Past the Broken Bridges

Chapter Forty-Two Banks

Chapter Forty-Two

Banks

An alarm goes off on campus that I’ve never heard before, so loud it makes my ears ring.

Suddenly, Teddy is running out from the back room and lowering the cage door that locks the store up from the rest of the building. “Get in the back now,” he directs me and Lucy. “There’s an active shooter. A shot was heard fired somewhere on campus.”

I pale, doing what he says and pulling out my phone as soon as we’re both secured in the back.

Me: Don’t come to campus. It’s not safe

I want for her to text me back.

To see the bubbles.

She’s been sleeping a lot lately, so her silence isn’t that unusual. Her class doesn’t start for another couple of hours, which means she wouldn’t have a reason to be on campus until later.

Me: I’ll see you later

My gut tightens, a feeling I rarely get.

Stress. Anxiety. Given the circumstances, it makes sense why I’d feel uneasy.

I wish I hadn’t written it off so quickly.

* * *

My knocks on Sawyer’s door go unanswered for two hours by the time the campus is cleared and everybody is allowed to go home. Classes are canceled for the rest of the day, so I wanted to check on Sawyer. I call out to her every time I knock.

Nothing.

Anxiety bubbles up to the surface again.

Entering my apartment, I dig through the shit piled onto the counter until I find the sticky note with a name and number written across it.

“Pick up,” I murmur as it rings.

And rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“The caller you have dialed is not available at this time. At the tone, please record your message.”

“Fuck,” I growl as it beeps. Gripping the back of my neck, I start pacing. “Mr. Hawkins, it’s Paxton Banks. I, uh, was just wondering if you and Sawyer were out. If you could call me back, I’d really appreciate it.”

I don’t bother mentioning the school shooting because I don’t want to alarm him. If it’s not all over the news, I’m sure it will be soon enough anyway. When Teddy gave us the all clear to unlock the store, they were saying that there was a shooting just outside campus related to drugs. An altercation, the cops called it.

That was all they said.

I didn’t stick around once we closed early to get more details because there was only one person I wanted to see.

Ten minutes go by agonizingly slowly.

Then thirty minutes.

An hour.

I don’t stop moving, biting my nails, and pacing the entire time. The person who lives below me is probably sick of the back-and-forth creaks of the wood groaning under my feet, but I don’t give a shit.

She wasn’t at the bridge when I stopped by earlier like I thought she’d be. I walked inside our little private happy place and stared at the spot where we were the last time we visited, hoping she’d be sitting there thinking about it too, but she wasn’t.

And she’s not at home.

I look at the clock again.

An hour and forty-five minutes go by.

Nothing.

After sundown, when the silence is too much to bear, I grab the keys to my father’s car and storm toward the door. I open it to see the stricken face of Sawyer’s father.

His eyes are red.

His face pale.

I drop the keys when I see him shake his head and start shaking mine. “No.”

“Son…” His voice cracks.

“I just saw her. She was fine.”

He walks in, grabbing my arm when I nearly trip backing up. “I think you need to sit down.”

“No” is all I can say as he guides me to the couch anyway.

When I’m finally sitting and looking up at him, he takes a deep breath, his eyes a level of sad I’ve never seen on a grown man before, before saying only one thing. “Yes.”

And there, in the middle of my apartment, I break down in front of a father who is not my own, and he comforts me in ways mine never could.

“I just saw her,” I repeat.

Her father is white, silent, nodding absently.

“I just…” I choke on the words.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, clenching it once. “They caught the person who did it. He was identified this afternoon by a witness.”

I stare at him.

“Marco Hastings.”

I sit straighter.

“Does the name mean anything to you?”

It’s hard to swallow.

She wouldn’t.

“Son,” her father says. “Talk to me.”

I blink.

Blink again.

Processing.

Understanding.

You have your future to lose.

She already wrote hers off.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I know Marco.”

And I tell him everything.