Nate
Friday, July 10
Fifteen minutes later, Bronwyn, Dad, and I are trekking across the Bayview High baseball field, flashlight apps shining. “Behind the bleachers,” I say, leading the way.
“It’s so quiet,” Bronwyn murmurs. “Peaceful, almost.”
“Don’t be fooled,” I mutter, aiming my light at the equipment-shed door. “Well, it’s closed,” I say, reaching out to try the knob. “And locked.”
“Somebody had my keys for a while, though. They might’ve made a copy,” Dad says, pulling them out of his pocket. “Hang on.”
He fits a key into the lock and tugs, opening the door with a long, prolonged squeal. A vision of Phoebe sprawled on the floor flashes through my mind, and my pulse spikes as I stare into the darkness within. Then Dad’s flashlight app illuminates the space, and…
“There’s no one here,” he says, as Bronwyn steps inside and trains the beam of light from her phone against each wall in turn.
“Thank God,” she murmurs.
I’m not as relieved, though; not after what my father said about his keys. He’s right—whoever took them could have free and clear access to every part of Bayview High. “Dad, what else is locked up around here?” I ask.
“Huh? Everything,” he says.
“Yeah, but…if somebody wanted to, I don’t know, keep playing a game, what kind of location do you think they’d choose?”
Dad looks baffled, but Bronwyn catches on fast. “You think whoever put Phoebe here might’ve taken Reggie somewhere else?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But it’s possible.”
“Hmmm,” she says, tapping her chin with a finger. “This shed is separate from the rest of the grounds at Bayview High. Are there any other freestanding buildings?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Dad says.
“Okay, well…” She gazes at the mess of equipment and mats that are piled high against the walls. “Let’s suppose that time for a new game and there’s only one rule actually mean something. Along with the writing on Phoebe’s arm. Practice. It’s all sports related, and so is this shed, so—”
“The gym,” I say. “Or the locker rooms, maybe.”
“Exactly,” Bronwyn says. “Can you get us in there, Patrick?”
“I can, but…” Dad snaps the rubber band on his wrist. “The school has security cameras everywhere. They’ll know we were there. Maybe we should call the police, tell them what we’re worried about.”
“But you’re not breaking in,” Bronwyn says. “You have keys. You’re being a responsible and concerned employee.”
Dad looks conflicted, and I don’t blame him. He needs this job. “Or,” I say, “your asshole son could’ve taken the keys without your knowledge.”
“No,” Bronwyn protests. “He can’t have his keys stolen again.”
“Look, I’ll just—I’ll go alone, okay?” Dad asks. “You two stay here.”
“How about we come with you to the fence, at least?” Bronwyn suggests.
Dad locks up the shed, and we reverse course until Bayview High looms in front of us, dark except for a few lights burning in the entrance. “Be right back,” Dad says, setting out for the parking lot. Bronwyn shivers as she watches him go, and I wrap my arms around her.
“Cold?” I ask.
“No.” She rests her head against my chest. “Worried. This feels all wrong.”
I tighten my hold and breathe in the scent of her green-apple hair so I don’t accidentally blurt out what I’m thinking: Whatever’s happening, at least it’s not happening to you. It’s the wrong sentiment for the moment, and anyway, Bronwyn already got a front-row seat Wednesday night to how badly I’d handle that. We stay like that for a while, until the sound of footsteps causes us to break apart. My father is jogging our way, which is something I haven’t seen him do in at least ten years. He looks tense and winded when he reaches us and bends over, palms against his knees, to catch his breath.
“Security cameras are out,” he manages to say.
“Out?” Bronwyn echoes. “What do you mean?”
“Their lights aren’t on,” he says, straightening. “The little red lights that mean they’re recording. I noticed it for the one on the back door and thought it was a fluke, but the hallway cameras aren’t working either. I took a quick look in the gym—nobody there, by the way—and it’s the same thing.”
“Maybe there’s a power outage?” Bronwyn says, gazing at the building. “Although the outdoor lights are still on, so…”
“Come on, Dad,” I say. “Let’s check the locker rooms.”
I expect my father to protest, but he doesn’t. He lets me take his keys and lead the way to the rear entrance, where—just like he said—the corner-mounted security camera is dark. I unlock the door and push, entering the halls of Bayview High for the first time in more than a year. The first thing I see is the back stairwell, and my mind flashes to being there with Bronwyn after we’d been questioned by the Bayview Police about Simon’s death. I’d apologized for stealing baby Jesus during our fifth-grade Nativity play and given her a burner phone in case she wanted to talk more.
I tried to act like I didn’t care whether she used it or not, but all I could think as I handed it over was Don’t throw it out, okay? Pick up when I call. And she did. She let it ring six times first, but she did.
Not everything that happened at Bayview High was bad.
Bronwyn links her fingers with mine as we push through the double doors and enter the main hall, lined on either side with lockers. “Do we need to go through the gym to get to the locker rooms?” she asks. “I can barely remember.”
“No,” Dad says. “There’s a side hallway running behind the gym that we can use.” He leads the way past the trophy case, adding, “It’s been strange working here. Spending so much time walking these halls, when I barely set a foot inside while you were a student, Nate.” He clears his throat. “Wish I could’ve gotten my act together when you needed the help.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. I always get uncomfortable when my father does this, because I never know what to say back. “Everything worked itself out.”
“You worked it out,” he says. “With Bronwyn.”
“Yeah, well…” I’ve never been so glad to see the door to the boys’ locker room. “Here we are.” I push against it, expecting the resistance of a lock, but the door swings open. “Smells the same as ever,” I grimace, stepping inside.
“I haven’t been inside the boys’ locker room before,” Bronwyn says. “Should we…would it be okay to turn on the lights, do you think?” She feels along the wall until she finds a switch, and a burst of fluorescence floods my eyes.
“Ow,” I mutter, blinking. “Okay. Let’s see. The showers are over here, and—”
I stop in my tracks, holding out my arm to keep Bronwyn from going any farther. “What?” she asks, craning her neck over my shoulder. I hear her sharp intake of breath, and I know I haven’t prevented her from seeing what I see. A spatter of thick, dark-red liquid on the floor. Right before the corner you turn to get to the main locker area.
“Blood,” Bronwyn breathes.
“Stay here,” I tell her. Like she’ll listen. Instead, she’s right by my side as I tread carefully past the blood spatter, turn the corner, and…
“Oh my God!” Bronwyn’s hands fly to her mouth, and the new phone she bought yesterday drops to the ground with a clatter. I manage to keep hold of mine, stomach churning as I take in the scene in front of us.
“Jesus,” my father says, sagging against the wall.
It’s Reggie. He’s gagged and blindfolded, tied to a plastic classroom chair that’s overturned on the floor. There’s a gaping cut on his forehead, a puddle of blood around his head, and more spatters on the corner of the wall between the shower and locker areas. His skin is grayish, his body stiff. There’s a word scrawled across his right arm, in the exact same block letters someone used to write on Phoebe.
makes
