I watch him disappear into the crowds of people all headed to their next classes, and it hits me: maybe he’s right. Maybe this time it won’t be so bad. Maybe this time next week I will be forgotten.

  There’s one person who definitely won’t have forgotten me, though.

  I may have told Morgan I was going to report what Noah did to the police yesterday, but the honest truth is that I was just going to leave it. He was angry, and I felt guilty. But now … now I’m worried. Noah’s had time to cool off and think things through, but it seems he’s spent that time getting angrier and more aggressive instead. Hearing a complete stranger tell me the same thing as Morgan has opened my eyes a little. And besides that, I don’t ever want to feel as vulnerable as Noah Richards just made me feel.

  Never again.

  As I walk home, I take a look at the flyer Alex gave me and I see a band name on the list that I immediately recognize.

  D.M.F.

  Luke’s band.

  I stuff the flyer in my pocket, and I head straight to the police station like I should have done first thing this morning. A young female police officer takes down my statement regarding Noah’s behavior, though she doesn’t seem all that interested. I guess working so near a college with so many young people getting drunk each weekend and causing all kinds of trouble can desensitize a person. She assures me that they take “this kind of thing” seriously, though. I don’t mention Luke. It would look really bad for him if there were girls reporting romance drama, involving him, all over the city where he has to work.

  I’m still running my fingers over the flyer in my pocket as I walk home.

  Twenty-Eight

  Breakwater

  Eleven Years Ago

  Luke

  I can hear the gas oven struggling to light. Click, click, click. My eyes are closed, but I know when it catches—there’s a whoompf sound, followed by the whispered roar of the fire establishing itself. I crack my eyes, hoping that he’s gone, but he hasn’t, of course.

  He slides the silver thing—Mom uses it to fry eggs, can’t remember its name—from the kitchen counter and holds it up for me to see. He looks dopey, a little stoned, like the pictures they’ve shown us of drug addicts in class. He’s not high, though. He’s drunk, which is worse. At least if he were high, he wouldn’t be so angry. He nearly drops her—the small girl he’s holding in his free arm.

  “I mean it, Lucas. You hear me?”

  I step back, hiding my hands behind my back, as though doing so will mean I can’t do what he’s told me to do.

  “You want me to hurt her?” he slurs.

  “I don’t … I can’t,” I tell him.

  “Fucking pussy. Fucking faggot pussy. Do as you’re fucking told!”

  I skitter back another step, ducking around the kitchen table, feeling safer now that there’s an obstacle between us. My heart beats out an irregular tattoo against my ribcage. What will he do now? What will he do? What will he do now? He scowls, face contorting into a confusing arrangement of features, all warring to get away from one another. “All right,” he growls. “Then you know what’s going to happen.” He lurches back to the oven, and he holds the silver thing over the flames.

  He holds it there until the metal glows red.

  Twenty-Nine

  Cheat

  “THE SICK thing is, Glen, this guy was a part of the community. He had contact with troubled teenagers who were in vulnerable positions. Who knows what he could have done to any of them.” The woman with the overly backcombed hair on the late-night news runs her tongue over her teeth as though she’s used to getting lipstick on them. Her co-presenter focuses on her mouth for a second and I find myself absently wondering whether they’re sleeping together. The guy takes a sip of water from his glass and nods.

  “I think that’s what the people of Wyoming are asking themselves right now, Kathy. We’re only discovering the extent of this man’s sickness now, years after the events took place. Max Breslin was not only a charismatic man, but he was incredibly intelligent, too. Good at hiding his dark alter ego. Who knows what else is going to come out of the—”

  I switch off the TV and stare at the blank screen. Seriously? Seriously? A dark alter ego? My dad could be a dick sometimes, especially to Mrs. Harlow when she let her Bijon Frise crap on our driveway, but come on. The extent of his malicious capabilities was a strongly worded Post-it note stuck on her letterbox. I tip my head back. Let out a loud sigh. There’s no point trying to bury my head in the sand by avoiding stuff like this. It’s everywhere, and besides, I don’t feel half as hideous as I thought I would. Maybe that has something to do with how ridiculous the lies are.

  Leslie’s out for the evening, and Morgan’s parents are driving her to Seabrook for her first therapy session since “the incident.” They’re returning to Charlestown straight afterwards, so no doubt Morgan is going to be in better spirits over the coming days.

  There was a Way Out of Wyoming movie poster stuck to my apartment door when I got back from class, with my father’s face tacked over that of the hooded murderer’s. I did the only thing I could think of and I left it there. The only piece of advice Amanda St. French has ever given me that seems to work: if you don’t react, people get bored. And if they are bored, they soon forget about you and your baggage.

  The knowledge the poster’s probably still there is driving me nuts, but I leave it there, a practice in will power. I want to be ignored again. If I have to put up with a couple of weeks of this, then I am damn well going to learn how.

  I keep glancing down at my cell phone, holding my breath like any minute it’s going to ring. It’s not going to ring, though. A week. I told Luke I wanted a week to get my head straight, and so far it’s only been three days. He will, without a doubt, honor that. I have to make sure I’m not the one who caves. In the end, I decide to call Brandon instead of Luke. He’s breathless when he picks up. “Tell me you were exercising and not involved in some kinky sex game with Monica Simpson. Please.”

  He makes a mildly disgusted sound on the other end of the phone. “You’re sick, you know that?” Brandon laughs. “I was just outside. Had to run for the phone. Monica and I have decided not to pursue our torrid affair.”

  “Just too hot to handle, Uncle B?”

  “Exactly. Truth be told, those boobs were just too—”

  “BRANDON!” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental image. “I’m already scarred enough. Please don’t damage me further.”

  More laughter. “Okay, kiddo. I hope that unfinished sentence haunts you. What’s up? Did you and Luke get things ironed out? I told him to call you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

  “Just doing my civic duty as a responsible uncle.”

  “Shouldn’t you be warning him to stay the hell away from me or something? Where is he anyway? Is he … is he still with you?” I am such a cheater.

  “He left this morning. Probably needed about five more hours sleep, but I couldn’t stop him. Said he needed to get back for some music thing.”

  Some music thing? That rings bells. I press the phone to my ear as I walk across the apartment. My jacket’s where I left it on the coat rack. I start rifling through the pockets. “So what time was he flying?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Brandon asks. He’s teasing me. I can even hear the amusement in his smug voice.

  “Because I’m asking you, jerk.” I find what I’m looking for—the flyer that tattooed guy, Alex, gave me. D.M.F’s halfway down the list of band names. The date: tomorrow night.

  “He left early. Kid was green around the gills. I don’t envy him, that’s for sure. That’s what he gets for trying to outpace the big dogs,” Brandon says, laughing,

  “Shit, Brand, you took him out drinking with your buddies? No wonder he was wasted.”

  “S’not my fault. Drinking yourself into oblivion is a rite of passage into this family, kiddo. You’ll be pleased to know he acquitted himself with honor.”

  “Oh my god, do not say things like that. Please.” Brandon just laughs like the evil bastard he is. “I’m assuming you told him a whole bunch of stuff about me that I probably wouldn’t want him to know?” I ask.

  “Of course.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Avery?”

  I close my eyes. “Yes, Brandon?”

  “He’s in love with you. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Thirty

  Electric

  Luke

  So far I’ve made it three days without calling her. It’s a miracle of epic proportions. Not being at work hasn’t helped. Being up at her old house, hunting through those closed-up rooms, made me think of her constantly. There were boy band posters on her bedroom walls. Weird, gangly looking blond teenaged boys that I’d always been convinced were girls. I took photos in case I need bribery material at some later date.

  I didn’t find a diary, which fucking sucks. If there had been a diary, it would have been a simple matter of looking up what Max was doing on the dates of the Ripper killings. If he was working, had appointments, etc., he would have had an alibi. Ipso Facto, Max couldn’t be the killer.

  But no diary means no alibi. I’ve come back empty handed, feeling like the whole trip was a massive waste of time. I needed to get out of New York, though. I needed to clear my head. A little time back home, despite the ghosts and the bad memories, has helped.

  I’m passed out on the couch, still feeling like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a wood chipper, when Cole calls. “Where are you, fucker? We need to practice for tomorrow. It’s nearly four.”

  I check my watch—he’s right. Four twenty-two p.m. I should have been over at the warehouse by three. “Shit, sorry, man. I am not feeling great,” I groan, burying my face in a couch cushion.

  “You’ll be feeling worse if I have to come over there and kick your ass,” Cole tells me cheerfully.

  “All right, all right. I’m fucking coming.”

  “Bring food.” Cole rings off without another word.

  I take a shower, washing the hangover and this morning’s plane journey from my skin; I feel a little more human by the time I’m dressed, but still not great. On the way over to Cole’s, I grab a couple of pizzas from Rosito’s, the place where I took Avery the night I told her about Colby Bright’s book. I want to drive over to her building, instead. I want to talk to her. I can’t, though. She asked me for this one thing, and I can give it to her. It sucks, but what’s four more days?

  Alt-J are blasting out of the warehouse when I arrive. I fucking love Alt-J. Cole throws a drum stick at me as I walk through the door. “Took your fucking time, asshole.”

  I shrug. “You wanted food.”

  Gus and Pete fall on the pizzas like half-starved piranhas. I manage to grab a slice before every scrap of pepperoni and mushroom has disappeared. Cole doesn’t touch the food, though. He jerks his head toward the back patio, signaling me to follow him.

  It’s started to snow. The large, fat flakes have already settled onto the misappropriated garden furniture that just turned up one day over the summer, when me and Cole would sit out here and write the bare bones of new tracks together. “So,” he says. “You thought about it? The contract?”

  I’ve been waiting for him to bring this up for a while now. I brush the snow off of the closest garden chair and take a seat, stuffing my hands into my jacket pockets. “I have.”

  Cole doesn’t sit down. He hugs his arms around his body, staring at me intently. “And?”

  “And I need more time.”

  “MVP want to know by the end of December, Luke.”

  “The end of December’s still two weeks away. Can you give me ’til then?”

  Cole looks down at his boots, nodding his head slowly. “I can.” He smiles then, shooting me a sideways glance. “Just figured you might not wanna leave your friend hanging is all.”

  “Ahh, you know me. I take pleasure in making your life hell.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it. You’d better say yes, Reid. I’ve already told this chick I’m screwing that we’re gonna be famous. You don’t wanna make me look like a liar now, do you?”

  “You are a liar,” I laugh. “You’ll say anything to get a woman into bed, right?”

  He grins. “Something like that. Come on, man, it’s fucking freezing out here.” We head back inside. I only warm up once we’ve made it through the first part of the set we’re playing tomorrow night. I’m dripping sweat, stripped down to a singlet by the time we’re finished.

  I drive home, my body humming like there’s an electric current flowing through me. Whatever else he might say, Cole’s right about one thing. I love playing. It’s a part of me, inside me, taking me over whenever I have that guitar in my hands.

  I’m still hyped when I climb into the shower. When I get out, drying myself, I see that I have a missed call and a voicemail waiting for me on my phone. They’re both from Chloe Mathers. I have to play her message twice to make sure I’ve heard it right.

  “Hey, Reid, it’s me. Are you still in Break? Call me when you get this. Something’s happened with the case. Something big. Something that could prove once and for all that Max Breslin was innocent man.”

  Thirty-One

  D.M.F

  I’m going to the D.M.F gig.

  I shouldn’t be going to the gig. I should be studying. I should be watching The Price is Right. I should be doing a thousand ab crunches or listening to Morgan extol the benefits of coffee enemas. Basically, I should be doing anything but going to see Luke Reid play in his band.

  “Can’t you text him to let him know we’re coming? He could put us on a list or something, I bet. There’s probably free booze backstage.” Morgan shivers beside me as we make our way through the city, toward the club where D.M.F are playing.

  “Dude! You’re not allowed alcohol. Your body is recovering from an overdose, remember? Or have you forgotten all about your recent stint in hospital? I’m not letting you out of my sight. And as for trying to get on a door list, that kinda ruins the whole idea of me not wanting him to know I’m there. So, no, I’m not texting Luke.”

  Morgan grumbles into her scarf, shooting daggers at me. “It’s freezing cold, Ave. I am still recovering from a drug overdose and you’re going to make me queue on the side of the street in Hell’s Kitchen to preserve your weird sense of pride.”

  I resist rolling my eyes. “Papa Joe’s is a dive bar. I strongly doubt there’s ever been a queue to get in. And if there is, you can share my body heat. It’s either that or we go home.”

  “Fine,” Morgan pouts. “But just so you know, it sucks that I have to stand at the back of a dingy bar, lurking in the fricken’ shadows like the phantom of the opera so you can get your stalker-gal rocks off without a damn beer in my hand. I still don’t get why you don’t just fuck this guy and get it over with. Luke is just so …”

  Luke is just Luke. If only she knew what that really meant—how amazing and beautiful and hot the guy was in bed—she would die a death. I’m not ready to tell her that I’ve already slept with him. I try not to even think about that as I drag her reluctantly down the street. We take the third left and then a neon yellow and blue sign—Papa Joe’s! Papa Joe’s! Papa Joe’s!—blinks on and off, lighting up the street no more than twenty feet away.

  No queue. I pull a face at Morgan. “Told you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just get me through the door or I’m going to seize up. It’s like, minus ten out here.”

  It really is about minus ten and I don’t need telling twice. We head for the unmanned door, shivering even harder against each other as we hurry. On the other side of the door, the overwhelming sound of chatter, laughter, and grinding bass music hits us immediately. A long, narrow stairway descends into shady darkness, momentarily brightened by stabs of red and green and blue lights. It’s busy down there. A crackle of static and a high-pitch squeal cuts through the hubbub below as I swallow and take the first step down, assisted by a pointy elbow in my back.

  “Are you ready, ladies? Are you ready for the special gift your Papa Joe has been saving for you?” A deep, gravely voice calls out. A chorus of whoo-ing and omigodomigodomigod! answers the mystery voice. It sounds like bedlam down there. By the time we arrive at the bottom of the stairs, surveying the packed basement bar, we see it really is. The place is madness. A sea of people stand between me and Morgan and a large, raised stage at the far end of the bar. It’s more of a club actually, with a service bar running the length of the right-hand wall. A portly guy in a fedora—Papa Joe, I’m guessing—stands on the stage, grinning and sweating as he takes in the horde of excited women, all of whom have glasses in their hands. Right now, I’m seeing a bobbing mass of women; I’m pretty sure Papa Joe is seeing dollar signs.

  “Ladies, I hope you brought a spare pair of panties ’cause tonight we got some boys who wanna get you all wild and wet. Papa Joe thinks it’s time to welcome on stage your favorite rockers…D…M…F!” He hollers out the letters, punching his fist into the air with each one, and the girls go nuts. It’s kind of pathetic that they’re losing their shit over a band in a basement, considering most of them look pretty respectable. Some of them even look sober. Morgan raises her eyebrows at me.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31