by Tim Floreen
I cleared the snow off the Saab’s windows, dove in, and barreled home. Franklin’s journal lay on the passenger seat next to me. I flipped it over to hide the Son of War sticker and pointed my eyes forward, at the snow scribbling across the windshield. My brain right now felt just like that snow: seething, chaotic, flying in a million different directions. Too many questions. Too many fears. Too many people I didn’t know if I could trust. One person in particular I didn’t even know if I wanted to trust anymore. Images from the notebook kept flashing in front of my eyes, split-second pictures sketched on the windshield by the snow. Fragments of sentences whispered in my ears as if carried by the wind. He’s a phony. Just get rid of him.
I tried not to think. The lake had appeared on my right—or, at least, the big dark space where I knew the lake lay. I ordered myself to make my brain like that. Above the lake’s surface, the storm raged, but down below lay only frozen water and, underneath that, some oblivious, slow-moving fish. The image reminded me of one of the lines from that Emily Dickinson poem: The brain is deeper than the sea. I whispered those words to myself like a mantra as I drove.
I’d just pulled into the garage when my phone buzzed with a text from Franklin. He’d sent a link to a Dropbox folder, without any explanation. The folder contained hundreds of files. I couldn’t tell what kind, and I didn’t feel like finding out.
I’d just started putting my phone away when I got another text, this time from Tor.
Feeling shitty. Thinking about Callie. All alone over here. I know you’re pissed at me, but can you come keep me company? Just for a little while? Please?
Tor admitting he needed me. I didn’t think he’d ever done that before. It was true he’d looked pretty wrecked ever since Callie’s death. Maybe googling Mom’s project and looking at the files Franklin had sent could wait a while.
Okay, I texted back. But just for a few minutes.
When Tor opened his kitchen door, he looked even worse than he had the last time I’d seen him. Disheveled, and not in his usual hot way. He had crumbs and food stains on his tank top and gym shorts, and his wispy blond hair was sticking straight up.
“Thanks for coming, Rem,” he said. “It looks pretty bad out there.”
He led me up to his room. On the floor lay an open pizza box with the rest of the pizza he was wearing all over his clothes. He plopped down on the edge of his bed and dragged his fingers through his hair.
“What the fuck’s happening to us? Pete and Callie dead. Lydia gone.”
“I don’t know, Tor.”
I’d been thinking the same thing. As angry as Tor made me, at that moment I wished he’d look up at me with that glint in his eye and say he had an idea. Some crazy, wonderful scheme that would make us forget all about what was happening. But he didn’t. All the crazy, wonderful schemes seemed to have drained out of him.
The bedroom windows groaned as the wind pressed against them. I watched the snow outside flurry past. In spite of my best efforts, my brain still felt scrambled too. Images from the notebook kept forming and disintegrating in my head. An enemy soldier’s guts spilling out. The floor plan of our school, with a route plotted through it joining five red Xs.
Like a stray snowflake, a thought leaped out of the chaos into the front of my brain.
“Tor?” I said. “What did you do to him?”
He lay back on his bed and wiped his hands down his face. “Who?”
“Franklin Kettle.”
He groaned. “Do we really have to talk about that again?”
“When I played Son of War High I never noticed where Franklin was supposed to kill you. The rest of us each did one specific thing to him in one specific place. But you . . . I remember you coming up with that nickname for him, egging on the rest of us sometimes, making little comments to him here and there, but apart from that, no one specific thing. What did you do?”
“That video game’s probably based on nothing, remember? We don’t even really know he wanted to kill me.”
What about the notebook, though? I wanted to ask. I hadn’t made it to Tor’s page. I couldn’t even picture where Franklin had placed Tor’s X on the floor plan he’d drawn. He seemed to have sequenced his targets to create the most efficient route through the school, but I’d never bothered to notice where the route terminated.
Still, I did know one thing: Tor had most definitely been one of Franklin’s targets. “You seriously think Franklin would’ve wanted to shoot Pete but not you?” I said.
“How should I know? The guy was insane.”
“A sociopath,” I murmured.
“Whatever. Moving on. Any new information about who killed Callie? I mean, it had to be Nil, right?”
I dropped into Tor’s desk chair and rubbed the back of my neck. I felt so tired of having this conversation. With other people, and inside my own head. My eyes wandered over Tor’s room and caught on a Son of War box sitting on his media stand next to his game console. These days it felt like everywhere I looked I found that mask staring back at me.
“But she’s still been going to class,” Tor continued. “The police haven’t arrested her. Now that Lydia’s gone, I was thinking about calling Billy myself, seeing if I could find out anything from—”
“Nil didn’t do it,” I said. “She didn’t murder Callie. She has an alibi for that night.”
He lifted his head off the bed to look at me. “How do you know?”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel like getting into that whole story. It would just make me sound like a nut job.
“So who did kill Callie?”
Another shrug. That was exactly the question I was trying not to think about.
“Franklin? Do you think maybe he escaped from the lab after all?”
I stiffened, fighting back the urge to jump to his defense. What if he had done it? I had to admit that possibility, didn’t I?
“If he didn’t do it,” Tor said, “and Nil didn’t do it, who else could it be?”
“I have no idea, Tor.”
He dropped his head on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. “I bet it was Abigail Lansing. She was probably desperate for somebody else to make posters and get tattoos and cry pretty tears for.” He let out a hollow laugh. “I tried talking to one of the cops hanging around outside, but he wouldn’t tell me a thing. ‘The investigation is ongoing. Don’t worry. We have Boreal Street under constant surveillance, and Duluth Central as well. Nothing will happen to you.’ I told him that didn’t exactly overwhelm me with confidence.”
I nudged the pizza box with my toe. Feeling generous, I said, “Lydia was right, you shouldn’t be here alone, Tor. If you want you can stay at my place tonight, in the guest room.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay. My parents are coming home tomorrow.”
“It took them long enough.”
“They had trouble getting tickets or something. Whatever. I’ll be fine tonight. It’s nice having company now, though.” He sat up and pulled his tank top over his head. “Hey, can you do me a favor? My neck and shoulders are killing me. Can you give me a rub?”
As usual, the sight of his bare torso made me blink, like a bright light had switched on right in front of my eyes. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tor.”
He hiked up the corners of his mouth, a little of the Tor Agnarson glint returning to his eyes, while he pitched his tank top into a corner. “Come on, Nice Guy.”
When I still didn’t move, his eyes dropped to the bed, the glint extinguished. His huge shoulders hunched forward. The grin left his face. It was probably the first time ever I hadn’t jumped right away when he’d said the word.
“Last night, when I went over to Lydia’s house,” he said in a quiet voice, “I was going to break up with her.”
“Why?”
He picked at a dried splash of tomato sauce on his shorts. “I think with Callie’s death and everything, I’m just having a hard time focusing on a relationship.”
“Lydia seemed to
believe you were having trouble focusing on the relationship before Callie died too.”
“Well, there’s also been the Big Bang memorial coming up. Plus I’ve been thinking Callie might’ve been right about my relationship with Lydia threatening the integrity of our group.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I know it was bothering you, Rem. I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry if I did.”
It made me feel good to hear him say that, but I still didn’t budge from the chair. “I don’t believe those are the only reasons,” I told him.
He scraped his fingers again through his wispy, chlorine-fried hair. “I guess I felt like I didn’t deserve her.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated. That day in the bio lab when Lydia and I first got together, I had this weird freak-out. We were cutting into our stupid dead cat, and it made me think of Pete, and how that could’ve been me. Should’ve been me, probably, because you’re right, Rem, I’m ten times the asshole Pete ever was. I broke into a cold sweat. I couldn’t breathe.”
“Lydia told me about it.”
“Yeah. She was so sweet and patient with me. She talked to me in this soft voice. She made me feel better. I thought, She’s the kind of person I want to marry. Have kids with. Spend the rest of my life with. She’s a good person.”
“Yes, she is.”
“And I figured maybe she could make me a good person too. But now I realize I was just kidding myself. I’m an asshole, and there’s no changing that.”
Outside, the storm continued. A sudden gust rattled the windows in their frames.
“Maybe all that’s true,” I said, “but it’s not why you were going to break up with her. I want to hear you say it.”
He looked away again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rem.”
“You’re gay, Tor. Say it. You’re gay.”
“I already told you—”
“She deserves to know. You don’t have to tell everyone. But you have to tell her.”
He clamped his hands over his ears. “For Christ’s sake, would you stop lecturing me? Get off your goddamn homosexual high horse and just”—he looked up, a tortured expression on his face, and banged the mattress next to him with his fist—“come over here.”
Not the most tactful invitation I could’ve imagined. At least he’d apologized for hurting my feelings, though. That was something. And he really did look like he needed support. I’d never seen him like this before. So naked. Not physically—I’d seen that plenty—but emotionally. I got up and perched on the edge of the mattress. He bent forward, dropping his forehead on my shoulder. His back swelled as he took a breath. I breathed in too. The smell of chlorine and sweat filled my nose. He unbuttoned my shirt and put his lips on my chest just below my clavicle.
“But I want you to kiss me on the mouth,” I said. “Can you do that?”
He didn’t answer. His lips stayed where they were.
I didn’t stop him, though. I let him keep going, even though I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this again, even though I’d thought I’d finally learned how to stand up to him, because what I’d said to Franklin last night was true. I wasn’t good. I was just nice. And underneath the nice, I was an asshole, just like Tor. In spite of all the horrifying stuff I’d read in Franklin’s notebook, in spite of the fact that he might’ve killed two of my best friends, in spite of everything, I felt a twist of guilt, like Franklin could see me betraying him with Tor at that very moment. I glanced over at the window, the one that looked out on my backyard, half-expecting to see him there gazing up at us.
I didn’t. But I froze anyway. My whole body went cold, like I’d just taken a nosedive into a snowdrift. I lurched to my feet and stared outside.
At the gazebo.
Where Franklin and I had sat the night of Callie’s murder.
“What’s wrong?” Tor said.
Tor had seen us that night. Or at least he could have. Easily. Earlier that same day, he’d found out Callie knew about the steam tunnels, and it had made him crazy with rage. The way he’d looked at me, the way he’d slammed me against that door, I could’ve believed he’d do almost anything to protect his secret. And then . . . what if he’d seen Franklin visiting me in my backyard? What would he have done?
“Rem? Hello?”
My eyes went back to the Son of War box on his media stand. I’d never known he played the game before. If Tor played Son of War, maybe he’d discovered Son of War High on the Internet, just like Lydia had. Maybe he’d figured if something bad happened to Callie, people would find out about Franklin’s escape eventually and blame it on him. Especially if Callie’s murder in real life looked just like her murder in Son of War High.
“Hey, say something.”
Hearing Tor come up behind me, I spun around, knocking over a couple swim trophies balanced on the sill. One of them crashed to the floor and the gold-colored plastic smashed.
“Jesus!”
I sidestepped away from him while he bent down to pick up the pieces. He stood, both of his huge hands gripping jagged shards of plastic. His eyes, dark under his jutting brow, stayed locked on me. Just above that, a Band-Aid still covered his temple where he’d banged his head outside Lydia’s house.
What if Tor hadn’t gone to Lydia’s to break up with her? What if he’d gone there to kill her too? Maybe he’d feared that she’d figured out his secret. But then he’d slipped off the trellis, and after that she’d left town, so he’d had to let that murder go.
Now I was next.
“What the hell’s going on, Rem?”
Come on, say something. Make an excuse. Get the hell out of there. At first, though, I couldn’t even remember how to form words, let alone think of something to say. He squinted at me again. Maybe trying to decide how much I knew. Whether I’d figured out the truth.
“I just don’t think this is right, Tor.” I buttoned my shirt with shaking fingers. “Lydia’s one of my best friends, and one of yours too. I can’t do this behind her back anymore.” I grabbed my coat and blue scarf.
“She isn’t even in town.”
“I know, but that doesn’t change how I feel. You need to talk to her first.” I turned toward the door, walked straight into the chair, and tumbled to the floor.
“What the hell’s with you?”
He tossed aside one of the trophy pieces and stretched out his hand to help me up. The other shard of the trophy—once a swimmer with outstretched arms, now splintered, knife-sharp, glinting gold—was still clasped in his opposite fist. I scooted backward, blundered to my feet without touching his hand, and wrenched open his bedroom door.
“Come on,” he said, “don’t go.”
“My mom’s home making dinner,” I babbled. “She knows I’m here. I told her I’d only be gone a little while.”
He padded after me down the steps to the front hall. “It didn’t look like she was there a few minutes ago.”
I shot a look back at him, my heart hammering. He still hadn’t put down the trophy piece. “You were watching my house?”
“Not watching. I just glanced out the window and saw you pulling into your driveway. That’s when I texted you.”
Almost there. Almost safe. I grabbed the knob of the front door.
“Rem, why don’t you—”
I swung the door open. A gust of wind howled into the room, scattering white flakes all over the hardwood floor.
“Christ, Rem!”
“I really have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”
I pulled the door shut behind me and sprinted across the front yard, throwing glances over my shoulder as I went. Tor was a shadow in the living room window, motionless, watching me run.
I didn’t even pause to stomp the snow off my boots. I just ran in the front door and through the house, not caring about the slushy trail I left behind me, flicking on lights as I went, grabbing my car keys out of the bowl in the kitchen, hustling into the garage. The Saab’s door released a sharp whin
e as I flung it open. I landed in the driver’s seat and blundered the key into the ignition.
Then I stopped, breathing hard. The corner of Franklin’s notebook peeked out from under the passenger seat, where I’d left it. I shot a glance around the garage, checking to make sure Tor hadn’t somehow followed me in here, before snatching up the book. I opened it to the Son of War High section and flipped fast past the map of the school and the pages for Pete, Callie, and Lydia. I couldn’t help it, I paused on the pages about me. My eyes skipped down the long diatribe Franklin had written. He’s a phony. Face it, he wouldn’t lift a finger to save your life.
I shook my head to stay focused and turned one more page.
Right away the right-hand side of the spread devoted to Tor drew my eye. Instead of scrawling a rant explaining why he’d wanted to eliminate his fifth target, Franklin had colored the entire page black. Neatly, systematically, with the same fine-point rollerball pen he’d used to write everything else. It must’ve taken a long time.
On the left-hand side, under MISSION DETAILS, Franklin had put, Take Tor down to the steam tunnels.
My breath snared in my throat.
Make Tor say, “When you die, no one will give a shit, and no one will remember you.” Shoot him in the head.
I set the book on my lap, propped my forehead against the cold metal steering wheel, and stared at the page. What had Tor done with him down there? The same thing he’d done with me?
No. Something worse. Whatever had gone on, Franklin hadn’t wanted it to happen. It had left him so full of rage he couldn’t even put it into words.
A soft creak made me jump in my seat. I searched the garage through the windshield and side windows, my pulse picking up speed. The door to the house stood open, rocking a little on its hinges. But I’d closed it behind me when I’d come in, hadn’t I?
I banged down the Saab’s old-fashioned door lock. I needed to get out of here. Find someplace safe. Talk to Mom and talk to the police, finally. I reached up to click the garage door remote clipped to the visor.
A loud whine filled the garage. Then a few seconds of clanging. Then silence. The door stayed shut. The opener had broken down again. Last time this had happened, we’d had to open and close the door manually until we’d found a repair person.
