Chapter Thirty Eight
“What are you doing?”
Kenneth’s voice makes me jolt so hard I nearly slam my laptop instead of just closing it. The tinny sound of How to Learn Basic Sign Language still plays from beneath the lid. I’d been so focused I hadn’t even heard him enter our dorm.
“Oooh, are you trying to impress a certain lady?” Kenneth’s eyes light up like he’s just unearthed my deepest secret.
“Does she know? Please tell me it’s a surprise, like you’re gonna sweep her off her feet, carry her into the sunset, the whole deal.
” He twirls in the middle of the room, arms spread wide like he’s waltzing with a ghost. I’m starting to wonder if he needs professional help.
“I just thought it’d be a useful skill to learn, alright?
” I shrug, playing it off. He smirks like he knows better, but I swiftly change the conversation.
“Why are you even back? Didn’t you have a double shift at the café today?
” I grumble as I shove the laptop deeper under my pillow.
After yesterday’s blow up with Wavershit and an awkward lunch where Kenneth talked to the side of Harper’s face, even though it was obvious she’d switched her receivers off, I was counting on some time alone.
“Oh, that!” Kenneth stops spinning and launches straight into a monologue at machine-gun pace.
“So, Danny called in sick, right, but it turns out he was just hungover, and the boss dragged him in. It was so funny. He was in his dressing gown and I was like how’s he going to work in that, and the boss was like give him your shirt so I said okay but it’s lined with baby powder to stop the polyester from irritating my skin, but boss said give it over so I stripped off in the middle of—”
“Okay, okay. I get it!” I cut him off before the image gets any worse.
Now I can’t help but notice his powdery skin is bare beneath his half-zipped hoodie.
“Christ. Go wash that shit off before someone thinks you’ve been rolling in chalk.
” Thankfully, my phone buzzes on the mattress. There’s a message from Coach.
Get to the basketball court. Now.
Without hesitating, I scramble for gym clothes. Any excuse to get me out of here. Of course, half my wardrobe has been swallowed by the dorm washers again. I swear those machines eat fabric for fun. Socks vanish, T-shirts too. At this rate I’ll end up a nudist out of sheer necessity.
After a hunt that takes longer than it should, I drag on a pair of black sweatpants from under the bed, two mismatched socks with identical holes, and a hoodie that smells faintly of stale laundry detergent.
When I glance up, I find that Kenneth has ignored my instruction to shower completely.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, organizing his bottle caps collection.
“Don’t follow me,” I tell him as I grab my phone and head for the door.
My eyes snag on the dried mud caked into his work shoes and trousers, all crusted up his laces, and I cringe. I don’t even want to know.
For once I leave the beanie behind, letting the winter wind run its fingers through my hair.
The season’s shifting, rolling into a bitter cold I’m not prepared for.
The air feels fresher, like it’s trying to scrub off the last of the frost. The grass edging the pathways is starting to turn green again, a green that reminds me of Harper’s eyes.
Maybe it’s not just the weather making the weight on my shoulders feel a little lighter.
That vaguely blissful feeling evaporates when I round the corner to the gymnasium.
Coach is pacing by the back door, rubbing his bald patch like it’s a lucky charm.
I’m about to pass without caring what’s got him all riled up until I see Huxley and Garrett are also waiting for me just inside the doorway.
“What’s wrong?” I breathe deeply, knowing from experience not to let emotions rise until I know what I’m dealing with.
Too many times in the JDC, I leapt into a fight too fast, letting my anger rob me of the advantage.
Some instincts can’t be taught, but scars carve lessons you’ll never forget, and I learned mine the hard way.
When no one answers, I push through the cluster of bodies and stride into the locker room.
At first nothing looks out of place. The showers stand empty, patiently awaiting their next visitor, no flickering bulbs overhead, no eerie shadows creeping in the corners like every horror film has conditioned me to expect.
The tiled floor even looks freshly mopped, the sharp scent of disinfectant clinging to the air.
Then I round the bench and see the lockers.
Liquid has been splashed across the grey metal, thick and glistening, and the way the overhead light hits it confirms what my gut already suspects.
It’s blood. Real, fresh blood. A soft pattering drips to the floor, the sound slicing through the silence like a clock counting down to detonation.
My combination lock dangles open, smeared red, swinging like someone wanted me to know exactly where they’d been.
Shoving it aside, I wrench the door open.
Something bulky has been crammed inside, shoved in a heap so I can’t make it out until I grab hold and drag it free. Eyes burn into my back as I unfurl the cotton, and when the heavy fabric falls open, I almost drop it.
A black Waversea Weavers jacket with yellow sleeves, the crest stitched neatly on the chest. It should be a symbol of pride, but masses of shredded paper pour out of the lining, scattering over the bloody tiles at my feet.
My knuckles tighten around the thick trim, the weight dragging at my arms like an anchor, but when I flip it over, the floor disappears from beneath me.
The number seven stretches bold and proud across the back, but around it, stitched into the material in neat yellow thread, is a name. Jeremy Michaels. My brother. And slashed across that name in white paint is the word MURDERER.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The world tunnels until all I see is that word carved into the fabric of his memory.
My mind stutters, unable to comprehend what I’m looking at.
Huxley crouches to snatch up strips of paper.
He turns one toward me, a grave look on his face.
You don’t belong here, is typed over and over onto every strip.
The last thread of resolve snaps. Wavershit has gone too far.
This time I’ll kill him. A rush of blood floods my ears, my chest tightening to the point of suffocating.
I’ve stayed indifferent for long enough, refused to give him the rise he so obviously craves, but not anymore.
Now I’ll break every bone in his body until he begs for mercy that will never come.
He’ll finally learn I’m the bear you don’t poke unless you want your throat ripped out.
But the thought ices over with doubt almost instantly.
How the hell could Rhys know I blame myself for Jeremy’s death?
That I’m responsible. All of the police reports stated that I wasn’t even there when the knife that took Jeremy’s life was plunged into his neck, and my actions afterward were out of grief.
My chest caves in as another possibility slams through me. She wouldn’t. Harper wouldn’t have told him, sharing my deepest secrets with the man who wants to destroy me. She promised. But what if…
My throat constricts, nausea choking me.
What if she ran straight into his arms with my confession, with my shame, dangling it like a trophy?
What if they’ve both been playing me from the start, laughing behind my back, testing how far I’d go for a pair of fluttering lashes and curves I never stood a chance against? What a fucking idiot I am.
I slam my fist into the locker next to mine.
Metal crunches under my knuckles, skin splits, but I don’t even feel the pain.
All I see is red. The wall I’d stupidly started to let crumble, brick by brick, comes crashing back down with brutal finality.
My armor is all I’ve ever had to rely on, and I should’ve known better than to let it slip for anyone.
Hands grab my shoulders, voices blur around me, but I shrug them off with a violent jerk, shouting at everyone to get the fuck out. No one moves. Their hesitation fuels the fire roaring through me, turning it to wildfire.
The jacket is still clenched in my fist, heavy as lead, and all I want is to swing it into someone’s face.
My fists fly instead, air splitting around me as I throw punches at ghosts, at anyone stupid enough to step closer.
My vision’s gone scarlet, my thoughts gone black.
Only one thing remains, the raw need to hurt, to burn down every obstacle until I get to the bastard who dared drag my brother’s name into this.
Dropping low with a roar, I grip the wooden bench and hurl it across the room with every ounce of rage burning inside me.
It slams into Coach’s metal grate-caged office with a deafening crash, the sound ricocheting through the locker room but doing nothing to ease the inferno tearing through me.
A guttural noise spills from between my clenched teeth, half growl, half sob, raw enough to scrape my throat.
My fist connects with a jaw before I can even register whose it is, and the shockwave of bone against bone floods me with a twisted kind of satisfaction.
A blood bath is coming, and I’ll be the one to paint the walls.