Secrets, Lies, and Scandals

by Amanda K. Morgan

  Maybe someone was screwing with all of them.

  Mattie knew one thing with certainty:

  He had to confess.

  They all did.

  But until then, he was going to show whoever was messing with him that he wasn’t scared. And that meant riding the bike. That meant acting like nothing was off.

  He crossed the railroad tracks in the center of town, his tires bumping over the rails. The bike rode a little differently now, like something had been changed in transport. It wasn’t bad, per se—it was just strange. He’d tested his brakes, but they were fine. His pedals were moving smoothly. Maybe it was the seat, since his feet had to stretch to reach the pedals. (But why would anyone have taken the time to mess with the seat, just to return the bike?)

  Behind him an engine rumbled, heavy and loud.

  He moved to the left side of the road, to allow the car to pass.

  He looked over his shoulder. It wasn’t just a car; it was a truck. It was a huge gray pickup truck with a thick chrome grille. It was lifted, with an extended cab.

  It was a monster—the kind of truck that smashed smaller cars.

  And it was coming toward him. Fast. Down the middle of the street.

  He eased his bike a little farther to the left.

  The truck sped up and veered with him, the engine revving.

  It was following him.

  Mattie looked back and saw the truck was closer, the engine roaring like some sort of wild animal. He couldn’t see the driver. The windshield was tinted heavily, making the machine seem less like it had a human behind the wheel and more like it was some sort of creature come to life to kill him.

  And it would. It would squash him like an insect, leave him flattened and dead on the street.

  Mattie pedaled faster. Harder. He was almost to Kinley’s house—could he make it there before the truck caught him? Or should he try to hop the curb, to go somewhere the truck couldn’t? The engine roared louder in his ears, and the sweat beading on his forehead began to fall into his eyes. He blinked quickly, his vision blurring, and used his forearm to wipe the moisture away.

  The truck advanced, the chrome glinting sharply in the hot sunlight. Mattie could almost feel the heat of the engine. The fumes of the exhaust reached his nose.

  It was after him. The truck was trying to kill him.

  And Mattie couldn’t outrun it.

  He jerked the handlebars sharply.

  His bike tire hit the curb and skidded. Mattie slammed on the brakes hard. Too hard. The back wheel of the bike popped up, propelling Mattie over the handlebars.

  He hit his head on the sidewalk.

  The last thing he saw before everything went dark was the black tires of the truck, bearing down on him.

  Kinley

  Monday, June 29

  “Holy shit, Kin. Holy shit.” Tyler stood at the front window, his mouth slightly open.

  “What?” she asked. “What is it?”

  Tyler didn’t answer. He threw open her door and sprinted outside. She followed him, her braid bouncing against her back.

  He knelt down at the sidewalk.

  Beside Mattie.

  She rushed to the street. Mattie lay there, sprawled out next to his bike, his hair matted with blood.

  A lot of blood.

  It was more than his hair. A wide pool of red was spreading out beneath him, and his face was white.

  As white as Stratford’s face had been.

  “Is he alive?” Kinley asked, her heart racing. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s not okay,” he said. “But he’s alive. Kinley, call 911. Now.”

  Kinley sprinted into the house. It crossed her mind that her parents would probably find out about this, and that meant they’d realize Tyler had been here, but for once, she didn’t care.

  She couldn’t have someone else die.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “I’m at 1452 Brooklyn Terrace Drive. My friend—he fell off his bike and he hit his head, and he’s hurt really badly.” She hurried back outside. “There’s a lot of blood.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Please stay calm. We’re sending an ambulance now, okay?”

  “Okay.” Kinley pressed her hand to her chest. “What do I do?”

  “Is the young man breathing?”

  “I think so.” Kinley peered over Mattie. His chest was rising and falling. “Yes. Yes, he’s breathing. But he’s white—like, really white. He looks dead.”

  “It’s good that he’s breathing. Now stay with him, okay? Do not move him. If he has injured his spinal column, it could cause more damage.”

  “What about the bleeding?” Kinley fought to keep her voice calm. “Should I stop the bleeding?”

  “Can you do it without moving his head?”

  “Maybe. Tyler, we need to try to stop the bleeding without moving his head.”

  “Yeah.” Tyler nodded. He pulled off his shirt and pressed it to Mattie’s head. “Shit. It’s too much blood. How long until they’re going to be here, Kinley? They need to get here. Now.”

  “How much longer? Do we need to keep him warm? What more should we do?”

  “Ma’am, can you take a deep breath for me, please?”

  Kinley sucked in air through her mouth. “Yeah,” she said, breathing out hard. “Yeah.”

  “Someone should be there in minutes, okay?”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “Sure. Okay.”

  “I am going to ask that you keep watching his chest, okay? When people are unconscious, they can’t clear their throats, so their airways can get blocked. That means it’s your job to make sure he continues to breathe, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Kinley knelt down beside Tyler on the sidewalk and watched Mattie’s chest. It moved slowly, but he was still breathing.

  In the distance, she could hear sirens.

  “Now, I’m going to stay on the phone with you until paramedics arrive. Okay, sweetheart?”

  “Thank you,” Kinley said. She put her hand on her chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “He’s bleeding through the shirt!” Tyler yelled. There was blood all over his hands. His wrists. There was a smear of it across his forehead.

  “Hang on, Mattie,” Kinley whispered. “Please, hang on.”

  And then, the ambulance was there. It came screaming up to the sidewalk, and two EMTs leaped out. Kinley stood back, and Tyler held her tight to his chest while the paramedics carefully moved Mattie onto a stretcher and buckled him in.

  “What—what just happened?” Kinley whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Tyler whispered. “I just looked out—and there he was.” He looked at Kinley “Did you hear anything?”

  Kinley shook her head. “You don’t think . . . maybe—someone—”

  “No.” Tyler cut her off. “He probably just hit a . . . a rock or something. And his tire skidded.”

  The EMTs moved Mattie into the back of the ambulance. “Where are you taking him?” Tyler asked.

  “Saint Mary’s East,” one EMT said.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Kinley asked, but the EMT ignored her.

  Neighbors up and down the street were peering out of their windows. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson were actually standing by their mailbox, pointing and whispering. Kinley wanted to scream at them. How long had they been there? Why hadn’t they helped?

  She looked down at the sidewalk, at the wide pool of blood and Tyler’s yellow T-shirt, stained crimson, at the edge of the puddle.

  She was the reason Mattie had gotten hurt. If he hadn’t been on the way to her house, he would have never fallen off his bike. She clutched harder at Tyler. “This is my fault,” she whispered.

  “And mine.” He hesitated and looked down at her. She noticed, of all things to notice in that moment, his eyelashes. They were full and thick, and resting on the edge of the left one was a single tear. “Was this a bad plan, Kin?”

  She shook her head as a car pulled up. Ivy. “No. We still
need to do it.”

  Ivy climbed out of the car, her eyes wide. “Wh—what happened? What happened?”

  The female EMT poked her head out of the back of the ambulance. “Are you coming or not?”

  Kinley looked at Ivy. “Follow us, okay?”

  Tyler and Kinley climbed into the back of the ambulance and found seats beside the stretcher, just out of the way of the EMTs, who were punching buttons on machines. One fixed a blood pressure cuff to Mattie’s arm; the other turned to him and fit a breathing bag and mask on his face, which she pumped steadily.

  Tyler found Kinley’s hand and squeezed it, but it did nothing to comfort her. She looked up, into his eyes, and saw what was reflected in hers.

  Everything was going wrong.

  They’d invited Mattie—along with Cade and Ivy—over for one reason: to talk things over.

  In other words, to get a recorded confession. From someone. Anyone who wasn’t them.

  And instead they were in the back of an ambulance.

  Kinley wondered, for a moment, how different her life would be if they had just called an ambulance when Stratford fell. He’d still be dead—she was sure of that—but would she be in juvie? Prison, perhaps? Or would everything have been okay? Would the police have understood it was an accident?

  She put her head in her hands, blocking out the scene in front of her. Mattie’s too-pale face. The grim expressions of the EMTs. The sight of the machines, all working to save him.

  But she couldn’t block out everything. The endless chirps of the machine wormed their way into her mind, and the strong, coppery scent of blood was everywhere.

  Tyler tapped her shoulder. “Kin,” he hissed. “Kinley, look!”

  Kinley sat up.

  He was awake.

  Mattie was awake.

  His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He tried to move, but an EMT stilled him. “It’s okay,” she said. “Just stay still. It’s going to be fine.”

  Kinley grasped Tyler’s arm, her fingernails digging into his skin. Mattie blinked, and his chin moved slightly.

  “He’s trying to say something!” Tyler said.

  The taller EMT pulled the breathing mask away. “Stay calm, okay?” she said, her voice low and soothing. “We’re gonna take care of you.” She touched his shoulder gently.

  Mattie tried to focus. “Someone’s following us,” he said.

  And then his eyes closed, and he started sucking in this giant breaths of air, like he had just crested the surface of the ocean after nearly drowning. His chest rose and fell too rapidly, and Kinley wanted to hide her eyes again but she forced herself to watch.

  This was all her fault. And now, she had to deal with the consequences, no matter what they were.

  “Calm down,” the male EMT soothed, grabbing Mattie’s hand. “Just relax, okay? Can you count down slowly from ten? Good. That’s it. That’s it.”

  The female EMT turned to them, frowning. “What did he say? Something about . . . following?”

  “Didn’t catch it,” Tyler said without meeting her eyes. “Sorry.”

  “Me neither.” Kinley’s grip tightened further on Tyler’s arm, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Maybe he’ll say it again when he wakes up.”

  The EMT stared at them for a second longer. And then she turned away. “Listen a little closer next time,” she muttered.

  Before she could say anything else, they pulled into the emergency entrance.

  Tyler

  Monday, June 29

  Tyler watched as Cade closed the door of the hospital room very quietly. They all stood around Mattie’s bed—Tyler and Kinley, who had rode in the ambulance, and Ivy, who had followed closely and cried until they’d let her into the room. “Ivy texted me about what happened,” Cade said, holding up his phone. “Is he okay?”

  He would be, they said. The doctor had called it a severe concussion. They were going to monitor him overnight to be sure there was nothing further wrong, but so far, it looked like he was going to be fine.

  Tyler was almost a little jealous. Mattie had, for a few minutes, been able to escape into unconsciousness. Had been able to escape the screwed-up shit they’d all done together.

  “I called his aunt,” Ivy volunteered. “She was in Brunswig for the day, antique shopping, but she’s going to call his parents and let them know what happened.” Ivy checked her phone. “She’ll be here in a half hour. We should probably all clear out by then.”

  For a few moments, no one said anything. They just stood around Mattie’s hospital bed, watching him. He didn’t look fine. A large white bandage was wound around his head, which was misshapen due to the swelling.

  “He said something,” Tyler said. “He woke up for a little bit in the ambulance, and he said something.” He swallowed. “He said that someone was following him.”

  “What? When?” Cade asked. “When he fell? Did he fall? What happened?”

  Tyler shook his head. “I don’t know, man. All I know is that I looked out the window—and he was just lying there. Blood was everywhere.” His hands started shaking at the memory. He shoved them in his pockets.

  “Why would someone be following Mattie?” Ivy asked. “What did he ever do?” Her hands gripped the metal rails on the side of the bed.

  “I think we all know.” Cade met her eyes, his mouth set and grim.

  “What did any of us ever do?” Kinley asked dully.

  A knock at the door made them all jump. It opened, just a foot, and a man stuck his head into the room.

  A man Tyler knew very well.

  Emile Harkins.

  His parole officer. He scanned the room, and his eyes landed on his charge. “Tyler,” he said. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

  In the time it took Tyler to reach the door, a million different thoughts ran through his head.

  Was this about Jer?

  Or had Jacob finally ratted him out, like he’d been promising?

  Or even worse—was this about Stratford?

  And how had Emile known he was at the hospital?

  Keep it together, he told himself. Don’t lose your shit before he even says anything. That’s how criminals get caught.

  Tyler had been caught enough. He should know. He left the room and let the door shut quietly behind him, as if a sound would wake Mattie.

  Emile put a hand on Tyler’s shoulder. He was a small man, but he had presence—at just five foot five, he seemed to stand six feet tall. His dark eyes held a deep intelligence that bordered on intimidating. “Come with me, Tyler. We need to find someplace to talk.”

  Tyler ignored the odd feeling in his stomach and followed his parole officer to a waiting room that was empty except for an old man in a brown cardigan, asleep in a chair. A line of glistening drool leaked out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Sit,” Emile said, motioning at a chair. He took the one across from Tyler, and steepled his fingers. “Look, man. I hope you don’t mind that I’m bothering you. I know your friend is hurt, but your mom told me you were here, and we really, really need to talk.”

  Tyler leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, striving for casual. “Uh, okay. What about?”

  Emile ran a hand through his messy hair. “I know you’re going through a lot. Hell, we both know you’re going through a lot. Can we agree on that?”

  Tyler gave one curt nod. What was Emile talking about? Tyler’s heartbeat was loud in his ears. So loud, he wondered if Emile could hear it.

  “You’re in a tough spot, dude. And believe me when I tell you—I already know what’s going on.”

  “You do?” Tyler’s voice came out a little higher than usual.

  Emile nodded. “Yeah. I figured it out. It wasn’t all that hard—I’ve been working with you for, what, three years now? It’s not that hard to pick up all the pieces and put them together.”

  Tyler cocked his head. Was Emile just trying to get him to fess up to something? He’d never said anything like this before. Never did anythi
ng like this. He never showed that much trust. Or faith.

  This was a different Emile. It scared Tyler a little bit.

  “So what?” Tyler finally said.

  Emile looked left and right, and leaned in. “I can help you, Tyler.”

  “What do you mean?” Was Emile offering him a way out? Was a parole officer allowed to do that? Or was this some screwed-up new way to pin his ass to the wall?

  Emile looked into his eyes. “Tyler. I already know what’s going on. I know you get blamed for a lot of stuff, and I know that not all of it is really your fault. Guys like you get a lot of crap dumped on your lap. Some of it you ask for, and some of it just happens. Just ask me for help—tell me everything that’s happening—and I can fix this.”

  Something twinged in Tyler’s chest.

  But no.

  It couldn’t be this easy.

  It couldn’t.

  “You don’t know,” Tyler said. “I wish you did, but you don’t know.”

  Emile laughed softly. “Tyler, I used to think that exact same thing when I was your age. But listen. I’m going to give you a little time to think about it, all right? But sooner or later—it’s going to come out. The easy way or the hard way.”

  Tyler stood up. He wanted to get away from here. He had to get away from Emile.

  He had to get this all figured out. And he had to do it now.

  “I’ll give you two days,” Emile said, standing too. “Just remember, Tyler: I know everything. And I can help protect you.”

  “I wish you could.”

  Emile stuck his hand out, and Tyler shook it, feeling oddly like they’d just concluded some sort of business meeting.

  “I’ll be hearing from you soon,” Emile said, and then he left Tyler alone in the waiting room with the old man, who had just woken up and was wiping his chin on his sleeve.

  Tyler walked back to Mattie’s room. When he opened the door, Mattie was propped up, and his eyes were open.

  “You guys?” he said. “I just talked to my parole officer.”

  The room was silent.

  Tyler took a deep breath. “I think he knows—I think he knows everything. And we need to figure out what we’re going to do.”