"This is all just so fucked up," Ja'won voiced with a melancholic tone as he rested his head against his fist.
Drake had been leaning against the fence of the empty basketball court and keeping an eye out for any sign of Trevor. He didn't like that he was traveling alone. He couldn't handle losing another best friend.
After hearing Ja'won speak, he looked in his direction. Guilt gnawed at his intestines like mice sinking their teeth into a dead corpse. For a moment, he stood there, quiet and unmoving. He wanted to offer some sort of comfort, but how could he? It was Drake's fault. Directly or indirectly — whatever. He was the reason that this was happening.
He approached the picnic table and sat down next to his friend. He didn't know what to say. He wanted to cry, but he had done enough of that this morning before being interviewed by Abrahamian and the police. He came clean about everything: the party, who was there, the alcohol, his whereabouts throughout the night. Walter was pissed, but he still allowed him to skip school, and he dropped him off here so that he could be with his friends. What else could he do to a boy with a dead mom, dead ex and dead best friend?
None of the words coming to Drake's mind felt right, so he put his hand on Ja'won's shoulder, offering silent support. That's what Josh had done for him this morning. It didn't take the pain away, but still, there was some comfort in it, which was more than what Walter had been able to give him.
"I'm okay," Ja'won said, offering an unconvincing smile that didn't reach his glistening eyes.
Drake pulled back, and there was an awkward silence between them until they heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
"Sorry it took so long," Trevor said with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Mom said I couldn't skip, so I had to sneak out. Have you been waiting long?"
Ja'won lifted his head and shook it. "My mom just dropped me off, like, five minutes ago."
He sat on top of the table rather than on a bench, then he unzipped his jacket and reached inside to retrieve a silver flask. He gave it a little shake as if to show off the gift he'd brought for everyone, then he took a swig. He only cringed a little, for he was trying hard to hide his disgust, then he held the flask out. Both boys stared at it, considering if they wanted to get drunk at nine in the morning, considering if it would help with the hangover they already had from last night, considering how the others would react if they said no, considering if Stephen would've accepted, considering if Stephen might've been here to continue leading his lost friends if either of them would've chosen sobriety last night.
Fuck it. Against his better judgement, Drake took the flask and poured the vile liquid into his mouth. He swallowed without pulling his lips away, then poured more and swallowed again. A repulsed groan left him as he tipped the flask right-side-up, then he coughed at the strong scent violating his nostrils and the foul punch attacking his taste buds. Afterwards, he belched, his face still twisted with repugnance, and held the poison out for Ja'won to take.
"Thanks," he mumbled, and he, too, took a shot before setting it down in between them. They were all quiet for a moment, then Ja'won said, "Do you think they've told everyone at school yet?"
"Probably," said Drake. "That's what they did with Linny. They talked about it over the morning announcements..." Quietly, he finished with, "...like it was just another school update."
Stephen deserved more than that, and so did Linny and Johnny.
"Hey, I heard about your dad on the radio this morning," Ja'won said, "and Vance asked about it. I think everyone's starting to put it together. Just a heads up."
Drake sighed. "I'm so fucking tired of this." Water found its way to his eyes now, but he held it back. "If they catch the killer and it is my dad...I'm never gonna be able to show my face at school again. Everyone will hate me."
"Jesus, Drake, it's not all about you," Trevor said with irritation. "Stephen just died."
"I...I know. I just...I-I mean—" he stuttered, taken aback by his words.
Before he could say more, he heard a sob. Both he and Trevor turned to Ja'won, who was hunched forwards with his arms blocking his face as he cried.
"Hey, hey," Trevor said softly as he leaned across the table to comfort him. "You're gonna be okay."
Drake was unable to speak. What could he say? What Trevor had said reminded him that this was all happening because of him. Guilt ripped into his stomach like desperate fingernails clawing their way out of a dark hole. He sat in silence, uselessly taking up space as Trevor soothed their friend.
"Sorry," Ja'won said sheepishly. He wiped the wetness from his bloodshot eyes. "I'm okay now."
"Don't worry about it, bud," Trevor said, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Everything's just so fucked up right now."
Drake remained wordless, unsure of what he could contribute to the conversation other than more problems. He didn't speak again until he was addressed.
"Do you really think it was your dad?" Ja'won asked.
"It makes the most sense," he replied cautiously, wondering if his friends would turn on him just as fast as everyone else at school would. He felt like he should apologize, but he hated feeling so vulnerable. Instead, he gave an explanation for his theory. "I mean, he did kill my mom, and now that he's escaped prison, people are getting murdered. How could it be a coincidence?"
"Yeah, but what about Huntley?" Trevor chimed in. "He hates you, right? Because you fucked his girl?"
"I...didn't... We didn't..."
"So it makes sense that Linny and her new boy toy were the first to go. You're his target, which is probably why he attacked you next, right? He wanted you to know that it's because of you, and then he went after your best friend, who just showed him up in front of everyone yesterday when he tried to pick a fight with you after lunch. Stephen did tell him to eat shit, and then..." Trevor trailed off as he recalled finding the sideways porta-potty. The door had been taped shut, which he immediately recognized as a bad sign. He and Jasmine frantically tore away the tape and...and... "You know?" He outwardly shook his head as if it would make the haunting image disappear forever, but it had been burned into his mind by a branding iron. In a sudden rage, Trevor stood and stormed away.
Drake and Ja'won sat in silence, both feeling sick from the hangover and the thought of their best friend drowning in human waste. Drake flinched when there was a loud crash, which was Trevor kicking over a metal trash can. Another fell along with it in a sort of domino effect. One remained standing, which pissed Trevor off more, so he grabbed it and slung it as hard as he could. Ja'won turned to watch him, but Drake only hung his head, unwilling to take the chance of accidentally meeting Trevor's eyes and finding blame there. After giving the stubborn garbage can a kick so hard he injured his own foot, the enraged boy stalked off towards the basketball court.
Drake couldn't help but wonder if Trevor was thinking of him when he'd gotten into the one-sided fight with the bins. His heart ached, and a warmth stung his eyes, which thankfully were hidden behind sunglasses. He sniffled, earning Ja'won's attention, then he picked up the flask and gulped down one...two...three—
"Okay, enough." Ja'won snatched it from him, spilling some on the faded wooden table. "Fuck's sake," he said to himself, then to Drake: "You can't be doing this shit right now. You have to stay alert."
"What's the fucking point?"
"The point?" He furrowed his brows, surprised by the boy's words. "The point is that you have too many people who care about you to give up. I can't lose another best friend. Think about me and Trevor. Think about your sister. What would Megan do without you?"
"She'll be fine. She hates me anyway."
"She doesn't hate you."
Drake didn't feel like arguing. The alcohol was starting to settle in his stomach, and he felt hot inside and out. "Well, she doesn't like me."
"Maybe not, but she does love you, and that's more important."
The teen was quiet for a moment, taking in the words and mulling them over. He and Megan were never close, but after the untimely death of their mother, their relationship was practically non-existent. She was definitely harboring some ill feelings towards him, but he didn't blame her. It wasn't anything he wasn't already feeling about himself. Could Ja'won be right? Did she still care? Did it really matter? Drake still loved her. Even during those moments when he couldn't stand her guts, he loved her. Wasn't that enough?
"Alright," he gave in, quietly because it hurt his pride to admit that he was wrong.
"Alright?" Ja'won gave him a supportive shoulder squeeze, satisfied that he'd pulled his friend out of his downward spiral.
Drake nodded.
Ja'won gave him two friendly pats before pulling his hand away. "Besides, even if it is your dad, you can't control what he does. Believe me."
He welcomed the subject change and that the spotlight was being moved away from him. "I guess I've been so wrapped up in my own shit that I forgot everyone else has shit going on, too," he said, and that was as close to an apology as he could muster. "Did you ever go see him?"
"I did."
"How'd it go?"
Ja'won was quiet for a moment. "It was sad...kinda weird. I didn't know what to say. It's been three years and he just now thought to write?"
"How much longer does he have?"
"Eight years."
"Shit."
Drake had been friends with Stephen since elementary school and with Trevor since middle school. It wasn't until high school that Ja'won joined the friend group. He was a new student assigned to tutor Stephen, and the basketball player enjoyed his company enough to invite him along to one party, then another, until he became an official member of the crew. He was a nerd — not in the stereotypical sense, but more in a Holden McCrea from The Cabin in the Woods kind of way. He clicked with the boys instantly, but Drake really bonded with him after his father was sent to prison, for Ja'won was in the same boat. Ja'won didn't talk to the other guys about it much, but he had no reservations about sharing these things with Drake.
Ja'won drank again as Trevor approached them. He was now carrying a basketball, which he threw to Drake. The boy could feel the rage behind it when he caught it, for it nearly knocked him out of his seat, but he kept that to himself. Trevor didn't have to say anything. His friends stood and followed him over to the court.
Stephen loved basketball. Once, they played three against one, with Stephen by himself, and he still won. When Ja'won had texted to meet up at the basketball court, it felt like the perfect place. It felt like this is where they were supposed to go. Stephen spent so much of his time here. They all did, but it was because Stephen loved it so much. He already had colleges looking at him, and they all knew he would make it big-time in the NBA. If only he'd had that chance.
The basketball game seemed to help them get out some of their pent-up anger, and they even had fun enjoying the sport that Stephen loved. They laughed when Trevor elbowed Ja'won hard enough to knock him onto his knees and when Drake drunkenly stumbled over his own feet and missed a wide-open shot.
What brought them back to reality was when they heard a screechy woman's voice. "Trevor Reginald Hather, what do you think you're doing?!" They all looked over to see his mother standing right outside her car. "You think I wouldn't find out about you skipping school?!" It was then that she noticed Drake, and her eyes displayed fear, then outrage. "You are not to be hanging out with him anymore! Do you hear me?! Everyone around him is dying! Get in this car right now!"
Her words hit Drake like a gusty wind. He was immediately sober now as the weight of Stephen, Linny and Johnny's deaths rested on his shoulders.
"Sorry," Trevor said. "I'll text you." He turned and headed towards the car, and his mom continued yelling.
"I swear when we get home, your father's gonna hear about this! And you! You stay the hell away from my son! You hear me?! I'm not gonna sit back and watch you get him killed!"
"Mom, calm down," Trevor was saying, clearly embarrassed. After a bit more bickering, they both got in the car and drove off.
The remaining boys were quiet. Guilt exploded within Drake like a bomb ripping limb from limb. She was right. This was his fault. All of this — everything that was happening — was because of him, and it wasn't over — not until they catch the killer...or until Drake was dead.
Ja'won reached out to touch his arm as he gently started, "Drake—"
"You know, she's right." He pulled his arm away, but he didn't turn to look at him. "You should probably stay away from me."
"Come on, dude."
"The killer's targeting me and everyone associated with me, so you need to keep your distance. We shouldn't be hanging out."
"I don't care."
"I do."
"You're my best friend, Drake. I'm not about to leave you when shit hits the fan. Stephen wouldn't have left you either."
"And where did that get him?!" Drake snapped, finally meeting his eyes. "Stephen's fucking dead, and it's my fault! I shouldn't have..." He trailed off. He shouldn't have survived that night. That's what he was going to say. Had he died like he was supposed to, then this would all be over, but because he'd escaped, the masked menace was going to kill everyone he loved. "Look, I don't wanna talk to you anymore, and I don't wanna see you again."
"Are you serious?" Ja'won asked, hurt.
"Yes, so just leave me alone, okay?"
"Fine. If that's how you want it." He dropped the basketball with one last furious bounce, then turned and stormed off, leaving Drake standing alone in the middle of the court.
"Things have just been really rough for him, and I don't know what to do," Walter said into the phone. He tried to speak quietly, for he'd noticed Megan come downstairs and enter the kitchen not too long ago. The window shutters were closed, so he wasn't sure what exactly she was doing in there, and he was starting to think that she was eavesdropping because she had been in there a while.
He wasn't wrong. Megan sat in one of the barstools, half interested in her GameBoy and half focused on the one-sided conversation happening in the living room. Walter wasn't a momma's boy by any means. In a usual month, he might give her a ring once or twice. Granted, this wasn't a usual month, but Megan had caught him talking to her at least once a day — sometimes more — over the last four days. She was beginning to wonder if it really was Grammy on the other end at all.
Megan heard the front door open, then close. She looked up, wondering who it could be. Josh was at school, and Drake was supposed to be at the basketball court. When she saw her brother pass by the kitchen entryway and turn towards the stairs, she knew he was in for an earful.
"Drake?" came Walter's voice from the living room, stopping him. "Let me call you back, Mom. I love you, too. Bye." Walter got off the couch and accosted him. "What the hell, Drake?! I told you to call me when you were ready to leave!"
He sighed. "I know. I—"
"Do you realize what could've happened?!"
"Iknow. Iknow. Itwon' happenagain."
Megan furrowed her brows and looked up from her game. Why did he sound so weird? He looked normal, albeit quite sweaty, but the way he spoke was...different.
"You're damn right it won't! You are not to leave this house anymore!"
"Walter—" he tried, his voice sounding looser than normal, but Megan couldn't quite put her finger on why.
"What the hell is the matter with you?!" the man continued raging.
"Geez, chill out," he said, quieter and childlike.
Walter's voice was the opposite. "Chill out?! You want me to just chill out?! There's a killer roaming the streets, but I just need to chill out! Hey, don't you roll your eyes at me!"
Drake huffed with an anger that he kept to himself because he'd learned a long time ago — back when he still lived with his real father — that silence and submission was the quickest way to end a punishment, be it verbal or physical.
"Whoa, have you been drinking?!" Walter asked, fanning away the strong scent that wafted into his nostrils. "You reek of booze!"
Now Drake's voice made sense. He was drunk...and in so, so, so much trouble.
"What the hell's the matter with you? A murderer is targeting you, and you decide to get drunk and stumble all the way home by yourself?"
Walter was looking at him with an expression of rage, disbelief and desperation. Meanwhile, Drake's fear was turning into anger.
"Allyado is yell at me."
"Be—"
"Yanever talk to me like a normal person. Allya do is yell."
"Because all you do is cause problems!"
Drake chuckled, bitter and wasted. "Oh, that's me! The problem child! The kid you got stuck with!" He went back to a normal volume, and the slurring came back. "Iknowya hate me."
"I don't hate you."
"Yeah, yado," he whispered, nodding slightly. "I heard you. Onthephone last night."
"That... That wasn't—"
"Whatever," Drake said, and he waved his hand as if shooing the words away. "You don' haveta worryabout me anymore. I'llbe dead soonenough anyway."
"So that's what you want? You wanna die drowning in your own shit like your friend?"
Drake was speechless. He couldn't believe Walter had said such a terrible thing to him. What was his stepdad's plan? Did he think this was motivating? Hearing those words only made Drake want to die more — not fight to survive so that he could live with the guilt forever.
"Huh?!" Walter pushed, wanting an answer despite the water building up in the boy's eyes. "You wanna suffer like Stephen?!"
The words hit him like a dull blade penetrating his stomach, but the only outward reaction he gave was a surprised blink. With that blink came the tears. He wore disgust on his face — not at the horrible way his best friend was killed, but because Walter had thrown it around so carelessly.
"Fuck you," Drake spat, his repulsion crystal clear.
Without giving him time to react, Walter brought his hand up, and skin collided with skin. It wasn't a slap exactly. More like a pop to the mouth, but it was hard enough to turn Drake's head. When Megan saw it, she hopped off of the barstool and approached the two, hoping their acknowledgement of her presence would stop this heated dispute.
Walter grabbed the boy's chin and roughly forced him to look at him again, then he pointed a stiff finger in his face. "You do not talk to me like that."
Drake swiped his arm in front of him, shoving his hand away, then he went towards the stairs.
"I'm just trying to keep you safe," Walter said without remorse. "In case you've forgotten, someone is trying to kill you."
"I know!" Drake exploded, whipping around to face him. He had lost all control over the tears now, so he ignored them. "How could I forget when everyone around me is dying?! I know what could've happened! Maybe I wanted it to happen! Did you ever think of that?! Has it crossed your mind that, if I would've just died like I was supposed to, no one else would've gotten hurt?! You should've let him kill me! Now he's pissed, and he's going after the people I care about, and it's your fault! It's your fault Stephen's dead!" With that, he stormed upstairs, leaving a stunned Walter and a frightened Megan in his wake.
Once he was in the sanctity of his room, Drake slammed the door and let out a frustrated growl through clenched teeth. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do now. He really wanted to break something. That would make him feel better, but not really. Maybe he just needed to lie down and sleep. Maybe he could forget this day and start again tomorrow. However, as he started walking, he felt weak. Drake staggered over to Josh's bed and sat down, then removed the sunglasses. He hunched over with his head in his hands as he sobbed. He cried about Stephen, and he cried about his father's prison escape. He cried about the horrible things Walter had said, and he cried about the awful words he had spewed back. He cried about Linny, and he cried about the fact that, just by being alive, he was putting everyone he ever loved at risk. Most of all, he cried because he missed his mom. His mom would've known exactly what to say to make this all just a little bit easier. She would've made him feel safe.
He wasn't sure how long he bawled before he heard a knock on the door. He figured it was Walter coming to yell at him some more. He didn't look up to check, but when he felt the tiny addition of weight on the mattress and the small frame wrapping him up in a hug, he knew it was his little sister.
He never cried about their mother in front of her before, so he was embarrassed to be doing that now. He wanted to stop, but the sobs erupted from him and shook his whole body. After a minute of trying but failing to control it, he gave in to the emotions.
"I want Mom," he choked out.
"I know." She sniffled. "I miss her, too."
"It's my fault. I never should've left her alone with him." He couldn't stop picturing that room, the blood splattered all over, her naked, mutilated body. "Why did I leave?"
Megan held him tighter when the sobs began shaking him even harder. She was crying, too, although silently other than her sniffles. It broke her heart to see her older brother like this. He was always so strong, and over the last year, he'd hardly said a thing to her about their mother. Finally, it had gotten to the point where he could no longer hold it all in. This was her moment to assure him that it wasn't his fault. This was her time to offer her older brother the comfort he pretended he never needed.
And she couldn't do it. Many nights, she would lie awake and wonder how things could've been different had her brother not abandoned their mom. Their father was strong, and although he used to be no match for him, Drake was older now. He was still probably no match for him, but between both Drake and Audrey, someone should've at some point gotten the opportunity to phone the police, or perhaps their dad wouldn't have felt brave enough to become violent at all with an additional person present. Megan never would've left had she been there when he'd shown up. She didn't even know much about the man. She didn't remember the abuse — hadn't been on the receiving end of it like Drake had — but she'd heard stories over the years, usually when she was eavesdropping on conversations between Audrey and Walter, so she would've stayed anyway. Just in case. Why couldn't Drake have felt the same?
For a while after Audrey's brutal death, she'd hated her brother. She'd blamed him, and perhaps she still did, but he hated himself enough for the both of them. Eventually, she was able to forgive him, but he'd never forgiven himself, and he'd never allowed himself the chance to grieve because he'd always felt like he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve anyone's pity and comfort when he had caused them so much pain, so he kept everything to himself, and now it was all bubbling to the surface.
Once Drake was in the solitude of the bathroom, he breathed a sigh of relief. He checked the stall doors and saw that each one was slightly ajar. Perfect. He needed to get away from everyone.
Thunder boomed outside, and rain crashed against the windows that lined the top of the far wall. The weather matched his mood perfectly. Today was absolute hell. Just like Ja'won had warned him, the secret was out. Everyone knew that his father was the lead suspect in the murder of three of their fellow classmates. The stares he had been getting all day were uncomfortable, but they were nothing compared to the rude things people were saying to him in passing. Kids he'd never before spoken to suddenly knew something so personal about him, and they hated him for it.
"This is a fucking nightmare," he whispered to himself. Drake set his sunglasses down, then turned on the faucet. He checked to make sure the running water was cold, then he leaned forwards and patted his face.
Moments later, he heard the bathroom door open. The boy inconspicuously glanced in that direction and saw Huntley, but he wasn't alone. Two of his asshole friends had tagged along, and Drake knew that this wasn't going to go well for him. He sighed, replaced his glasses, then turned off the water and moved over to the paper towel dispenser. Ignoring the guys, he dried his face and hands.
One of them came uncomfortably close, then another was on the opposite side of him. They were breathing down his neck, intimidating him, and it was working.
"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Huntley said joyously from behind him.
Drake continued ignoring them while he finished drying his hands, as if not acknowledging them would make them disappear. The boys at his sides closed in. Their chests pushed against his arms, so he tried his best to shrink into himself as much as he could.
"It's Woodsboro's very own son of a serial killer." Huntley was having too much fun.
Drake tossed the crumpled paper towel into the trash can, then turned to exit. However, with this movement, Huntley's henchmen grabbed him and pinned him against the wall. He went for the emergency necklace that his police tail had given him, but Huntley was prepared this time. The bully grabbed it first, then yanked it, breaking the string. He tossed it into the nearest toilet, then stepped closer and snarled down at Drake.
"Judging by their track record, they wouldn't have made it in time to stop what I'm about to do to you anyway," the towering young man said with a smug shrug, and his friends snickered.
Drake wiggled and tugged, trying to escape their tight grips, but he was no match. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He wasn't a fighter, especially not when he was up against three guys. He knew he was about to have his ass handed to him.
"Too bad your boyfriend Stephen isn't here to protect you anymore."
Before he knew what he was doing, Drake furiously charged forwards, ready for a rumble, but the two boys easily held him back. The bullies laughed scornfully at his helplessness. He was a pathetic mouse up against a ravenous three-headed snake. All his protest did was amuse them, and they howled patronizingly at his pitiful attempt.
"Maybe not," Drake said, retaliating with, "but it looks like your boyfriends are here."
The henchmen went silent, and they looked at their leader, ready for their next orders, because surely Huntley wouldn't let the boy get away with talking back. Huntley chuckled, flashing a large, alligator grin, teeth sharp and menacing, and then his face contorted with anger as he wound his fist back. He took an underhanded shot at his victim's stomach, and Drake lurched forwards, doubled over in pain, until the boys got a tighter grip on his shoulders and forced his back against the wall. Everything was suddenly brighter, blinding, and he realized that his sunglasses had fallen off, revealing his red eyes to everyone. Again, Huntley's fist smashed into his abdomen, and he helplessly took the hit and folded like a Volkswagen Beetle getting t-boned by a tractor trailer. This time, a cry left Drake's lips, and when he was let go, he fell onto his hands and knees, clutching his ribs and taking staccato breaths.
Huntley wasn't done yet. Drake yelped when his side was hit with the bottom of the boy's shoe, and it knocked him over. Before he knew it, a storm of kicks struck him from all sides. He curled into a ball and shielded himself with his arms as best he could.
It had been a while since something like this had happen. Maybe half a decade. His father was only one man, but he was scarier than all three of these assholes combined. Just like he'd learned to do with his dad, he stayed on the ground and accepted his punishment. That way, it would be over faster.
Still, it hurt, and the pain seemed to slow time to a crawl. With three people, they could get in multiple kicks per second, and that started to add up when they beat him for ten seconds...then twenty...thirty... He was close to begging, but thankfully, they stopped, leaving him at least some of his dignity.
As the henchmen left, Huntley stood over him, with one foot on each side. He shoved Drake's shoulder, forcing him onto his back. The boy's tears had no effect on the bully. Huntley grabbed a handful of his shirt and lifted his upper body off the ground, then wound his fist back. "This is on behalf of everyone. Nobody wants you here, so get the fuck out of our school." He landed a direct hit. Drake's head was turned with the force of the blow, and he twisted his body to follow as he groaned, curling back up in his protective position. Finally, Huntley left him alone and exited with the others.
Once they were gone, Drake choked out a sob, then another. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling from the dirty bathroom floor as he cried. This never would've happened if Stephen were still alive, but he wasn't, and that was Drake's fault. He deserved this.
He gave himself a minute or so to have his breakdown, but he knew another student could walk in at any moment and see him like this, so he bit his lip and forced himself onto his feet, growling through clenched teeth. Drake clutched his ribs, then staggered over to the sink. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks were wet and red-streaked, and his nose was bleeding down to his chin. He was a mess, both inside and outside.
Drake lifted his hand to wipe away some of the blood, but upon first touch, his face throbbed with pain. Another sob left him as he pulled his hand back and looked at the sticky crimson on his fingers. Slowly, he turned and made his way into one of the stalls, then grabbed some toilet paper and put it up to his face to stop the bleeding.
Drake took shelter in the last stall of the bathroom for a few hours after the fight (if you could even call it that). He couldn't muster the energy to face his peers, and he still didn't want to, but he knew he couldn't hide out in there forever.
The cafeteria was loud, and it did no favors for his pounding head. He walked slow and tried his best to look casual. Now that some time had passed, the pain was starting to settle, and Drake just wanted to lay down in bed for the next few days.
Out if habit, Drake went through the line, picked up a food tray — today was spaghetti and meatballs — then he grabbed a carton of milk and waited to check out. Behind him, he heard whispering, and when he turned, he saw two vaguely familiar girls in line behind him. They stopped talking, but they continued eyeballing him with accusatory disgust. This had been happening to him all day, but it wasn't getting any easier.
"Next!" the cashier called impatiently, and Drake realized that she'd tried ushering him forward a few times now.
He stepped forward and typed in his student ID number at the register. It wasn't the first time he'd zoned out today. He was dissociating a bit, and he'd spent most of his morning trudging around like a zombie. He didn't even recall walking from one class to the next, but he'd done it at some point.
Like expected, Ja'won was seated at their regular table, along with Trevor and Vance. Ja'won felt his former friend's gaze and returned the stare, only his expressed anger while Drake's failed to hide the fear and displacement he felt. Vance was in Drake's seat, and that honestly hurt a little to know that he had been replaced so quickly. He wanted to go over there and take back the place that was rightfully his — the friends that were his — but his eyes landed on Stephen's empty chair, and it reminded him why it had to be this way.
He looked away, his eyes scanning the room for another place to sit. There was no one else he wanted to sit with. Despite the fact that pretty much everyone at school knew him, he didn't really know all that many people. It was strange — being so popular, yet having few friends. He had already felt alone, what with no one understanding what he was going through, but now he felt more isolated than ever.
He had been standing there so long that a few people were beginning to notice. His fingers clinched his tray nervously as he considered a seating arrangement. Ja'won was watching him, too, and he was kind of mad at Ja'won for being mad at him, so he wanted to pick a seat that said he didn't care that he had been replaced. The jocks wouldn't want him. He could tell that they were mourning the death of their all-star player. The geeks, goths, debate team and drama club wouldn't accept him either. Stephen wasn't always so kind to them, and perhaps Drake had never stood up to his friend on their behalf. Maybe he'd even participated a little bit from time to time. Being popular wasn't the same as being well-liked.
The young man sighed with defeat, then made his way to an empty table. He knew Ja'won was watching, and he felt humbled. Drake realized now that he was nothing without his friends. No one actually liked him. Perhaps he even disliked himself.
Drake looked down at his food, and his stomach churned. He wasn't hungry, and the smell of food was making him sick. He considered leaving, but he'd already skipped his first three classes, and the bathroom was rather uncomfortable. Despite this, anywhere was better than here, but before he could make a move to stand, Mindy set her lunchbox right in front of him, then plopped down in the stool across from him, almost irritated.
Drake was quiet for a moment as he watched her with confusion, then he said, "What the fuck are you doing?"
"I'm eating lunch with you," she said.
"Why?" He couldn't keep the repulsion out of his voice.
His feud with Josh's girlfriend had been going on for as long as he could remember. Honestly, he didn't even know who had started it or why. All he knew was that he hated her, and she reciprocated those feelings. She did everything she could to avoid him, so this action was very out of character for her.
"Josh asked me to watch out for you."
Drake shook his head with disbelief and chuckled bitterly. "Whatever. I don't need your charity." He grabbed his tray and started to stand, but she stopped him.
"Looks like you kinda do, though. I mean, your own friends have already replaced you with someone better. Now you're sitting alone, eating lunch next to the trash cans." The back-and-forth insults were always so second nature when it came to her and Drake, so she couldn't stop these words before they had left her.
"Fuck you."
Drake stood and turned so fast that he almost bumped into someone. He was a tall blonde guy from the basketball team, and he was joined by two girls and two guys — all popular kids. Drake used to be one, too. He still was, but it was more due to infamy rather than fame.
"Oh, look who it is. We got Bundy Jr. over here." His audience laughed, egging him on, so he nudged Drake backwards, pinning him against the table. "Where you going, Bundy Jr.?"
"Move," Drake said without confidence, and he avoided eye contact.
"What'd you say?" He turned his head, cockily aiming his ear at the boy's mouth, daring him to repeat himself.
Drake spoke again, but his voice didn't change. "I said move."
"Or what? Huh?" the jock taunted. "You gonna have your daddy come kill me?"
"Fuck you," he replied, but it was quieter than before. He'd already suffered through one beating today.
"What was that? Come again?" He stepped even closer, and his friends watched with intrigue. "Come on, Bundy Jr. Where you heading? Hmm?"
Drake's wandering eyes scanned the room, almost as if he was looking for Stephen, but Stephen couldn't save him anymore. Although the altercation wasn't loud, some students had noticed and were watching intently. Ja'won was among them. When their eyes met, Drake felt embarrassed, so he looked away, his gaze catching the jock's.
"School lunch not doing it for you?" his peer teased. "You're more used to daddy bringing home human livers and spleens for you to munch on?"
A new voice entered the conversation — one that belonged to none other than Mindy Crenshaw. "That's Dahmer, you dunce. Not Bundy."
The blonde rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"While you're here, though, Matt, are we still on for our tutoring session this afternoon?" She spoke smugly, and when Drake saw his friends' reactions, he realized this was something the failing jock wanted to keep secret. "Did you finish the reading already?" She already knew the answer, so she didn't wait for a reply. "No? Then maybe you have more important things to do than picking on someone half your size? That's very tough of you, by the way."
"Tougher than someone who lets a girl fight his battles for him," he retaliated, but he let Drake go. With one swift motion, Matt knocked the tray out of the boy's hands, then flounced away with his friends trailing behind.
Drake didn't look around. He knew the commotion had gained more attention, and he couldn't handle more people staring at him and talking about him behind his back today. He cautiously cradled his rib cage as he squatted down to clean up the mess.
He was so embarrassed, especially since this had happened in front of Ja'won and Trevor. He wanted to bolt out of there, but he couldn't leave food all over the floor.
Moments later, Mindy joined him, bringing along extra napkins, which were much needed. She wiped up the juice from the mandarin oranges, then used another tissue to pick the fruit slices up and put them back on the tray. Meanwhile, Drake was finishing up the spaghetti sauce.
"I didn't need your help," he said grumpily.
"Kind of a weird way to say 'thank you'."
"I was handling it on my own."
"Yeah, it really seemed that way."
Drake grabbed his tray and stood abruptly, then stalked away, dumping everything in the trash can before disappearing down one of the halls in search of an escape route.
He's been here before. Walking along the cracked and hole-ridden streets and passing by the worn and dilapidated trailers felt familiar to him, and it saddened him that he'd probably never do this again. There would be no need to, what with Stephen dead and all.
The Wheaton home was a rusted metal trailer placed sideways on its lot like all the others. The yard, if you could call it that, stretched out a few dozen feet in both the front and the back, giving it little separation from the neighboring homes. The trailer on the right had a cluttered garden with figurines and butterflies on a stick while the Wheaton home had only green grass, recently cut short. The neighbors on the opposite side had a line of broken pickups and empty car frames, a raggedy swing set and old toys faded from rainfall, which differed greatly from the bareness of the Wheaton yard. Despite being a single mother of four rambunctious boys between the ages of nine and twenty-two, Stephen's mom kept everything tidy. She was very anal about that kind of thing, which is a quality that Drake never liked about her. It'd take more fingers and toes than he had to count the times he'd come over to play or hang out with his childhood best friend and was put to work instead.
Hesitantly, he made his way up the porch steps, then reached for the handle of the screen door. He gripped it with his fingers, and his thumb grazed the button, but he froze when he saw a pair of shoes in the corner, the insides filled with water due to this morning's storm. They were Stephen's. It was the pair of Jordans he wore yesterday. Drake recognized them because the dirt that Huntley had left on one was still there. He probably planned to clean them after the creek party, but here they sat, abandoned and flooded with unclean water. The similarities between them and their owner was uncanny. An unwelcome image flashed into Drake's mind. It was a photo of the fallen porta-potty he was shown yesterday when the police questioned him about the party — a photo he wished he could forget.
Stephen could be a jerk sometimes, but he didn't deserve to die like that. It was Drake's fault. He'd brought this into Stephen's life, and now here he was at the home of the deceased's mother. Would she want to see him? Did she blame him? Did she share the same resentments as Trevor's mom and half the students at school? Would his being here make things worse?
Drake let go of the handle. What the fuck am I even doing here? He turned and started down the steps, unsure of his destination, but it didn't matter as long as he wasn't here.
"Drake?" came a woman's voice, eager to stop him.
The boy turned and looked up at her from the bottom step. She was tall and lanky, just like Stephen, and despite the makeup caked on her face, her usually sharp cheeks drooped, and the pockets underneath her eyes sagged. From the neck up, she looked dolled up, as per usual, but judging by her purple, silk, spaghetti strap top and her white slippers, it seems that she had given up on her daily routine halfway through and decided to curl up in bed instead.
"Hi, Ms. Wheaton," he said. "Uh, I was just...just leaving."
"Come in," she said, pushing the glass door open wider.
"No, I shouldn't bother you—"
"Come," she said in the voice she used when she wasn't giving him a choice. It wasn't a rude voice, but one that put the fear in him nonetheless. She waved, then disappeared inside.
He ascended the steps and opened the glass door. The spring had been broken since as far back as he could remember, so he knew to close it cautiously to avoid it slamming behind him. He'd always forget when he was younger, and a couple times, he'd earn a smack on his hand from a fly swatter or wooden spoon in passing, as well as a, "Child, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't you come up into my house slamming doors."
Ms. Wheaton entered quickly from down the hall, having run off to fetch her soft pink robe, which she now wore. "Have you eaten?" She asked this every time he came over, and even if he had, she'd make something for him and Stephen anyway. Food was her love language.
"Yes, ma'am." It was a lie, and he was sure she knew it, but he couldn't possibly stomach anything right now.
"That makes one of us," she said, sitting down on the seventies style flower print love seat next to the door. "I've got plenty of food." She gestured towards the kitchen. Aluminum trays and plastic containers littered the countertops.
Drake sat down next to her. His eyes wandered around the room, landing on anything but her. "You've had a lot of visitors?"
"A few."
"I should've called first."
"It's alright. I'm glad you came."
"Where is everyone?"
"Marquis had to run to the shop for a bit because someone is supposed to pick up their car. The twins are staying at my cousin's for a few days. I haven't told them yet."
Drake had his sweaty hands in his lap, and without realizing, he wrung them together. While avoiding eye contact with the mother of the boy he'd practically killed, he noticed that dirty dishes filled the sink, the laundry basket was piled high, the floor was unswept. These were all unusual for her. He hung his head with guilt, and his leg bounced, his foot rising off the floor over and over as if he were preparing to sprint out the door. He never should've come here.
"I'm...so sorry about Stephen." They were tough words that he rarely said, but right now, he meant them.
"Me, too," she said.
"I wish..."
'I wish it would've been me' is was he wanted to say, but those words might sound alarming to a concerned adult, and he didn't want her to feel like she had to comfort him. She's the one who had lost a son.
"Stephen didn't deserve that."
"He was a good kid," Ms. Wheaton said. "You know, Stephen was going to be the first one in our family to go to college. So many schools were looking at him already. His dream was to play ball professionally, and there's no doubt in my mind that he would've made it."
Drake didn't doubt it either. Stephen was better than any other player he knew, even the older guys they sometimes played against at the court. He could recall a night when they had gotten a little too drunk, and Stephen had gone on and on about how he wanted more than anything to make it for his mom. He talked about buying her a house and a car and retiring her and taking her on vacations. In a way, Drake hadn't just ruined Stephen's life, but Ms. Wheaton's as well.
"Trevor, Ja'won and I met at the basketball court yesterday after we found out," Drake said, his guilt forcing him to say something — anything — to contribute to the conversation. "We started talking about this one time when we played three-on-one. Even on his own, Stephen kicked our butts."
Picturing it brought a small smile to the grieving mother's face. "That boy was always special."
"Yeah," Drake agreed, and then there was silence for a while.
"Ja'won and his mother stopped by last night to drop off a casserole. He mentioned a falling out you boys had."
"Kind of, I guess."
"You should talk to him. You've both lost someone important, and no one else can understand what you're going through. Instead of fighting, you should set aside whatever it is that got between you and be there for one another. You boys need each other's friendship now more than ever."
"He's got other friends." He wasn't sure why he'd said it. The last thing he wanted to do was drag Ms. Wheaton into his drama when she already had so much on her plate. He was surprised that Ja'won had even mentioned the beef at all. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if, during their conversation, Ja'won had said, "We don't talk anymore" with a scrunched-up nose and an eye roll, or if he'd said it with sadness in his voice.
"Do you?" Ms. Wheaton asked, pulling him back to the present.
"Do I?" he repeated. He'd gotten so lost in his thoughts that he couldn't remember what they were talking about.
"Have other friends?" the woman said.
Drake tried to think of other friends he had. Stephen had been his best. There was Ja'won and Trevor, but not anymore. Vance always tried to be his friend, but Drake never let him. Did ex make-out partners count as friends? He had plenty of those, and most of them didn't hate him. He had his family. Well, he rarely spoke with Walter, and honestly, things weren't much better with Megan, but he had Josh. They were like best friends. Even though they were related, it still counted, right?
"Oh, sure. I mean, yeah. I have other..." He trailed off. It wasn't until he'd had to sit alone at lunch earlier that he realized how lonely he was, and now that lonely feeling was returning. She was right. No one else could understand what he was going through, not even Walter or Josh.
Ms. Wheaton could see through his lie, but she didn't draw attention to it. "Regardless, I think you boys should work things out. Stephen wouldn't have wanted you all to fight." A house-phone rang in the kitchen, and the woman excused herself to answer it. "Hello?" After a moment, she rested the ear and mouthpiece side of the phone against her shoulder. "It's my cousin. I'll just be a moment."
"Um, is it okay if I...?" He gestured towards the hallway, and she knew what he was asking.
"Of course."
Drake stood, then made his way down the familiar hallway, its walls lined with school portraits from four growing boys. Marquis' pictures were on the top row, and they stretched out the furthest, but Stephen wasn't far behind.
In his last photo, he displayed a smile so wide that his dimples were showing. Drake remembered that day. All his friends had waited in line together, joking around and mercilessly teasing Trevor for how obviously stoned he looked. Trevor had forgotten all about it being picture day, and he'd started his wake-and-bake routine extra early that morning. He was the first to get his picture taken, and his mom grounded him for a long time when she excitedly opened the envelope to meet her son's bloodshot eyes and goofy grin. Standing in line and watching the disaster take place, the boys had all guffawed at Trevor's pose, and then it was Stephen's turn. His photo was of him trying hard to stifle a laugh, forever capturing that memory.
Below his row were two rows that belonged to the twins, both nine years old. They were quite far behind, but one day, they would catch up to Stephen's portrait, then surpass him, leaving that one missing photo an empty spot, a glaring reminder of the unfinished life, a youth cut short, a permanent hole Drake had left on this wall and in this family.
The trailer had three bedrooms, but that was only because Marquis wanted his own private space so that his girlfriend could stay over most nights, so he renovated the laundry room, turning it into a small but homely bedroom, and the washer and dryer were moved into the hallway outside the bathroom. Before the move, all four sons shared one room, with the twins occupying one bunkbed, and the older boys sharing the other. With the bottom bunk empty, they always had room for a guest, and Drake had spent many nights in that bed. Now that Stephen was gone, the entire thing was empty.
There was a clear division in the room. The twins' things were on the right half, and Stephen's were on the left. Despite being young boys, their room was clean, although that was mostly due to their mother making them tidy up before allowing them to leave the house. There were medals and trophies everywhere. The walls were covered with posters of all sizes of basketball stars, hip-hop artists from the nineties, and civil rights activists. There were street signs stolen during their preteens when they had dared one another to do so, and there was a framed Kobe Bryant jersey signed by the Black Mamba himself that Stephen had gotten as a kid during the famous player's 81-point game. A basketball hoop was mounted on the back of the door, but the ball had gone missing long ago.
The closet door was broken and leaning against the wall, hanging only by a single hinge. Drake's eyes immediately landed on his best friend's jersey. His number was sixty-nine, and he got a lot of flak for it due to its sexual connotations, but he chose it because his mother's birthday was June ninth...and also, come on, sixty-nine is kind of funny.
Drake's eyes landed on a baby blue box on the top shelf of the closet. He recognized what it was, although he'd only ever seen it once. He reached for it, then carried it over to the bed and sat down with it in his lap. The boy removed the lid, then looked down at the disarrayed pictures inside. The first one he picked up was of himself and Stephen. Stephen was looking into the camera without amusement, while Drake pointed both middle fingers into the air. This was taken at a park, which they'd spent the day hiding at instead of going to school. Trevor took the picture. They were all coming down off of the ecstasy they'd taken the night before, and they were at the stage of complete misery.
The next photo was one his mom had taken of him and his coach when their team had won some tournament against the other schools in the state. Another picture showed Stephen (mid-flip) and Trevor (mid-cannonball) from three summers ago, then a selfie of himself and Ja'won playing pool at the Premier.
Drake looked through photo after photo, seeing some with Ms. Wheaton and the brothers and people he'd never even met before, until he got to one photo in particular. His brows furrowed as he picked it up and studied the image. Stephen was young — maybe nine or ten — and so was the boy next to him. Despite the childlike features, it was obvious that the other kid in the image was Huntley. Both were in the McDonald's playground, peering through a glass window with laughter. Weird. Stephen never said anything about them being friends.
"It's strange, isn't it?"
Drake looked up, somewhat frightened by Ms. Wheaton's sudden arrival.
"Just the other day, Stephen went to sleep in this bed for the last time and had no idea that...that he would leave me."
He hung his head, unable to meet her eyes when he heard her voice tremble.
"My cousin's on the way." The change in subject was abrupt and jarring. "She wants to come check on me. Her husband is gonna watch the kids."
He couldn't tell whether or not she was telling the truth. Maybe she was, but maybe she just wanted him gone so that she could cry in private.
"I have to get going anyway." Drake stood. He started to place the photo back in the box, but paused. "Um, have...have you seen this picture before?"
He handed it to her, then watched her study it. For a moment, she looked lost, like she had traveled back to a time when her son was alive and happy. A small smile crept up onto her lips. "I took it," she said.
"So Stephen and Huntley were friends?"
"Oh yeah. Best friends."
"What happened?"
"I'm not really sure. I used to always come home from work and see them sword-fighting with sticks in the yard, and then one day you were here instead, and Huntley stopped coming over." She cocked her head to the side questioningly. "Do you know Huntley?"
"No," he said, then, "I mean, barely. I've seen him around." He wasn't sure what pushed him to lie, but he felt like he should. "I just didn't know they were friends." Drake returned the picture to the box when she gave it back, then he put the box in its place atop the closet. "I should probably get back to school," he said, but he was unmoving. Should he hug her? Should he say something? "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call."
She thanked him, and finally, he left. Possibly for good.
Although he'd told Ms. Wheaton that he would return to school, he ended up at the Parker-Nichols home instead. He didn't have the energy to go back — definitely not today, and maybe not ever again. With Huntley pounding Drake to a pulp every time he saw him, he was practically doing the killer's job for him. Speaking of, he could use something for the pain: Advil or Tylenol, maybe even something a little harder — whichever he found first.
Drake unzipped one of the front pockets on his bag and pulled out the keys. He started to unlock the door, but found that it was already unlocked. He froze as the door opened slowly with his push. He tried to recall who was the last to leave this morning. Walter, right? Surely he would've remembered to lock the door, especially with everything that was going on right now.
He debated leaving, or at least getting distance between himself and the house and calling Walter to confirm that he'd locked up. He couldn't risk going inside. What was he supposed to do? Search the place himself? No way. There was a good chance that a twisted psychopath was waiting inside to slaughter him. Maybe he should go back to school, and when it was time to come back, he could get the officers tailing him (who were quite bad at their job considering how easy it was for him to sneak away in the first place) to go in and make sure it was safe.
Before he could act on his decision, he heard a loud thump coming from the second floor, then a scream...a familiar scream...Josh's scream. Without thinking, he crossed the threshold and bolted upstairs. "Josh?!"
He wasn't sure where to look, but the most likely place for his stepbrother to be was in their shared bedroom. He went there first, but there was no sign of him. In fact, everything was quiet...too quiet.
It occurred to him then that he'd rushed up here with no plan and no weapon. What if he did walk in and find Josh and the killer? What would he have done? This always happens in horror movies. Some dumbass has a chance to find a weapon but doesn't, and it's so frustrating to watch, yet here he was doing the same thing.
His breathing quickened. The killer was up here somewhere. He had no idea where, but Drake had given his own presence away by calling out for his brother. He felt like he was being watched. He felt like a clueless animal being stalked by a lion lurking in the tall grass.
He whipped around when he heard shuffling. He knew exactly where it was coming from: his parents' room. Well, Walter's room now, he supposed. Drake hasn't set foot in that room in a year. He mustered his courage and made his way down the hall, closing any open door that he passed — the bathroom and Megan's room — to avoid a surprise attack from behind. He paused when he stood outside of Walter's room, the room his mother had been murdered in. Graphic images of her bloody, nude corpse flashed into his mind, and he had to outwardly shake his head to will them away. When he reached for the knob, he found that his hand was trembling.
No matter what was behind this door, it would be too much for him, whether it was a dead Josh, the sick killer, or just his haunting memories. Part of him wanted to leave — to never know what was waiting for him behind the wooden barrier — but his brother needed him. He'd never forgive himself if he abandoned Josh when he needed his help. He couldn't do that to someone he cared about. Not again. Drake took in a breath, then opened the door quickly to avoid hesitating any further.
Red. Everywhere red. It's been this way for the last year. His mother's blood stained the carpet, the walls, the ceiling, the bed. No one else saw it. Drake was the only one to have seen the body after all. They didn't have the horrid image ingrained in their memory. When Walter had arrived home, Drake had warned the man not to enter the bedroom, and for once, his stepfather actually listened to him. He'd saved him a lot of grief that day — grief that he wished someone could've saved him from.
Quietly, he said, "Josh—"
A loud POP! violated his ears. Drake dropped low, unsure whether it was best to make a break for the exit or lay flat on the floor. He lifted his arms up to shield his head. When his brain finally processed what had happened, he realized what had caused the noise. It was a gunshot! Someone was shooting at him!
"Oh my God!" cried a male voice.
The left closet door flung open, startling Drake, and he fell onto the bottom. He lifted his head, fearful of the mask he might see in front of him, but instead, he found his stepbrother.
"Josh?!"
"Oh my God, did I hit you?!"
"No," he said. "No, I'm okay." Drake stood and closed the bedroom door swiftly, then locked it. "What the hell is going on?" He joined his brother, then slid the door shut, trusting that there was a reason they needed to be hiding. He turned to Josh, who held a gun in his shaky hands. His heart raced even faster than it had been when he'd heard the gunshot. His eyes moved to the boy's forearm, which dripped with blood. "Oh fuck," he said between scared pants for air. "You're losing blood." He moved the arm closer and, to Josh's discomfort, clasped his hand over it as an attempt to stop the bleeding. "What do I do?" he asked, too panicked to think.
"Where's your phone?"
Drake pulled it out of his pocket, and after struggling to press the numbers, he wiped his hand off on his shirt, then called the police. He put the phone on his brother's shoulder so that he could do the talking, then he stood and looked around the small space to see what they had to work with. He needed to stop the bleeding, and he needed to find himself a weapon, but he also needed to figure out how to keep the murderer out of this room in the first place. What was more urgent? He couldn't think. Should he seal off the room somehow before tending to Josh, or did he need to deal with his brother before he bled out? If he did that and didn't have a weapon, what would he do if the killer found them?
Secure the doors. Do that first. There was no lock on the closet, but both of the sliding doors had a small knob. Drake grabbed a shirt, then tied one of the long sleeves around both knobs to keep them together. As he did this, he noticed three bullet holes in the wood — one of which was caused by the bullet that nearly killed him just moments ago, but he couldn't focus on his incredible luck right now. He pulled each of the sleeves, tightening the knot. It was a shoddy job, but the doors themselves were rather flimsy, so if the killer wanted to get in, he would, no matter how good his knot was.
Next, he snatched another shirt, causing the hanger to spin and then fall to the floor. He tried to rip it, but had to resort to using his teeth. He got on his knees next to his brother, who was giving the police their address, then he pulled his arm close again. He didn't know what he was doing. Instinct told him to cover the gash, but in the movies, they always tie above the wound.
"I don't know what to do," he said, and Josh motioned with his hands, for he was still talking to the operator.
Drake tied a knot a few centimeters above the wound, then, just to be on the safe side, he picked up the torn shirt and used it to apply pressure.
"Here." Josh held out the gun.
The boy stared at it as if it were a snake ready to bite him. "I can't."
"Take it." He brought it even closer to Drake, practically forcing it into his hand, then he tended to his cut.
Despite having the protection of a gun, he was more scared now than he was facing the killer without it. Maybe it was an irrational fear, but it was a fear nonetheless, perhaps stemming from his lack of knowledge and experience. He held it out in front of him, pointing it at the doors. His hands were shaking, causing the weapon to make a soft rattling sound that gained Josh's attention.
He wasn't even sure how to use it. Should he cock it? Was it already, or did it even need that at all? What if he missed, like Josh luckily had just minutes before? What if he couldn't do it? What if he was too much of a coward?
Both he and Josh froze when the doors jiggled. The killer was trying to get in! He'd found them! The doors shook with even more aggression now.
Drake angled the weapon higher, aiming now for what was possibly the killer's head. He trembled violently, and his fingers went numb from fear. He gripped the gun tighter to make sure he didn't drop it. Josh looked at him with wide, expectant eyes, pressuring him to take the shot. Hesitantly, Drake hovered his quivering finger over the trigger. Maybe the killer would give up and go away on his own. Maybe Drake wouldn't have to resort to using the murderous metal in his unsteady hands.
His eyes moved to the shirt that was holding the knobs together. He'd tied it in a rush, too frantic to be meticulous. The half-knot was loosening. His teeth were chattering, matching the rattling sound of the vibrating gun. He'd rather be back at school suffering from Huntley's wrath than facing the man who wanted to butcher him again. Who knows? Maybe it was Huntley under that mask. The picture Drake had found in Stephen's room definitely made him look more suspicious.
Finally, the sorry knot gave way, and the shirt fell to the floor. Still, Drake couldn't get himself to press down on the trigger. Even if the cloaked killer grabbed him and dragged him out of the closet, he wasn't sure that he could fire the weapon. Even if it was for his own protection, he didn't think he would be able to take someone's life. His mother's blood was on his hands, as was Linny's, Johnny's and Stephen's. He was drowning in guilt.
To Josh's dismay, the doors slid apart, and his stepbrother still made no move to protect them. However, once he saw his dad standing before them, he was relieved by Drake's hesitancy.
Walter nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw them. "Whoa! What the hell?!" he exclaimed with a shaky voice as he held up his hands to shield himself.
Drake audibly let go of the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then lowered the gun. He swore under his breath, now panting for air with exhaustion as if he had just run a marathon.
Walter caught on quickly. "He's here?"
The oldest couldn't speak. His mouth was dry, so he nodded, while Josh answered verbally. The man took the gun, then, like some sort of badass from a movie, he opened the cylinder and checked his bullet count. Three were missing. There were three left. He closed it, cocked it, then held it out at arm's length as he turned his back to the boys. Carefully, he made his way to the door, and without peeking out, he shut it, then locked it. Afterwards, he checked the master bathroom, disappearing from sight.
Just like on the night Drake had been attacked, the Parker-Nichols living room was swarming with police officers. It wasn't long ago that the first had arrived on the scene. In fact, an ambulance hadn't even made it yet. A few cops were checking Josh's wound, and Walter was talking to Detective Abrahamian. In the foyer, the two men assigned to look after the targeted teen were standing with an angry Officer Reznick, who was most likely reprimanding them. Drake was hunched over, hanging his head guiltily as he sat on the alcove in front of the living room window.
Walter gave a short nod and shook Abrahamian's hand. After the man walked away, he looked around his circus of a living room, shaking his head slightly at the fact that they were back here again. His eyes spotted Drake, and he crossed the room to confront him. The boy didn't have to lift his head to know who was glaring down at him.
"So what's your excuse this time?" his stepfather asked.
He didn't want to tell the man about the bullies at school because Walter would probably take this issue to the principal and embarrass him, as well as make everything worse. Instead, he shrugged.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he demanded sharply, and Drake obeyed. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I was just..."
"Just what, Drake?!"
"I..." Drake was embarrassed that he was being yelled at in front of so many people. He tried to speak quietly, but Walter couldn't seem to contain himself, and a couple of officers looked their way, as well as Josh. "I didn't think—"
"Exactly! You never think!"
"I'm sorry," the boy tried defensively.
"Do you understand what could've happened?! We could've been walking into a whole different situation, and for what?!" He paused because he truly expected an answer. "For what, Drake?! What was so important?!"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, no longer defensive — just guilty. It was rare that Drake apologized for anything, yet Walter had managed to squeeze two out of him in under twenty seconds. He hung his head.
"You should've been at school. None of this would've happened if you would've done what you were supposed to do. Your brother had to leave school — I had to leave work — to come look for you. You nearly got your brother killed. You nearly got yourself killed. How could you do this? I mean, do you just not care, or are you just this fucking dumb?"
Water stung Drake's eyes, but he held it back. He's been doing a lot of that lately. He didn't answer the question.
"Excuse me, Mr. Nichols?" It was a police officer. "Sorry to interrupt. Could I just get your signature on your statement?"
"Sure." As he picked up the pen that was on the clipboard, he noticed Drake stand and take a couple steps towards the staircase. "You stay right there," he said in a voice so strict that he was giving Ms. Wheaton a run for her money. "I'm not finished with you."
Drake groaned internally, but he did as he was told because he feared the consequences of not doing so. It wasn't often that he heard his stepdad speak in this tone.
"Thank you," the cop said after Walter finished signing. "Paramedics just arrived. They're about to take him out to the ambulance." After that, he gave them their space.
Walter turned back to his son. He was quiet for a moment, his rage building. "I don't even know what to say to you. It doesn't matter anyway, does it? Everything seems to go in one ear and out the other with you. You don't care what I have to say. You don't care who gets hurt because of your foolish, boneheaded actions."
Drake remained silent. There was nothing he could say to make up for his mistake, and he knew that. This conversation reminded him of the one he'd overheard through the bedroom door when Walter was complaining to his mother about being stuck with Drake. He didn't feel like a member of this family anymore. He didn't belong in this house. All he did was cause problems. He wished his mom were here.
"I'm gonna meet Josh at the hospital. Look at me."
Drake lifted his head and sheepishly met his eyes.
"You are not to leave this house. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," the boy replied quietly.
"Megan's carpool should be here soon to drop her off. I need you to keep your eye on your sister for me. Can you handle that? Do you think you can do one fucking thing right?"
Drake felt a lump rise up in his throat at this. His eyes were heavy with tears that wouldn't fall. "Yes, sir," he practically whispered.
"Excuse me." This time, it was Officer Reznick, and Pearl wasn't far behind him, looking down at the pen and notepad in his hands. "I have a few more questions for Drake if that's alright. When Walter nodded, he fixed his gaze on the teen. "I spoke with Celeste Habmyer in regard to the party that took place by the creek. She said she doesn't remember going off with you."
Walter's eyes moved to Drake, awaiting his response.
"She was kinda drunk." He had already told them this before, so although he felt like he was safe from punishment, bringing this up again would only add to his stepfather's anger towards him.
"And you led her to the cabin to..." He looked down at his notepad to quote the exact words. "...'mess around'."
"She led me there," he corrected.
"Celeste has no memory of this."
"Like I said, she was pretty drunk."
"Pretty drunk or kinda drunk?"
"She had eight beers."
"Yet you still went to the cabin with her."
Drake didn't like the way he was being perceived. "She didn't tell me until we got there."
"You couldn't tell that she was drunk by the way she acted?"
"I guess I was pretty drunk, too."
Reznick moved on. "Can you elaborate on what you meant by 'mess around'?"
"You know, like...make out and stuff."
"And stuff?"
Drake was silent as he desperately tried to come up with a response. Perhaps he would be a little more open without his stepfather present, but because he was here, this conversation was awkward.
Officer Reznick continued. "The first time we spoke, you mentioned that you broke things off with Linny Tifton because she wouldn't have sex with you."
The teen's heart started beating fast, and his ears felt hot. Why was he mentioning this in front of Walter? Couldn't he see he was already on thin ice?
Finally, he responded. "I don't see how that has anything to do with—"
"I'm just making sure I have everything straight, Drake."
He hesitated before giving in, his voice quiet because he wasn't sure how Walter would react. "Yes, that's true."
Walter spoke up now. "Is Drake a suspect?"
"I'm just going through all possibilities," the man replied. It wasn't a no. "I think I have what I need for now. Thank you both for your time." He gave them a nod and smile as Pearl slipped his pen and pad into his shirt pocket, then both officers walked away.
Drake was breathing hard when the realization hit him. "They think I killed them..."
"This is fucking perfect!" Walter spat quietly with frustration, and his stepson flinched at his rage.
The boy looked at him with glistening eyes, and his fingers trembled ever so slightly. "I didn't do it." His voice shook. "Walter, I swear I—"
"I know." He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around the boy to offer comfort. During the hug, he could feel him shaking. He let go of a calming exhale. "Drake, I don't mean to get so angry. I know you're going through a lot, but you have to make smart decisions. You can't just go off on your own — especially not without telling someone — when a serial killer is out there."
He wanted to cry. "I know. It was so stupid." His voice was filled with regret and panic as he thought about a fate worse than becoming one of the killer's victims: being branded as the killer. He'd rather die than have people think he was the one who had murdered all their friends and loved ones.
"We'll get through this," Walter said, placing a hand on the back of Drake's head. "They're gonna find your father, and all this will be over. It's gonna be okay."
Drake tilted the dustpan over the miniature trash can beside the desk he shared with his stepbrother, pouring out the glass shards within. The struggle had started at Josh's armoire. He had opened it to grab his work uniform so that, if he found Drake at the basketball court or creek, he could get to work without being late. He'd wanted to avoid calling out if he could, but now he had a pretty good excuse. It was definitely better than trying to explain that he couldn't show up because he was busy chasing after his idiot brother.
Drake left the room, putting a chair right-side-up before he went, then started down the hall to return the broom and dustpan to the cleaning closet. He cluelessly eyed some of the spray bottles and containers. None of them advertised that they could remove blood stains out of carpet. He chose one at random, then grabbed a washcloth and headed for Walter's room, stopping outside the door. For a moment, he stood there, unwilling to go inside. This room held too many bad memories: first his mom, and now Josh — both of which were his fault.
Shaking those thoughts from his head, he pushed the door open a crack. Peeking inside, he saw a section of the room painted with blood as if his mother's horrid tragedy had just happened minutes ago. Red splatters dotted the walls and crimson stripes lined the ceiling. He pressed on, but only by a few inches. On the portion of the bed that was now in his view, he saw his mother's still feet. With that, he slammed the door shut, then weakly leaned against it. It was only then that he realized he was panting hard, nearly hyperventilating. His fingers shook, and his legs felt wobbly. He closed his eyes, trying hard to rid his mind of the scarring image of the woman he had abandoned.
Suddenly, there was a touch on his arm, and a voice said, "Hey?"
Already on edge, he jumped, then tried to calm himself when he saw that it was only his little sister.
"Are you okay?"
He nodded his head because he wasn't immediately able to speak. When he was, he said, "Yeah," but it didn't sound so convincing, so he added, "I'm fine." He couldn't get himself to enter his parents' bedroom, so he took the cleaner to his own room.
Megan tailed behind. "What happened? Is that blood?"
Drake followed her horrified gaze to his right sleeve. He must've cowered too close to Josh while they hid in the closet. He immediately felt panicked and wanted the shirt as far away from him as possible, but he acted nonchalant for his sister's sake. As calmly as he could, he made his way over to his dresser and grabbed a new shirt, then removed the other.
It wasn't until he lifted his arms to take off his shirt that he was able to think about the beating he had taken earlier, but with this movement, the pain hit him like a freight train. He moved more cautiously, but tried to change as quickly as he could to hide his bruises. However, it was too late. She had already seen them.
"What happened to your back?" Megan asked, her worry only growing despite his best efforts.
"Nothing," he said, then he picked up the washcloth and spray again and moved over to the dribbles of crimson on the floor near Josh's bed. He got onto his knees, mindful of his injuries this time, then sprayed the discolored hardwood.
"Whose blood is that?"
"Josh's. He was attacked, but he's okay. He just needs stitches." He couldn't look at her when he said this.
"The killer was here again?" she asked, her unease showing in her voice. "And Walter left us here alone?"
Finally, Drake lifted his head and met her eyes, which had watered over. "Hey, you'll be okay," he said softly. "I'm here. I would never let anything happen to you."
"Like it happened to Josh and Stephen?" As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She was just able to catch a glimpse of the look of hurt on her brother's face before he lowered his head again and went back to scrubbing the floor. "I didn't mean it like that."
"It's okay."
Or maybe she did mean it like that, but she hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly. But really, how could he protect her? He couldn't even protect himself, much less their mother. How could he expect her to trust him with his track record?
"Drake—" she started guiltily.
"Hey," he said as he met her gaze again, trying to assure her that his feelings weren't hurt now that he had regained control of his facial expressions. "It's okay. Don't worry about it. The police officers are outside watching the house, so we're safe." He pushed himself onto his feet, then disappeared down the hall, carrying with him the spray bottle and the blood-stained washcloth.
Drake was sitting on Josh's bed, which he didn't often do. He had his own bed, and they had a couch in their room after all. However, being here made him feel closer to his brother. It was as if he was saving a place for him for whenever he returned and making sure no one else tried to take it — making sure that the killer didn't take Josh from him. Josh had to come back. This spot was waiting for him.
Paramedics had assured them that Josh would be just fine, so he knew his brother would come back, but he couldn't help thinking what might've happened had he not arrived home when he did.
To pass the time, he strummed absently on the guitar in his lap. He hadn't been in the mood to play much lately, and he still wasn't, but when Josh got home, he didn't want him to think that he'd sat around moping and wallowing in self-pity.
He plucked at the strings randomly until a tune found its way to his fingers and words pushed past his lips.
Risk my life with certain wants that lead to my decay
Twist my arm and suffocate all the fame away
I know I've got a lot to learn
Complicated and a mess, slightly OCD
Take for granted many things that mean a lot to me
I know I've got a lot to learn
Megan paused outside the door when she heard her older brother's voice. It's been a while since she's heard him sing. She knew he did when he was with his band, but he didn't sing or play in between practices anymore — not since their mother's passing.
He's changed so much since then, yet somehow not at all. He still did most of the things he had done before, but it was different. He still played with his band, but more out of obligation rather than hope for his future music career. He still partied with his friends, consuming illegal substances, but to cope rather than to have fun. He still avoided his little sister, but it was due to his guilt rather than their age difference.
I was raised as a scorpion being pulled by the moon in a high tide
That's why I'm broken
Am I a villain or a saint? Let me lead the way
"Drake?" She pushed open the door to a suddenly silent room. She shouldered it even further to make room for her to enter with the record player and Fleetwood Mac vinyl in her hands. "I'm done with this."
He laid his guitar on the bed and stood, then took the things from her and muttered a quiet thanks as he carried it over to the shelf at the foot of his loft. She didn't have to say anything. He knew what this was. An apology. A peace offering.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, nervously. Besides the breakdown he'd had after coming home drunk yesterday, they never spoke to one another like this.
"Yeah," he said, equally quiet. "Are you?"
"Yeah."
He waited for her to leave, but she didn't. Instead, she took a seat on the bed where he'd been sitting — in Josh's spot. He busied himself by rearranging the order of his records. They weren't in any particular order to begin with — that was more of a Josh thing — but he was looking for any reason not to talk to her.
"When do you think this will end?" Megan asked, breaking the comforting silence.
He didn't have an answer, so he didn't give one. Well, he didn't have an exact date, but he knew that this wouldn't end until he was buried six feet underground. That's not the kind of thing you say to a ten-year-old, though.
She asked a different question. "Do you really think it's Dad?"
He asked himself this every day. He wasn't always an abusive drunk, but even before the drinking started, it was clear that there was a disconnect between father and son. Winston didn't understand him. Rather than sports and cars and hunting, Drake liked music and art and singing. He'd rather join a talent show than try out for the football team. Other than an interest in horror cinema, they had little in common. Was that enough to warrant Drake's murder, though?
Drake sighed, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "I don't know, Megan."
"But do you think it could be someone else?"
Already, he was tired of her pestering. "I don't know. Sure."
"Who?"
"How the fuck should I know, Megan?"
"Surely you've thought of other suspects?"
For a moment, he paused halfway through switching the Sex Pistols album for the David Bowie one. He knew what she was doing. She wanted to hear his suspect list so she could compare it with her own and validate some of her suspicions.
"I guess."
"Do you think...?"
He was intrigued now. He quit messing with the records and moved closer to her. He leaned against the back of the couch with his arms crossed. "What?"
"Like, have you ever thought about...maybe Walter?"
"What?" he said, a triangular wrinkle forming between his furrowed brows. He wasn't sure who he had expected her to say, but it definitely wasn't their stepfather.
"I hear him sometimes," she said, "on the phone with Grammy. Sometimes he says things about you..."
This hurt his feelings more than he let on. "Just because he doesn't like me, it doesn't mean he wants to kill me. Besides, look what happened to Josh. He would never try to kill him."
"No, but maybe he would be willing to hurt him a little to divert suspicion. Don't you think it's a little strange that all Josh got was a little cut?"
"It wasn't little," Drake said. He felt like diminishing the size of the wound was synonymous with diminishing his own responsibility.
"But it wasn't life-threatening."
"Walter's not a doctor. How would he know that?"
"Anyone could do a quick Google search."
"Please tell me you did not go through his Google history."
"It's empty," she said. "He deleted it."
"That's not that weird," he said, but he couldn't explain why because he didn't find it all that appropriate to discuss the signs of porn use with his kid sister. Plus, he didn't want to dwell on the thought of Walter looking up porn. Although... No. Stop. "Megan, he's family. We can't turn on each other right now."
"Think about it. When you were nearly killed, who was the first person to show up? Walter. And then when Josh was attacked, who was the first person you saw?"
She made good points, but he didn't think his stepfather was behind the murders, and agreeing with her would cause a division in the family. A divided family is easy to conquer. Or something like that. He never really listened in social studies.
"How did he get in the room if it was locked?"
"He said he used a credit card."
She stood with a frustrated scoff. "Never mind. You never listen to me," she pouted, then she went for the exit. Before leaving, she turned back to him. "Did you ever think that maybe he blames you for mom's death? Is it really that hard to believe he might wanna kill you?" With that, she was gone.
Drake sat up when the bedroom door opened. "Megan?" he said nervously.
"Nope. Just me, baby. Just me." Josh flipped on the light switch. He was smirking, proud of his Army of Darkness quote. "Why are you sitting in the dark, weirdo?" Drake didn't respond, but Josh could see his muscles visibly relax when he realized who it was — or probably more correctly, who it wasn't. "I brought you a slice." He held out a napkin that had pepperoni pizza on top. There was another for himself in the other hand.
"I'm not hungry." Drake went back to staring restlessly at the ceiling as he laid on the couch.
Josh approached with a sigh, then set the unwanted pizza on the coffee table. "Sit up."
He tapped the boy's legs until he moved them, then he sat in their place. He removed his shoes, then looked over at Drake, who was staring at the bandage wrapped around his arm. When Drake was caught staring, he quickly averted his eyes and instead looked down at his lap.
"You should eat," Josh said.
"I can't. I feel so sick."
"Like, fever sick?" he asked with concern, his brows scrunched as he bit into his pizza.
Drake didn't answer. Instead, he was again looking at the bandage — at what could've been. He could feel the lump rising in his throat. His eyes stung with hot tears. Snot was beginning to gather in his nostrils. He couldn't hold it back anymore. "Josh, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Alarmed by the sudden tears, the young man set his pizza down and gave Drake his full attention. "You don't have to be sorry. It wasn't your fault."
"I could never forgive myself if I lost you. I don't know what I'd do without you." Ashamed of his tears, he hung his head. Drake leaned forwards, hiding his face in his stepbrother's shirt as Josh wrapped his arms around him.
"I'm okay," the younger brother said. "You don't have to worry. I'm gonna be okay."
"You could've died."
"But I didn't. I'm fine. I got away, and I remembered Dad had a gun, so even if you didn't show up, I would've been okay. You can't blame yourself, especially not for something that never happened," Josh said. "Besides, if anyone should be apologizing for anything, it should be me. I almost shot you. You're the one who nearly died. I was about to come at you with 'This is my boomstick' and everything."
He gave a little chuckle at yet another Evil Dead reference, pleased that he had managed to fit in another within the span of a few minutes, but Drake didn't laugh. He should've expected this, what with the boy's lack of enthusiasm when he made the Army of Darkness joke. Drake's thoughts were too heavy to cheer him up with Josh's lame sense of humor.
"Josh..." Drake sniffled, then brought his hand up to wipe his nose. "In case something happens—"
"Nothing's gonna happen."
"But just in case, I just need you to know that I love you so much, and I'm sorry I don't really show it. You moving in was the best thing that could've happened to me. You've always been kind, even when I was a complete dick, and forgiving, even when I didn't deserve it. You made me want to become a better person. I always wished I could be more like you, and I'm sorry about every mean thing I've ever said and all the bullshit I've put you through. I don't deserve someone like you. You've changed my life and..." His voice went up several octaves until it stopped working altogether.
Drake's back jerked as he sobbed into the crook of Josh's neck. His throat made a noise, making it obvious that he was trying to speak, but got choked up. His sobs got louder. His brother rubbed his back as an attempt to soothe him. Drake lifted his arms and returned the embrace, tighter than the other. He had bunches of Josh's tee balled up in his fists as he clung to him.
Finally, he managed to admit, "I'm so scared, Josh. I'm so fucking scared."
His brother squeezed him tight, and despite his bruises, this gave Drake comfort. Josh didn't have to say anything. Drake felt safer when he was around. Maybe not safer, but he felt at peace.
"I'm leaving right now," Detective Abrahamian said into his phone as he waited for the elevator. "I know. I'm sorry. I just got so caught up with this case. Another kid was attacked today."
There was a ding, and then the elevator doors opened. He stepped inside and pressed the number two. It didn't light up, but the bulb in it had been broken for years, so he knew it would take him to where he needed to go anyway. The doors closed.
"I'm in the parking garage right now. It'll take me..." He checked his watch. "—fifteen minutes. Just tell your parents I got stuck in traffic. Order the catfish for me." There was a pause. "I know. I will. I love you, too. See you soon."
He hung up and stood there for a moment before he noticed that the elevator wasn't moving. He pressed the button again. Still nothing. Before he could give it another try, his phone rang again. He answered it, then spammed the button.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
"Well, hello to you, too," the man on the other end said.
"Not you. It's the fucking elevator..." He pressed the button to open the doors, then he made his way to the staircase. "What did you find?"
"There were no fingerprints at the scene, no signs of forced entry. This guy's good."
There was a disappointed sigh as Abrahamian opened the door to the stairwell and started his descent down two flights. "Did you check out Walter Nichols like I asked?"
"No criminal record. Not even a fucking speeding ticket."
"What about his ex-wife? How did she die?"
"She killed herself," he said with a fascinated excitement rather than with pity or compassion. "She slit her own throat in her bed."
"Jesus..." he said, his brows furrowed. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he slowed to a walk.
"Pretty fucked up," the man on the other end agreed.
"Yeah," he said slowly, his mind trying to fit the pieces together like a puzzle. Abrahamian opened the door and started across the second floor of the parking garage. "Thanks for checking into that for me."
"I found something else," the man said. "A black 2017 Honda Civic was reported stolen a couple miles from Novato around the same time we received a tip that Winston Parker was spotted there. Could just be a coincidence, but..."
"Good find."
"I gotta get home. The wife's gonna put me on the couch if I'm late for dinner again."
"You and me both."
The two shared a chuckle, then said their goodbyes. Detective Abrahamian slipped his cell phone into his pocket, then sped up again, trying to push the new information to the side until after he got through his dinner with the in-laws. One thing his wife hated was when he brought his work home with him, but he was pretty good about keeping his work life and home life separate.
He'd ponder more about the case later. He just had to get through this dinner, and as long as the in-laws didn't stir anything up between them like they so often tried to do, they would go home, help each other undress, and make sweet love like they did on a typical Thursday night. After she was asleep, he'd go into his office, relaxed and mentally rejuvenated from the sex, and search for more connections with the information he'd been given.
Abrahamian searched one pocket for his key, then the other, too distracted to hear the screeching tires echoing through the garage until it was too late.
The black Honda Civic came out of nowhere, plowing into him from behind with so much speed and intention that he rolled over the top of the car and landed hard on the concrete. Rubber tires skidded to a halt, squealing so loudly that the detective got a migraine. That was the least of his worries. His leg was broken or dislocated, and his hip suffered a similar problem. There were definitely some cracked ribs, and he couldn't seem to move — possibly from a spinal injury. He groaned, only half aware when the car revved up and the tires made a shrill sound like a coffee pot. The driver moved in reverse, and the vehicle bounced violently as the back tires moved over the body, then the front tires. Again, it came to a stop.
Abrahamian gasped for breath, then coughed. Pain shot through his entire body. The car had rolled him onto his other side, so now he was staring at bright lights. At first, he thought that maybe this was Heaven, but when he heard the car door open, he realized that he wasn't dead yet. There were footsteps, but he only saw the figure when it stepped in front of the blinding headlights.
"No..." he managed. He gazed up at the serial killer he had been hunting, recognizing the costume instantly from the drawing Drake had given him on the night of his attack. It was a near-perfect copy, but one thing that hadn't come across in the sketch was just how terrifying he was when he towered over his victim. This all confirmed for him what he and Drake had both suspected — that if the killer had wanted him dead, he would be. "No!" he yelled when the masked murderer approached, hunting knife in hand, and then he screamed because there was nothing else he could do to stop him from slamming the knife into the center of his chest.
As the blood spilled out, the ghost mask leaned closer, his voice distorted. "Game over."
