Part 2

The special place turned out to be Wildwood. Specifically, the city's long stretch of boardwalk, which was home to many waterparks, shops, restaurants, and rides. Elliot had seen pictures of the place in old newspapers his father had collected over the years. He'd entertained him with stories about the boardwalk, how his parents had taken him there when he was a kid. He'd told Elliot that he'd take him there too one day.

The first thing they did was ride the tramcar. According to Elliot's dad, this was a requirement for all those who came to the boardwalk. The tramcar was a train of sorts, though there were no tracks. Elliot found it enjoyable enough, but his dad had a crazed look on his face the whole ride, grinning widely as they cruised around the boardwalk. He chuckled when some lady came over the intercom, saying in a tinny voice: "watch the tramcar, please!"

Elliot preferred the Ferris wheel, even if it was a bit scary at first. His heart pounded as the passenger car struggled towards the sky, creaking and screeching all the way.

"You're okay," his dad soothed. He sat in the seat across from him, calmly watching as they left the ground far behind.

Elliot took a few deep breaths and kept his eyes on his feet. Someone in a nearby cabin must have brought a radio. He could hear some old DJ introducing the next song.

"You're listening to WCMC AM," the man rasped, "Wildwood's home for all your favorite oldies. Our next song tells a story of those fun little stores that seemed to have, well—" he chuckled "—just about everything! This is Little Chrissy K.'s big hit: Five and Dime!"

Elliot laid his head back with a groan.

His dad laughed at his reaction. "There's no escaping it now!" he teased. He began to quietly sing along. He knew all the words, as his mother used to always play the song on her turntable. Even after all these years, he'd never grown tired of it.

Elliot on the other hand was sick to death of it. However, even if he didn't like the song, he liked that his father liked it. Obviously it reminded him of his childhood and all the great times he'd had with his mom. When that song came on, his smile would grow, and he'd get a bright, faraway look in his eyes. Elliot was almost tricked into feeling that he loved the tune just as much. It was odd. But somehow also wonderful.

Suddenly their car jerked to a stop. In a burst of panic, Elliot gripped the edges of his seat and held on for dear life. Through a haze of fear, he heard his dad say his name. Elliot looked up. His father wasn't looking at him. He smiled, mesmerized by something outside the car.

"Look at that," he breathed.

Elliot figured the "that" must be pretty amazing if it had distracted him from Five and Dime. Elliot followed his dad's gaze. Instantly he relaxed, his death grip on the seat loosening as his anxiety evaporated. They had reached the top of the wheel. The view from there was incredible. The colors of all the rides and attractions were like a rainbow, one that'd grown tired of hanging in the sky and wanted to weave around vacationing families instead. The best part by far was the ocean: the late afternoon sun had sent a shower of sparkles over its surface.

"I know you were freaking out before," his dad said softly, "but it was worth it, right?" He made a small, thoughtful noise. "I guess I should've told you: it gets better the higher up you go."

Elliot agreed wholeheartedly.

Angela sat at the kitchen table, eating a PB and J and reading the local paper only because there was nothing better to read. She attempted to focus on a human interest story about some local resident's recently deceased twenty-five year-old cat, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking of several important e-mails she needed to reply to.

Her dad sighed loudly as he trudged into the kitchen. He was not a morning person. He slumped against the sink, turning the water on full blast and shuffling dishes around. "Talked to Magda earlier," he mumbled.

Angela thought to reply with the standard "that's nice," before realizing that talking to that woman was hardly ever "nice," especially not for him. So instead she just nodded and made a small sound of acknowledgement.

"Apparently Elliot got arrested last night," he yawned.

Angela jerked her head up. "What? What happened?"

Her dad plucked a dish from the sink and scrubbed it with a tattered rag. "He beat up some guy at the Walmart," he said, sounding simultaneously amused and disturbed.

"Is he okay?" Angela asked frantically.

"He's really not okay. He's in the hospital. Your friend really laid into him."

"I meant Elliot," Angela clarified. "Is he okay?"

Her dad frowned at her. "Oh, he's okay. Just spent the night in a jail cell. Barely a scratch on him. Walmart guy's a wreck, though." He shot Angela a pointed look. "Bruises. Black eyes. Fractured jaw."

Angela stared down at the table, her mind reeling. What had happened? She needed to hear the whole story, and not from her dad and certainly not from Elliot's mother. "Is Elliot at home?" she asked, pushing out of her chair. "I need to talk to him."

Her dad let out a small, sad chuckle. "Of course you do," he muttered.

Angela narrowed her eyes at him. "What?"

Her dad cleared his throat. "Nothing. To answer your question, yeah, he's home. Go ahead, go talk to him." He waved dismissively.

"What's your problem?" Angela demanded. She knew she should just let it go and leave, but she was tired of his attitude when it came to her friend.

Her dad went about his business, delicately placing the clean dishes in a stack beside the sink. "I don't have a problem," he replied lightly. "I'm just not sure why you're still talking to me. Go ahead and leave. I can't stop you."

"That's very true," Angela said coolly. "I am an adult, so I don't have to do anything you tell me. I don't even have to live in this house anymore."

Her dad sighed. "Move out then."

"Don't worry. I won't be living here much longer." Angela waited for her father's response. He remained silent, rinsing and scrubbing and stacking plates. He didn't look at her. Angela had had enough of him. She sighed and stormed out.

Elliot woke with a start to a loud clanging sound. He sat up. A tired police officer stood by the open cell doors.

"Slept like a baby, huh?" he asked in an extremely condescending tone.

The policeman was correct. Elliot had found the bed quite uncomfortable at first, but he'd quickly adapted and gotten the best night's sleep he'd had in a while.

The officer jerked his head to the door. "You're out. Hurry up."

Elliot pushed himself to his feet and followed him through the labyrinth of hallways. The reality didn't hit him last night: not when he'd been handcuffed, and not when he was pushed into the back of a police car, and not when he'd stepped into his jail cell. No, the reality hit him as he was led through the police station, as he looked at all the gruff policemen and bulletin boards and cheesy motivational posters. Elliot wasn't foolish enough to think it all ended with him walking out of this place. Everything was far from over.

Elliot walked out into the station's parking lot, blinking hard as the sun hit him in the face. She was there, her eyes wide with fake worry and her mouth trembling with fake sadness. Fake, fake, fake. Elliot felt nauseous. A part of him longed to return to the jail cell.

"Ms. Alderson," the policeman said.

"Officer," Elliot's mom said. "I'm so sorry about my son. He's very sick. For years, h-he's had these horrible outbursts—"

"Ms. Alderson," the policeman breathed, exasperated, "it really doesn't help him to talk to me. Now, I'll be very blunt with you. What's probably going to happen is—"

Elliot tuned out for the rest of the conversation. Whatever was going to happen to him, he'd find out soon enough. He just didn't feel like hearing it all right then. The policeman talked. His mother listened, doing her best to look distraught. Then the policeman said one final thing, in a gentle voice, and patted her shoulder. As soon as he'd disappeared into the station, Elliot's mother whipped around and marched back to her car. Elliot trailed behind.

"Don't drag your feet," she barked.

Elliot sat in the back seat on the drive home. He wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Minutes later they arrived home. Elliot stood in the foyer, his mind reeling. He wondered what he was going to be charged with. But mostly he wondered what Brandon's family must think of him. His parents didn't know about what had happened on that camping trip. They had no idea who Elliot was, or why he'd done this horrible thing. They must think he was a monster. And maybe they were right. Elliot could practically see Brandon's parents and his kindly big brother standing over his hospital bed, staring at his bruised face in absolute horror. Elliot suddenly felt lightheaded.

It occurred to him that he'd been spacing out in the foyer for far too long, with his mother standing right next to him. He should have gone straight to his room and locked the door.

His mother punched his shoulder with all the force she could muster. Then she hit him again. And again.

"I want you out of my house," she hissed. Then she stalked off, muttering angrily.

Elliot blinked away tears and went to his room. Feeling the need to let out some anger, he slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. He collapsed onto his bed and tried not to cry and tried not to think of Brandon's family.

Do you think I went too far? Not far enough?

I know you've been wondering, so I'll tell you: yes, I did hack him. But that wasn't until years later.

Brandon H. Fields. He's very active on social media. He's made his life appear as happy and perfect as possible, all the ugliness and sadness carefully excised. In those ways he's like everybody else.

He's the manager of some office supplies place in Staten Island. He's got a wife, Meredith, and a son, Charlie. His Facebook's filled with all the usual things: selfies and pictures of his family, plus a few nature photos. Interests include hiking and camping. Nothing out of the ordinary on his Instagram or Pinterest either. I had to dig a little deeper.

Brandon's e-mail is pretty normal. A few exchanges with his wife, a newsletter from National Geographic, work-related messages…

But his address is linked to several porn sites. Nothing illegal but most people would find his tastes disturbing. His preferences are pretty indicative of his feelings towards women.

I doubt his wife knows about the porn. I doubt she knows about the camping trip.

I wonder how she would feel if she knew her husband had forced himself on someone when he was a teenager.