the patio might have been thwarted, but she would not let Ruby step inside the circle of gasoline. “You can’t risk your life for Parker. You can’t.”
Ruby looked at Juniper, and her face was calm. Peaceful. “I’m the only one who can. I’m the only one besides Brett who understands how to love Parker, and be crushed by him, at the same time.” She swallowed, looking at each of them. “I know what you all think. That I must hate him by now, I’d be crazy not to hate him. But I’m perfectly sane. Shane told me I was, and I believed him. I believe him now.”
“Ruby?”
Juniper watched her oldest friend, her best friend forever, glide over that line of gasoline. No hesitation. No fear. Kneeling beside Brett, Ruby brushed the sweat from his forehead. “You can trust me with this,” she promised. “Parker took something from me that I deeply, desperately wanted and still . . .” She looked at her ex-boyfriend, standing dangerously close to the shards of glass. “I feel compelled to protect him. I feel compelled to get him help. If you tell me this secret, I won’t take it lightly.”
Now Brett was shaking, and a tear was sliding down his cheek. When he lifted his hand to Ruby’s shoulder, Juniper wasn’t sure whether he was going to pull her closer or push her away. It didn’t matter in the end. Brett’s hand swayed in the air, then fell back to the ground. Ruby leaned over, closing the gap between them. “I can save him,” she said, cupping Brett’s face with her hands. “I can save you both. But you have to tell me the truth.”
And so, in a trembling whisper, Brett did.
32.
IRON STOMACH
Brett Carmichael felt sick. It had come upon him suddenly, somewhere between the third and the thirteenth punch, and soon, his stomach was roiling and his mouth was dry.
He stepped back. Away from the body, jangling in Parker’s arms like a skeleton. Like Shane was already dead. Parker smiled, cocking his head to the side, and asked, “Getting tired?”
Brett wanted to say yes. He wanted to say I’m done with this, and I’m going home. He had the distinct impression that this was the farthest he’d ever fallen, his own personal rock bottom, and the thought brought his mother to mind. Had she hit rock bottom, when he’d slipped out of her hands and slammed into the balcony railing? Brett still had a scar on his stomach, from where the spire had opened his skin.
It had been impossible to get the blood out of his clothes.
Now, with three drops of blood on his crisp white shirt, he wondered whether he should bleach the thing or throw it out. Better to throw it in the fire and watch it burn. He’d dealt with enough blood in his life to know when something was a lost cause, when the time spent cleaning wasn’t worth the result of wearing the clothes again.
He shrugged, trying to sound as casual as possible. “Just getting a little bored.”
Parker let the body drop. One second Shane was dangling in his arms, and the next, he was a rock. Silent. Cold. Parker stepped back. Brushing his hands on his jeans, as if he were the one who’d gotten dirty, he looked to Brett, flashing a grin. “Want a drink?”
For the briefest of instants, Brett thought that Parker was offering him Shane’s blood. As if, on top of kicking the guy’s ass, they’d also drink from his veins. He knew, deep down, that it was a ridiculous thought, but what was more ridiculous? Feasting on Shane like a vampire or cheerfully going for a beer with blood spattering his shirt? Parker’s mood was so light, so utterly unaffected by the sight of the boy on the ground, Brett found himself grasping for a supernatural explanation.
Then, as if reading Brett’s thoughts, Parker shrugged off his jacket. “You look cold,” he explained.
And he was right. Brett was cold. He shouldn’t have been, considering the workout he’d put himself through, the jabbing and the bouncing from foot to foot. He should’ve been burning up. But now the sweat was cooling on his skin, and the wind was picking up.
He pulled the jacket on. It was warm, if a little snug, and it smelled like him. Like Parker’s skin, salty with sweat. Like warm, golden honey and a hint of spice. Brett closed his eyes. Parker’s hands were tugging on the jacket, zipping him in. It had been years since someone had zipped him into a jacket, and even though he knew, logically, that Parker was covering up the blood, it felt nice. To be cared for. Touched.
He opened his eyes to find Parker smiling. It wasn’t the smile of a sadistic clown, or the empty grin of someone who doesn’t know right from wrong. It was sweet. Understanding. Parker was the only person in the world who knew who Brett really was, under the sadness. He saw all the good and all the bad, and he accepted it without question.
No, he did more than accept it. He appreciated it. “You’re a freaking superhero,” Parker said, his arm swinging over Brett’s shoulders. “We should get you a costume.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious! He’ll never pull that shit again, I know it.”
Brett swallowed, trying to buy the story that Parker was selling. But he didn’t feel like a hero. He felt like a villain. He told himself that his stomach was turning because he was a good person, and good people felt bad about causing destruction, even if it was necessary. This feeling was exactly what separated him from a guy like Shane Ferrick, who could make his own little sex tape, send it to a bunch of his classmates, and then show up at a party like nothing had happened.
Shane was the messed-up one. Brett was just a person. A normal, healthy person with normal, healthy reactions to things. When someone bled, you should feel ill at the sight of it, and when they whimpered, your stomach should turn. And now, as Parker steered him toward the lighted kitchen, toward beer and pizza and holiday cheer, Brett let his gut guide him one more time.
“We can’t leave him out here.”
“Um. What?” Parker turned, his fa
ce twisted into a scowl, just like Brett knew it would be. “Why the hell not?”
“He’ll freeze to death.”
“And?”
“My DNA is all over him. If he dies, I’ll go to prison for murder.”
“Manslaughter, but yeah, okay. You’re right. Let’s get him off the ground.”
“Really?” Brett was taken aback. He’d expected a fight. A dramatic standoff in the snow.
But Parker didn’t fight. Parker didn’t huff and Parker didn’t puff. Instead he lifted Shane by the arms. Brett got him by the legs, and together they carried him toward the house. They’d just reached the patio doors when Parker stopped, a strange look in his eyes.
“What?” Brett peered into the kitchen. The hour was late, and half the partygoers had either gone home or slipped off to the bedrooms. The rest appeared too drunk to see two feet in front of themselves, dancing sloppily or scooping dip with their fingers. Nobody noticed the boys standing on the other side of the glass, waiting to slip inside.
Nobody noticed Shane.
“I was just thinking,” Parker said, glancing across the body. Catching Brett’s eye. “Dahlia’s going to kill us if we get blood on her couch.”
“Dahlia can deal with it.”
“I know, I just . . .” Parker smiled slyly, and something unfurled in Brett’s stomach. “I’d hate to get a reputation for ruining a party.”
“Oh yeah. That would be terrible,” Brett joked, playing along with the ruse. Parker loved having a reputation. For being wild. Unpredictable. But now, when he had the chance to present Shane to the partygoers, like a wicked Christmas present, he was shying away.
“Let’s put him in my car.”
Brett’s heartbeat stuttered. He could envision Parker slipping back out here, in the dead of night, to mess with Shane while everyone was sleeping. He could envision him tying Shane up in ropes. Making a little video, an eye for an eye.
This Lie Will Kill You Page 20
