Chapter 22 Avery
Avery
Was that someone screaming, or am I imagining things?
It took approximately forty-seven seconds after Kaitlyn, Marlene, and Javi left for me to regret my terrible decision.
After all, I’ve seen horror movies and know how it ends with a person being alone in a house.
Or, I’ve looked up the plots of horror movies on Wikipedia and then begrudgingly watched them from behind my hands when Mom forces me to.
Of course, I’m not actually alone. Caulder is here.
And Emerson. And I hate to admit it, but I’m grateful for both of them.
Right now, every noise in this place is setting me off.
For a moment, I considered turning the record player back on, just to drown out the noises, but then I realized that I need all of my senses acting at full capacity.
The reality is this: We don’t have any good options.
Even if we had followed the others outside, we’d just be out there at the mercy of the murderer.
I suppose, though, that out there, the murderer could come from anywhere.
Here, at least, we have lights and two locked doors keeping us safe.
I’ve also found several potential weapons while searching the kitchen’s numerous cabinets.
We have a wide variety of frying pans, pots, and knives, though I still haven’t found anything exactly right for myself.
Emerson’s been pacing in the living room, muttering to himself, since the rest of the team left. And Caulder’s still at the table, keeping his eyes pinned on the door just like our dog, Marty, does when he hears the UPS truck outside. There’s a hard set to his jaw, and his leg bounces beneath him.
I shake away my drifting thoughts and return to the cabinets. I set aside a wok that’s heavy but not too heavy that I could probably use as some kind of a club, and dig further.
The truth is that I won’t be good with any weapon.
I have approximately zero coordination. And I hate to admit it, but Caulder, Javi, and Kaitlyn are all athletes, and Lucas can at least skateboard.
Marlene…I don’t know about Marlene. Maybe she’s just as uncoordinated as I am.
As far as I know, though, I’m still the most ill-matched for facing off with a murderer.
“I’m going upstairs,” Emerson announces, and I jump at his sudden appearance in the hallway, which only makes him smirk.
“I really think we should stay together,” I say. “Here. Where we can see the exit—”
“Winslow, I don’t actually give a shit what you think,” Emerson cuts me off. “I still think you murdered Jay, and I’m going to tell the cops that the second they arrive. What I do care about is cleaning these wounds.”
“You’re supposed to be watching Lucas,” Caulder says.
Emerson does an overly dramatic double take back at where Lucas remains immobile on the couch. He’s still breathing—we keep checking—but there’s no change in his state.
“Maybe we should try to clean Lucas’s wounds,” I say, the idea striking me. “We don’t want them to get infected, do we?”
“I think he’s beyond that point,” Emerson says, disgusted. “Did you see that gash?”
“Avery’s right,” Caulder says. “We should do that. Where’d Dorman put the emergency kit?”
I nod at one of the kitchen chairs, where she left the backpack from the van. Caulder digs into it and pulls out a white bag with a red cross on the front.
“Right,” Caulder says. “So I’ll—”
“No, I’ll do it,” Emerson says, walking over and snatching it out of Caulder’s hand. “I’m the one with the medical training, anyway.”
Both Caulder and I stare at him.
“You…have medical training?” Caulder asks.
Emerson smirks. “Surprised? I volunteer every summer at the local hospital.”
Caulder and I exchange a look, and Caulder turns back to him. “Do you really?” Caulder asks. “Because we’re not fucking around, man. Lucas’s life is on the line here.”
Now Emerson’s glare hardens, turning steely and dangerous. Caulder’s gone for his pride. And when you’re someone like Emerson—someone who is all pride and zero substance—it’s a cutting blow.
“He’ll be fine,” Emerson says, then turns his eyes on me. “Better with me than with the actual killer.”
“I warned you earlier,” Caulder says, leaving his perch by the door to stand closer to Emerson. “Cut it out.”
“Maybe you should watch your step, Grant.” Emerson smirks. “Machado’s not here to beat someone up for you, is he?”
Caulder’s fists clench at his sides. “I can fight my own battles, Emerson. Remember that.”
Emerson just laughs. Then, he turns around and heaves Lucas up from the couch and over his shoulder. He struggles more than Javi or Caulder would have—even grunts a little—but he does his best to make the motion look easy.
“I’ll use the downstairs bathroom to clean him up, and then Caulder can help me put him in one of the rooms,” Emerson says. “No need for us to look at him all night. And then I’m taking care of myself, all right?”
Caulder moves like he’s going to follow Emerson, but he stops.
I see the hesitation: go with Emerson and keep an eye on Lucas, or stay here and watch the door.
In the end, he stays in the kitchen, and we hear Emerson disappear down the hall.
There’s also the sound of a sink being turned on, telling us he made it to the bathroom.
“You can go,” I tell him. “If you need to.”
Caulder shakes his head. “Emerson won’t do anything to Lucas. He’s too much of a coward. And besides, if he does, we’ll know he was responsible. No one else is in the house.”
I nod, turning back to my task at hand.
“What’re you doing?” Caulder asks me, eyeing my growing pile of items.
“I’m looking for anything that can be used as a weapon,” I say. “Like a skillet or something.”
Caulder snorts. “You’re going to fend off a murderer with a frying pan?”
I scowl at him. So much for civil. “I’m sorry we’re not all six foot six and made of muscle. Some of us have to rely on frying pans.”
“Six foot four,” he says. “Though I appreciate the compliment about my rippling muscles.”
“I never said ‘rippling,’ ” I say. “And it wasn’t a compliment. It was just a fact.”
He shrugs, then rolls out his shoulders. “So, any luck finding something?”
I shake my head. “This wok’s in my maybe pile, though. Or perhaps…”
I extract an old, battered orange teakettle, some kind of vintage style.
“I guess this is kind of heavy,” I say, frowning. “But I’m not sure. Could be useful if I can swing hard enough.”
Which I definitely cannot.
Caulder raises his eyebrows at me. “You’re kidding.”
I toss the kettle aside. Clearly, a miss. But when I look up, Caulder’s grabbed it. He goes to the sink, rinses it, pops the top off, and begins filling it with water. Once it’s full, he sets it on the stove and starts the fire under the kettle.
“Are you actually making tea?” I ask. “Like, at this precise moment?”
Caulder shrugs again. “I like tea,” he says. “And if someone comes in, we can always throw the water at them.”
Well. I admit I hadn’t thought of that. He grins when I don’t respond and starts rifling through the cabinet, finally pulling out a tea caddy. He flips through the options, considering each one.
“Surprised you forgot,” he says. “I remember you getting really excited whenever Pop brought home a new tea for us to try.”
I still. This is semi-dangerous ground for us, acknowledging the past. I’ve shoved my memories of Caulder’s dads far back in my mind so that it doesn’t hurt when I see them at competitions.
But of course I remember them. Especially Lionel, his dad who loves tea and would bring us some after he visited his family in the UK.
I always felt so special, drinking British tea.
If Lionel knew what was happening right now, he’d be flying up through the rain to save us. Both of Caulder’s dads would. After all, they’ve never missed a local debate competition. Whereas my parents…
“Maybe they have some chamomile,” Caulder says, and I realize I haven’t uttered a word. “It can help, you know. Calm you down.”
“Of course it will,” I say with a hollow laugh. “Not sure this is the kind of situation that can be calmed down. I think we might need a sedative for that.”
Caulder smiles. We both know I’m sidestepping the bait to talk about our past. I wonder if Caulder will press it, but thankfully, I’m saved by the whistle of the kettle.
“You were great with Marlene,” Caulder says. “I had no idea what to do.”
A question’s there, and I could dodge it the same way I dodged talking about our childhood. But I can answer this, especially since he’s probably already figured it out.
“I think it was a panic attack, or at least an anxiety attack,” I say. “I get them. I have ever since my parents got divorced.”
Caulder nods, placing the tea bags in mugs before pouring the water over each. He brings the two mugs over to the table and sets them both down; then we sit and wait for the tea to cool. I grip my mug so the warmth seeps into my hands as the rain batters the house.
“Do you think they’re okay out there?” I ask, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetic. I know Caulder can’t tell me anything I don’t already know—we each have the same information—I just need some reassurance.
His hazel eyes lift to mine. There’s steam curling up from his mug, and I watch it because that’s easier to look at than to make direct eye contact.
“I don’t know, to be honest,” he says. “I kind of hate that I stayed.”
Of course he regrets staying with me. I could’ve told him he would. I start to say as much, but he’s speaking again.
“It feels like I have a responsibility for everyone,” he says. “I don’t like that I sent them out there without anyone to watch over them. But at the same time, there’s no way I could’ve left you alone.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t have been alone. Emerson’s here.”
“That’s worse.”
“So I’m weak?”
He sighs. “No, Avery. You’re not weak.”
“You’ve clearly been spared seeing me in gym class,” I say, half joking. “They have Kaitlyn and Javi. You only have me.”
I say it as a way to pull a tiny bit of tension out of our situation, but it just makes Caulder frown.