The shocked look of the black-haired girl stuck into Ethan's mind until his death.
Ethan had ransacked her into an alley, and pulled a gun on her. He'd told her to pass him her cell phone. She handed it to him, and he remembered tears streaming down her face. She'd been muttering something, he remembered. Something about death, and life. Ethan had never met the girl. He had only seen her in passing throughout the high school. He didn't even know her name.
"What is your name?" he asked her.
"If you're going to kill me, what difference does it make?"
"It'll give me another reason to keep you alive longer."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Your name, if you please."
She'd stared at him with cold, hard eyes. "My name is Life," she told him. "And if you take that away, you have nothing."
He glared at her, and in cold blood he pulled the trigger. Gore splattered against the wall behind her. He stuck the gun into the back of his pants.
"So thus even life eludes me," he told himself, arranging the body to make it look like a sexual assault.
Isaac Maldonado was never what one could call "normal". He talked too much, walked too much, and in full, dosed life to its uttermost edge. His skills with a skateboard were beyond elite, and his athletic attitude showed him to be an unfound prodigy in exercise.
But there was something about his best friend that irked him. Ethan Walsh was a nice enough kid—granted, he was cold and seemed nearly heartless—but he'd been Isaac's best friend since literally birth. There was nothing about each other that the other didn't know. At least, that was what Isaac supposed.
He lifted his purple cotton hoodie over his head, and kicked off with his skateboard. There was still one scene in his memory that stuck; something that bothered him.
He'd been at Ethan's house once, a few years back, playing video games late at night with him. It was still fuzzy—like a picture under a glass of water. The entire memory didn't make much sense, and it felt almost as if someone had plucked it straight from his head.
Ethan's phone had rung, and after looking at the Caller ID, he excused himself from the room and went outside to the hallway. Isaac remembered intense yelling between him and the person on the other side of the line. He got off the beanbag and went to the hallway.
"I'm not doing this," Ethan had said.
A muffled robotic voice answered him in a low tone that Isaac couldn't hear clearly.
"And if I refuse to kill him?"
Another answer; this one shorter and blunter.
"Damn you!" Ethan hissed. Then in a quitter voice, he added, "Someday I'm going to find out where you're hiding that hideous face of yours. And when I do, don't think I won't obliterate it." He shut the phone and turned around to find himself face to face with Isaac.
Isaac's blood ran cold when Ethan glared at him with a penetrating glare.
"What are you doing here, Isaac?"
"Just seeing what the yelling was about," he raised his hands in defense.
"Nothing concerning you." He reassured.
"That's great," he smirked. "Who're you killing?"
Ethan looked at him with a blank face. "What?"
Isaac rose his eyebrows. "I'm not an idiot."
Ethan sighed. "You'd better get home, Isaac."
"How come? I thought I was staying the night."
"I said you'd better get home."
Ethan took a deep breath and stepped aside for Isaac to leave the house.
Isaac rubbed his forehead; no matter how hard he tried, the memory was half-gone to him. Ethan was up to something no good, he knew that much. Something to do with killing, maybe. But, wanting to not get involved in anything over his head, Isaac kept his mouth shut the next day and every day after. And Ethan always acted the same way, like nothing was up in the world.
Isaac moaned at his forgetfulness. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe the whole memory was a dream—it most certainly felt like it. He crawled underneath his sheets and blanket and was asleep before his head even touched the pillow, thinking of skateboarding and kick flips.
Saturday was the holy sanctum of the week. Nothing to look forward to, and nothing to look back to. He stretched and kicked off his blankets, leaving them in a messy heap on the floor. He changed his clothes in haste—retaining his purple hoodie—and marched down the stairs. His mom and sister were already at the table, spooning cereal into their mouths.
"Morning," they all said at once, exchanging to each other. Isaac grabbed a bowl off the counter and poured his breakfast.
"What's up?" he asked his mom, who was reading the newspaper. He peered over to read the local news.
"A murder," she said, squinting. "And attendee to your high school. Lifelle Cherim, do you know her?"
Isaac's blood ran cold. The first thought that ran into his mind was the face of his best friend. He conspicuously shook his head. "Nope. Can't say I do."
"It says she was raped and shot three times. The killer's currently unknown. They're tracking him down, though."
Isaac, with a shaking hand, brought a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. "Where was she when they found her?"
"It doesn't say. But stay on your toes, Isaac. If you go out somewhere today, don't go alone."
"No problem, mom," he said, rising and putting his almost untouched bowl in the sink. His appetite had preceded him. "I might go to the skate park with Ethan. Is that okay?"
"Just stick together. I don't want to find you lying in a ditch anywhere."
"Whatever."
Isaac ran up the stairs, shoved his wallet in his back pocket and fastened his wristwatch. He hastily jammed his shoes onto his feet and dialed Ethan's phone number. He stood in the middle of his room and listened to the dial.
"… C'mon man. Pick up."
"This is Ethan Walsh; I'm not available at the moment. Send me a text or leave a message and I'll try and get back to you. Thanks." Then the memorable beeping noise flashed.
"Hey, uh, Ethan," he said, "call me. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat or something. Go to the skate-park or something. I've got nothing planned today… just call me, okay?"
Isaac shut the phone and crammed it into his pocket. He sat on his bed. Ethan couldn't have killed that girl—Lifelle, her name was. But could he have? He'd had suspicions before accusing Ethan of larceny or unright things. But murder was at the bottom of the accusations. Granted, he'd overheard a suggestive conversation a few years back. But he faintly remembered it.
What reason would Ethan have to kill someone anyway? He hardly knew the girl. They'd both seen her at School, he knew. But Ethan had never shown any signs of anger towards her in passing.
"C'mon, Ethan, pick up," he muttered to himself again and again, driving himself to metronome. He finally muttered the quote one last time and kicked a bean bag across the room.
Then his phone rang. Isaac dived.
"Hello?" he answered exasperatedly, flipping his phone open.
"Is this Isaac?" the voice was feminine.
Isaac sighed. "Yeah. That's me."
"Thank God, I've been trying to reach you all day. My name is Veronica. I need to talk to you."
Isaac coughed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, but have we met before?"
"I doubt it. Where are you?"
"Uh, in my house," he said dubiously.
"Great. Meet me in front of your High School in an hour. I need to talk to you."
Isaac laughed uncomfortably and shut the phone. A murder had just taken place and now a woman calls and claims to want to talk to him? Like hell he was going. He pocketed his phone, still waiting for Ethan to call him back.
Marley was a girl with a bark bigger than her bite. The threats she made were always idle and when she did fulfill them it was always half-assed. Her red frizzy hair stuck out in all directions, and her face had more freckles than skin. She splashed water on her face with the bathroom sink to wake up. She opened the door to her bedroom and found her little sister Isabelle waiting at her door, arms crossed and foot tapping.
"What do you want, squirt?" Marley asked her degradingly. Isabelle extended a hand towards her.
"Pay up, sis. You wanted Ike Nighton to know you get the message you liked him. Well, the job's done. Twenty bucks."
Marley raised her eyebrows at her meddling sister. "Twenty? No way. You did that on your own. I didn't ask you. Now beat it."
"I don't think so. By the way, he'll be here in an hour."
"What did you tell him exactly?" she asked, knocking an eyebrow.
"Oh, nothing much. Just that you have unnatural urges to suggestively attack him in between classes and that you wanted to have some fun this morning."
Marley groaned. "You're such a pain, Issy."
"Twenty bucks and I'll retract those lies," she smirked.
"Ten."
"Deal." She nodded.
Marley scavenged around her cluttered dresser and at last found a crumpled up ten dollar bill. She wadded it up into a ball and tossed it at her sister, who caught it and scampered off.
Marley was the eldest of three. It was her, Isabelle, and Jacob. Jacob was four, and still sleeping as it seemed.
Ike Nighton was in no way attractive to Marley. He was too into himself, too snobby, and just plain to Ike -ish. She just ignored him, most of the time. When she wasn't absentmindedly threatening him. She knew that Isabelle had completely lied about telling Ike those things—but it was worth ten dollars to get her to shut up about it.
She whipped out her laptop from under her bed and slumped onto her bed. An age-old ritual. She almost robotically moved the mouse cursor to the internet icon. She entered the chat room where she and Cecilia (her closest friend) had been talking. She scrolled to the top to where she'd inquired whom Marley had a crush on. Cecilia would not take no for an answer.
"I don't have a crush on anyone, Gosh. Why's it so important anyway?"
"If I tell you will it make you feel any better?"
"It might."
"All right. Ethan."
"Walsh?"
"Is there any other? Alright, your turn!"
"No one."
"Marley!"
"All right. But after this, shut up about it."
Cecilia didn't write anything back.
"Isaac."
"Oh my God, really?"
"I said shut up about it."
"Hey—but it's so cool! We could go on double dates and—"
"Cecilia…"
"Oh, right. But what do you think?"
"I'm not going out with him anytime soon. Get that processed through that mind of yours."
"But why not?"
"Drop it, Cecilia."
"Whatever."
She chuckled as she read the chat. Isaac was cute, she knew that full well. But Ethan, she thought, was just plain cold. Cold and loveless. She couldn't see how Cecilia, the bright and cheery girl that'd she'd known for practically forever, could possibly fall in love with such a dark character. She shrugged it off though. Everyone had their own cravings, she supposed.
A sudden abrupt noise downstairs made her jump. It sounded like glass breaking. Her mom wasn't the most coordinated person in the world; she broke a lot of their glass tapestry. Marley rose to her feet to go downstairs to help sweep up the broken glass. Then she heard a muffled scream, and a heavy wallop-like sound. Her hair stood on end and Goosebumps trailed up her arm. She heard ruffling downstairs. Her first thought went to Jacob. Was something amiss downstairs? She got out of her bed and slowly cracked open her door and peeked downstairs. The television was muted and a child's cartoon ran inaudibly on the screen. She slowly walked down the stairs and stood at the foot, in the living room. A caddie full of her dad's golf clubs was in the corner of the room. She grabbed one with a thicker end and cautiously walked into the kitchen.
Her mom and her sister were shot, piled on top of each other in the middle of the kitchen. She held a hand to her mouth to stop her from crying out. At first, she didn't believe the horrid scene she was seeing. She glanced around the corner in the kitchen. No one was there. She held her breath. Her heart was pumping more than what she knew was healthy for her. She knelt and examined her mom and sister's body. They'd been shot. Once in the head, once in the shoulder, and once in the chest. She let our short, meaningful sobs, and her tears trickled down her cheeks and onto her family's lifeless bodies.
"Oh my God…" she repeated over and over again. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…"
She rose to her feet, biting her lip. A shattered pitcher lay on the cabinets. It was dripping with blood. But her mother and sister showed no signs of being hit with a pitcher. The killer was injured.
Picking up her golf club—a feeble action, she knew—and slowly advanced into her foyer, and then as quiet as a mouse peered into the Office. She gasped.
A large, brutish man almost touching the ceiling with his tan bald head was stooped over the computer desktop, moving the mouse to and fro. He clicked on some things and typed in a few keys. She stood in the corner, completely traumatized and unsure what to do. Gathering whatever courage and on tired legs, she crept into the Office, rose her golf club, and swung it as hard as she could.
It hit the man straight in the side of the head, he toppled out of the chair, and his well-dressed body lurched onto the floor. Blood trickled down the side of his head. Not knowing if he was dead or not, she instantly dashed upstairs, sobbing. Why her? Why couldn't it have been one of those families she saw on the news? Why couldn't they have had their mother killed instead? She slammed open the door to Jacob's room, and picked him up.
Jacob was a small boy with a complexion the same as his sisters'. He opened his bleary eyes and saw Marley crying. "What's wrong?" he asked innocently.
"We have to go, Jacob. Come on!" she held him close to her, like he was something precious. Which he was. Her dad was at work and she had no idea what she should do. She held Jacob close to her and ran downstairs. She shielded him from the horrid sight of their dead family. She shot her head into the room where the large man was still knocked out cold. She opened the door, and shut it firmly behind her, her hands shaking as she held her little brother. He was all she had left.
But what was she supposed to do?
"You son of a bitch!" Ethan hissed through clenched teeth. He pinned the elite member of Xavience's company against a brick wall in the ally.
The man rose his hands in surrender. "Calm down! It's not what you think!"
Ethan pulled a gun from the back of his pants and cocked it. He stuck it under the man's throat. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull this freaking trigger right now."
The man's breath smelt like age-old beer. "She's still alive—Marley, her name was! Please, lower your gun," he begged. "One of our agents was scanning her dad's computer. She knocked him out with something heavy, he believed it was a golf club. She apparently ran away, but everything after that is unclear. The only people killed were her mother and her sister."
"I'm going to let you live," Ethan said in a low voice. "But deliver a message to Xavience, wherever the heck he is. Tell him that this is it. If anyone else gets killed at my school, I will literally drop out and dog his tracks. He knows I can do it."
"Then what's stopping you?" the man smirked.
"Test my temper, I dare you." Ethan urged.
"Lower the gun, Ethan. You don't want to kill me, do you?" he almost sounded like he was begging.
"You have no idea how much I want to kill you, Bruce. I've hated you the minute I knew you. These three years have been a living hell, I swear."
"Well go blow it out of your ass, why don't you?"
"You're picking your own death, man."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "I swear to God that if you let me walk away alive, I'll see to it that your School remains untouched by our company."
"Alive?"
"That would be grand, Ethan."
"Terrific. You wouldn't be needing this then would you?"
He lowered his gun and shot at his foot. Bruce let out a silent scream, but it was muffled through Ethan's hand. He rose it to cover his mouth.
"You're alive," he growled. "Now get your ass to Xavience's residing place and make sure that no one dies at my school. Do you understand me? Nod for yes. Remain motionless to have your brains blown out all over this alley here."
Frantically, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Bruce nodded viciously. Ethan removed his hand and Bruce limped over to an all-black Buick that waited for him at the street. It screeched away, leaving tire marks on the street. Ethan placed his gun in the back of his pants and grabbed his skateboard from the side of the alley and kicked his way home. His headphones cuffed his ears, but the music was dull.
A half-hour later found Ethan lying on his bed and scrolling through his unread messages from Isaac. He pulled the phone to his ear and listened.
"Hey, uh, Ethan," Isaac's familiar cracking voice said uncomfortably, "call me. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat or something. Go to the skate-park or something. I've got nothing planned today… just call me, okay?"
Ethan dialed his friend's phone number and held it to his ear. The dialtone sounded three times, and Isaac answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, what's up?" Ethan said. It wasn't really a question.
"Ethan! Thank God, I wanna talk to you man. What time is it?"
Ethan glanced at his watch. "1:05. Why?"
"Have you had lunch yet?"
"No."
"'Kay, meet me at the Burger King in half an hour. I'll buy you whatever you want. Just be there."
"Sure man, I'll be there."
"See you then." And he hung up.
Ethan slipped his shoes back on and sighed heavily. His life was a jumbled mess, he told himself. Kills on his main side of life, and hanging out with his friends in the background. He went downstairs and grabbed his skateboard again. He wasn't that big of a driver. That, and he didn't own a car. He lived with only his housekeeper—a Hispanic woman who spoke English with an accent so thick, Ethan could hardly make out anything she said. She was often gone, seeing how the house was—most of the time—clean, so Ethan was free to roam the world as he pleased. He could forge signatures and his street smarts gave him enough instinct to live on his own, especially around town.
He opened the front door and kicked off with his skateboard. The span of time to get to the Burger King was a half-hour on skateboard. He needed to talk to Xavience.
He dialed the 411 number and waited, steering his skateboard and weaving out of the path of cars.
"411. How may I help you today?"
"Patch me over to Bruce Adams please. London, France."
"… Yes, sir."
"Hello?"
"Bruce."
"You? Oh God, what do you want? They can trace this line."
"Not mine. Secret Service number—not trackable."
"Forgot. That was a hell of a bullet wound you gave me, kid."
Over the phone, Bruce sounded tougher and more intimidating then he actually was. A large character flaw in his personality was the fact that he had a horrible sense of cowardice in the field.
"I want to talk to Xavience."
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
"Now, Bruce."
"Ethan, you can't just call me expecting—d"
"My phone isn't trackable. Yours is, may I remind you." He quickly weaved around an oncoming Sedan.
"… Hold on please."
Ethan kick flipped onto the sidewalk, and kept on there, seeing how oncoming traffic in the area was increasing due to lunch hour. He kept in a straight line as best as he could, the phone was silent. Then,
"Ethan." The mechanical voice sounded. "How are you?
"Xavience," he growled. "Skip the nice-guy. What with the murder this morning?"
"Oh, the girl. Her father—Lincoln, a rogue in our agency. We'd meant for him to be home. Unfortunately, he was not. The assassin was forced to kill the witnesses. Seeing as the girl escaped, we're hunting her down now."
"Why? Listen to me, Xavience. These people you are killing are innocent! They've done nothing! It's your own stupid fault you're being so careless!"
"If you were here, I would have killed you for saying such a thing."
"If I were there, I would have killed you on sight."
"If I may suggest one thing, I would like for you to remember that you have never seen my face. You haven't even the slightest clue of who I may actually be. For all you know, I could be your fellow neighbor. Keep in mind, Ethan. Trust no one." And the voice went dead. Ethan grumbled and shut his phone and jammed it back in his pocket. No duh, he'd thought of that in the last three years he'd worked with the company. He really didn't need his boss pointing these things out.
A few minutes later found Ethan in front of Burger King, he took off his headphones and carried his skateboard inside.
Isaac was sitting in a booth, picking at some fries. In a single glance, Ethan could obviously see that his friend was suffering from either hysteria, anxiety, or paranoia. Or, possibly a combination of the three. He walked towards his friend and slid his skateboard underneath the table. He'd left his gun back at home, in its usual hiding place.
"What's up?" Ethan said, standing, tapping his fingers on the desk. Isaac glanced up and winced. He held up a small wad of one dollar bills.
"Here, go get yourself something. We're going to be here a while."
"No thanks," he pushed the money away and sat facing Isaac. "What's so important? You left me half a dozen texts and called me a million times."
"Did you hear about that death? About that girl?"
Ethan's blood ran cold. He immediately knew what his friend thought. And the frightening part was that his friend was right in his assumption. "Yeah," he said concerned, "you scared?"
"Nah. But I was just thinking… I think, it was three years ago. I was over at your house and we were playing video games. D'you remember that?"
Ethan felt a hard lump in his throat. Oh God, he really didn't want Xavience to carry out any demands to assassinate his closest friend. He would put himself as a literal human shield before he let Xavience touch him.
"Yeah, what about it?"
"Your phone rang and you went out into the hallway to answer it. You started yelling at the guy."
"Yeah, it was my dad," Ethan lied through his teeth, "I remember."
"Your dad, huh? Who'd he want you to kill, then?" he said, glaring at him.
Ethan stared at his friend for a long time. He leaned forward. "It would be best if you forgot all about this," he said, trying his best to use the power Xavience had given him, "I never told anyone that I would kill anyone. Did I?"
Isaac pushed him away. "Like hell you did, man."
Ethan recoiled. Isaac had pushed him out of his mind with such proficiency, that—no, that couldn't be possible.
"Isaac," he tried again, "nothing happened that night. I just got into a fight with my dad over the phone. There was no insinuation about murder."
"What the hell, man? You and I both know something's up with you. This whole picture's jacked up. I'm thinking you killed Lifelle—that girl who was found to be raped in that alley. Tell me if I'm wrong."
Ethan stared at him coldly. "May I borrow a few dollars? I'd like to buy a drink, please."
"Ethan, no jokes please. I'm the jester, you're the brute. Apparently you're more brutish then you let on. Have you ever killed a person?"
"Please, Isaac, I don't want to get you involved in this," he begged. Something strange was happening, and he could not pluck the memory from his friend's mind.
"Involved in what? You gonna kill me, too?"
"Only if I have to. Now it would be best if you forgot all about everything to do with this."
"No way."
"Forget!" he hissed. Isaac flinched in pain as Ethan stabbed himself into his memories. Isaac instantly forced him out and erected his defenses.
"Ethan, just tell me the truth. Have you or have you not killed a person before?"
A million ideas ran through Ethan's head at once. The first one was the run away from London and drag Isaac with him. That way they could both keep their lives. He crossed that idea immediately out. He could kill Isaac—no way, he was too mutual and sentimental. Killing a stranger was easy. Killing his best friend was something else. Would Isaac even believe the truth if Ethan told him?
"I've killed more than my fair share of innocents. And I've done more horrible things than probably anyone else on the face of the Earth."
Isaac looked hard at him. "And I thought I knew you." He tossed him a few dollars. "Go get yourself a drink."
Ethan slid the money back across the table. "Come with me." He rose to his feet and glanced over his shoulder. Xavience knew what was happening. Screw him, Ethan told himself. Now was the time to act. To rebel. Xavience most likely already had men on the case. And here he was unarmed with his innocent friend. No more innocent blood would be spilled today, he promised.
"Why? You gonna blow my brains out, too?"
"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now," Ethan reassured him. "I need a gun—or we're both dead. Now come with me if you want to remain alive."
"What're you playing it, man? Gimme one reason I shouldn't walk away right now."
"You'd be dead before you stepped out of those doors."
"Oh, so you'd kill your best friend?"
"You don't understand the half of it, Isaac. Just trust me, I want to keep you alive just as much as you yourself want to. Now follow me." He hissed the last words through his teeth. Isaac sighed.
"I dunno, man. You're not who I thought you were." He said, taking a deep breath.
"Just trust me."
They exchanged a long look. Then Isaac rose to his feet. "Where're we going?"
"My house. You have your skateboard?"
"Yeah, here." He slid his skateboard out from underneath the table. Ethan did the same.
"Go as fast as you can and don't look at anyone. Don't stop to talk to anyone. Do not make eye contact. Keep your eyes on the road. Let's go."
