Chapter 17
Paxton Embry was running late. He was worried that Rick and Martina wouldn’t wait long—he knew they wouldn’t wait long.
He’d barely managed to get them to agree in the first place.
But the memorial pics were pure gold, the press being kept away to give the mourners privacy while Paxton couldn’t click his shutter fast enough.
He had some great shots already—Ms. Macnamara crying silently, her eyes closed as Mr. Lazarus, the shop teacher, awkwardly tried to comfort her.
Mrs. Porter, the drama teacher, was singing some kind of sad song about some kid named Danny that Paxton thought was super boring, while Mrs. Angeletti, the music teacher, played an acoustic guitar, her face grim.
The Booster Club was handing out water and snacks, as well as candles and carnations for the students to place around a display full of photos of Bryce and Mr. Stephens.
Paxton took lots of pics of that while wolfing down a brownie between sips of water, careful not to get any smears of chocolate on his camera.
He was starving, but he assumed they’d do a memorial page in the upcoming yearbook, and he wanted to catch as many shots as he could.
He shoved his water bottle into his back pocket and kept going, even snapping a few shots of Mr. Cooper, the janitor, standing off to the side, looking at the pile of flowers and candles with an expression that said he didn’t want to be the one who had to clean all that shit up.
It wasn’t a paid gig, but he was pretty sure he could turn it into one.
He was sure someone would pay for these photos, and that was something Paxton had a knack for—taking the kinds of photos people paid for, either to show off…
or to hide. He didn’t care which as long as they paid him, though he had learned long ago that people were willing to pay more for photos they didn’t want anyone else to see.
And Paxton could use all the money he could get his hands on.
People made the mistake of thinking that just because Paxton’s dad had money, Paxton had money.
Only it wasn’t the same thing at all. Andrew Embry was notoriously tightfisted when it came to sharing his hard-earned cash.
Paxton’s mom had been on an allowance even when they were together.
And Paxton—well, his dad would only pay for “necessities.”
Surprisingly few things fell under that label, Paxton had found.
Andrew would rather use the money on his new girlfriend, who was only a few years older than Paxton.
Or his new Jag. Paxton wondered if he should tell the girlfriend that his dad wasn’t the sugar daddy she was hoping for.
If she managed to drag him up the aisle, she’d get an allowance, too. If she was good.
So Paxton wasn’t about to miss the kind of opportunity the memorial afforded.
A few more quick snaps, and he’d be on his way.
Only, more people kept showing up, and Paxton was worried he was going to miss a prime photo, something really worth it.
With each shot Paxton could feel the minutes ticking by. It was making him sweat.
Someone tapped his shoulder, and he startled, almost dropping his camera, but it was only Mr. Cooper.
He handed Paxton a half-full bottle of water. “You dropped this.”
Paxton checked his back pocket, which was now empty. He plucked the bottle from Mr. Cooper’s hands. “Thanks.” He didn’t sound very grateful, and he didn’t care.
The janitor eyed him. “Of course.” He tipped his head to the group. “Got to be careful in a crowd like this. Someone trips on that bottle? Could get hurt.”
Paxton gave him a mock salute. “Got it.”
Mr. Cooper grunted, annoyed, but he finally left. Paxton jammed the bottle back into his pocket and kept going.
Finally he decided he was done for now—he could meet with Rick and Martina, wrap that up fast, and get back to the memorial.
Hopefully he wouldn’t miss anything good.
He finished his water and tossed it in the trash as he jogged toward the gym, only to stop dead in his tracks.
It was going to be a lot darker when he got back outside, and he had a lens in his locker that would be better for that.
He checked his phone, deciding he could manage it if he ran all the way there.
By the time he made it to the meeting spot, he was dripping sweat. He swiped it away with his sleeve, relieved to see Rick and Martina still leaning against the wall outside of the bathroom, right next to the door that had a sign that said Out of Service.
“Finally,” Martina said, crossing her arms. “We were about to leave.”
Paxton adjusted his camera bag. He wasn’t about to apologize to Martina, even if she was hot.
It wouldn’t get him anywhere with her, and he didn’t apologize to anyone anyway.
He’d learned that from his dad. When you told people you were sorry, you told them you were weak, and he wasn’t weak.
“What, am I keeping you from something important? You got to pick Rick’s mom up from the corner she’s working on? ”
“Aaaand, we’re done,” Martina said. “Come on, Rick.”
Rick was stone-faced, his jaw tight. Like Martina, he had shadows under his eyes. He also needed a shave.
Paxton felt a pang of envy—he couldn’t even manage a mustache yet. “Don’t be a bitch, Lopez. Five minutes, then I’m gone.”
“God, you’re such an asshole,” Martina hissed. She took out her phone. “Fine. Five minutes. Then you never ask us to do this shit again. I’m setting a timer.”
Paxton rolled his eyes as he dug out his own phone.
He always recorded his interviews, then typed them up later.
A group of little kids ran by behind him, whooping and hollering.
Paxton frowned. The hallway was too noisy.
And bright. Why was it suddenly so bright?
Had the school changed what kind of lightbulb they were getting?
“This won’t work. Come on.” He herded them into the out-of-service bathroom.
“The men’s bathroom? Really?” Martina seemed more amused than irritated.
“No one will come in here,” Paxton said. “It’s broken. It will be quieter. Go on.”
They grumbled but went in. Paxton waited a moment, checking to see if anyone had seen them. Then he ducked through the doors.
As soon as the bathroom door shut, the sound dropped away, proving his point, and Paxton relaxed a little.
Though it was bright in here, too. The white paint practically glowed.
He ignored it, shoving them farther away from the door.
The entryway branched off, leading to two different rows of stalls divided by a middle wall.
Paxton took the left one, going all the way back to the far wall by the handicap stall.
He paused for a moment, dropping down to check for shoes.
“What are you doing?” Martina asked.
“Making sure we’re alone.” Paxton didn’t see any feet in the stalls, so he scrambled back up. “Wouldn’t do to get scooped on this, would it?”
“You should probably wash your hands,” Rick said helpfully. “Who knows where that floor has been.”
“That floor has seen things,” Martina said. “Terrible things.”
Paxton wanted to argue, but he didn’t want to cause them to walk after he’d gotten them this far.
Besides, the floor had been really gross.
He scrubbed his hands with soap before shoving them under warm water.
He automatically looked up, checking his face, making sure nothing was on it or in his teeth.
Only, his nose kept moving around his face. Paxton was pretty sure noses didn’t do that. He blinked, hard, and his nose was back where it should be. He needed more sleep, obviously. He’d been under a lot of pressure, and it was starting to get to him.
Paxton dried his hands and turned to Rick and Martina, setting his phone on the edge of the sink, the record button on. “Okay, let’s get started. Rick, Martina, how are you feeling?”
Rick barked a laugh. “About someone wanting to murder me?”
“We feel peachy,” Martina said, her tone dripping with condescension, her eyes heavy lidded. “Couldn’t be more thrilled.”
Paxton ignored them, watching his phone. At least they were talking. That was always the hardest part—getting them to start talking. Now he just had to keep them going. “Do you feel safe at school?”
“No,” Rick said, crossing his arms. “You’re here.”
“Dude, we have active shooter trainings,” Martina said. “Do you feel safe at school? Does anyone?”
Paxton rolled his eyes. “No need to get political. Save it for the liberal rags, Lopez.”
“Hmm, yes, wanting to live is getting political,” Martina said. “Thanks for letting me know, Embry.”
“Can you tell me a little about the emotional climate?” Paxton said, barreling forward. “Has everyone been supportive, or have you been receiving threats?”
“You know we’ve been—” Rick started, dropping his arms.
Martina stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “No comment.”
Paxton hid a smile. This was where the interview would get interesting. This was where— He heard a noise, not loud, but a distinct creaking sound. Someone had opened the door.
One person in the bathroom he could explain away easily, but all three of them? Any gathering would seem suspicious, and he couldn’t chance the fact that it might be a teacher. He waved urgently at them, mouthing, “Hide.”
For once they didn’t argue, both of them disappearing into the handicap stall. Paxton turned on the water and hit the button for the air dryer, hoping the combined sound would muffle the door clicking shut. In the mirror he could see their feet disappear as they climbed up onto the toilet.
Paxton turned toward the exit, a smile ready on his face. He must have moved too fast, because everything blurred as the room spun around him. He steadied himself, narrowing his eyes. He realized he was sweating again and wiped his forehead with his arm.
“Sorry,” he said, his words slurring. “I know it’s closed, but I just needed to wash my hands.
” He blinked, trying to clear his eyes. It didn’t work, so he blinked them again.
“Hey, it’s you—wait, what are you doing in here?
” He grinned, even though it made his face feel weird. “You bring me that money you owe me?”
They grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around. He slapped at their hands, but there was no weight behind it. His arms felt floppy and useless, like the cafeteria spaghetti. “Hey. Hey. Wait. What are you doing?”
They didn’t answer, just steered him toward the first stall. Hands pushed down on his shoulders, making him sit. The toilet had no lid, and he hit it at a weird angle, almost sliding off. Hands steadied him until he was sitting upright.
His head felt heavy, and he let it tip back.
Rest. A nap would feel so good right now.
He closed his eyes, hoping to float away to sleep on a breeze.
He heard a shuffling sound, and Paxton was pretty sure they were doing the same thing he had—checking for feet.
He laughed, because he knew they wouldn’t find them.
His laugh echoed in the bathroom—the acoustics were really good in here, and that set him off in a fit of giggles. Everything was just so funny.
His stomach gurgled, rolling unpleasantly, but that was okay.
He was in a bathroom, and this bathroom was great.
So shiny and bright. He could sit here forever.
Paxton opened his eyes to invite the other person to take a seat, because why shouldn’t they also enjoy this wonderful moment?
People really needed to slow down, that was the problem.
He saw a flash of something silver as it caught the light—and it made him smile because it was so shiny. He loved shiny things. Loved them so much, he should write a song about them. He felt like singing. Weren’t bathrooms supposed to be good for that? Something about the acoustics.
What would he sing? He frowned up at the person in front of him. Maybe they would have an idea. Except he saw the silver flash again.
Then he didn’t see anything else.