Chapter 19 Kaitlyn
Kaitlyn
“We need to leave,” Javi says softly.
We stopped our search of the second floor in the hallway. Ever since the seven-minutes game ended, it’s felt like I can hear every creak in this ancient house. I’m jumping at sounds, like my body refuses to believe I’m safe.
Beyond the fresh corpse outside, there are too many unanswered questions, too many things that don’t add up.
Was this really a burglary gone wrong, and if it was, why’d the intruder cut the phone line?
To keep us from reporting what they did, or to keep us trapped?
Did the same person who attacked Emerson and Lucas kill Mr. Jay?
And where are the other teachers? Because so far, there’s no sign of them anywhere. It’s like they vanished.
I know Javi’s thinking about all this, too, and probably has been since Caulder sent us up here to check for any clues while he and Emerson search the first floor again.
Really, I think Caulder needed to separate Javi from Emerson before there was a fight.
And maybe he wasn’t far off. Something about Emerson pushed Javi over the edge, and it wasn’t just that racist bullshit from earlier.
No, there’s something else. I can tell by the tick in his jaw, the sharpness in his eyes.
Normally, I’d just ask him. After all, Javi doesn’t keep secrets from me—and he never would.
So the fact that he’s not telling me outright has me, well, pissed.
He should be picking my brain, asking me what I think is going on.
Instead, he’s silent as we search each of the rooms. That, and he keeps telling me we need to leave.
“Kait,” Javi says, his voice a sad sigh. “I know you heard me.”
“Yeah, I did,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at him. “And how, exactly, do you propose we leave in a van with a flat tire? Did you see a car in the garage down there when you and Emerson checked?”
He shakes his head, running his hand through his hair as he does.
“That’s what I thought,” I say, pushing one of the doors open so I can see inside the room. “So unless you’ve got more to this ‘we need to leave’ plan of yours, I’m going to keep checking these rooms.”
He doesn’t fill me in, just continues his silent brooding, which only pisses me off more.
So I step forward and push open the door to the next bedroom—the one Emerson must have claimed, judging by the Louis Vuitton duffel bag on the ground—and scan the space. Emerson’s clothes are scattered on the floor like he threw them all out in a rush.
Javi looks at the ground, then walks to the open window. He tries to stick his head and body out, but he can barely get one shoulder through. He’s tried this in the other rooms, too.
“Thinking Dorman and McCullough jumped out the window like our friendly neighborhood attacker?” I ask.
Javi shrugs. “McCullough’s around my size. He wouldn’t fit. Maybe Dorman. And that’s if what Emerson said about the attacker’s true.”
“Is that what you’ve been stewing about?”
Javi turns and locks his eyes on mine.
“All right, why are you mad?” Javi asks.
“Why are you not telling me things?” I snap, stepping closer to him. “And what was with you down there, messing with the knives and freaking people out? Do you really need to give Emerson more ammo?”
Javi’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I glare right back. “He already thinks you’re some violent asshole. You don’t need to give him any more reasons to think it.”
“Oh, I’m the violent asshole?”
“No! Obviously not,” I say, throwing my hands up. “But you’re making it too easy for him.”
“You mean I look suspicious,” he says, voice colder than I’ve ever heard it. “Is that it?”
“No!” I say again, and this time panic ratchets up in my chest. I’m letting this conversation get away from me.
Mom always says I act before my brain’s had a chance to catch up.
On the court, that’s an asset; I’m always six steps ahead of everyone else.
But here, in this room, I’m trying to figure out how we got here and how I can reset us.
I sigh, going to Javi and grabbing his hands. I look him in the eye even as he looks at the floor.
“I can tell when you’re hiding something from me,” I say. “And I know you’re pissed at Emerson. If it’s just what he said when we were playing the game, I’ll drop it. But I don’t think that’s it.”
He still doesn’t meet my gaze. I hate it, but I check my ego and try to smooth out my tone when I speak again.
“Am I right?”
Slowly, he brings his eyes up to meet mine. I see the warring thoughts hidden there, the slight pinch and furrow of his brows that tells me he’s calculating. I also see the exact moment he decides to let me in on what he’s really thinking, the way his jaw softens slightly.
“I don’t know where the teachers are or what, exactly, is going on,” he admits. “But I do know that the biggest danger is right here in this fucking house.”
I still, anticipation thrumming in my veins. Does he know what I know?
In answer, he says, “I found something.”