Take the Fall(9)

“You startled me.” His face shifts from surprise to disapproval. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

“I . . . I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

He looks toward the park. “Let me walk you the rest of the way, it’ll make me feel better.”

I’m grateful for his company, but hesitate as I catch my breath. Why would he be home from school so soon? Tyrone and Gretchen had kind of a thing last year, but it didn’t end well for him. Could he have come home to settle a grudge?

“When did you get back in town?” I ask.

“Friday.” He frowns. “Kind of wish I’d stayed away now.”

“Yeah.” I take another step back. Tyrone is the last person I want to consider a suspect. “You know, Aisha’s supposed to pick me up. She’ll be here any minute.”

As if on cue, two tinny little honks sound at us from down the street. Aisha pulls up to the curb and rolls down her window. “I’m sorry, are you okay? I got here as fast as I could.” Some tightly coiled place inside me loosens at the sight of her, at the sound of her voice. She raises one eyebrow when she sees her brother. “I thought you went running on the track.”

“Does Mom know you’re not really holding a special meeting with the student council this morning?” Tyrone asks, raising his eyebrow right back.

She rolls her eyes. “I have missed having you in my life, looking over my shoulder.”

I cough. Their sibling banter feels too weird. Too normal. “It was good to see you, Tyrone.”

He follows me around to the passenger door and I can’t get in the car fast enough.

“Sonia, I—I just wanted to say I’m so sorry.”

The pain in his voice makes me lower my gaze, guilty for letting my mind get carried away. I’ll put him on my list, but that doesn’t have to mean anything yet. “Thanks.”

When I look up again, he’s disappearing down the sidewalk. I pull the door shut, lock it, and buckle my seat belt, but I can’t seem to secure enough barriers between me and the rest of the world. Aisha pulls the Jeep out onto First Avenue and almost collides with Shelly Robson in her black-and-white patrol car.

“Oh God, sorry!” Aisha mouths through the windshield.

Shelly waves us on, looking flustered.

Aisha stops at one of the few traffic lights in town, chattering nervously about not getting a ticket. I look away, my attention drawn back to the edge of the park, to the gap in the trees where the trail leads toward the falls. The surrounding leaves are so green and alive—but there’s a branch snapped, hanging limp and dead by the road. I close my eyes at the memory of scrambling up that trail, clothes torn, hands raw. And the moment I glimpsed the diner—I thought I’d never see it again.

When I open my eyes, I see a shadow moving among the trees. I lean against the glass for a closer look and there’s a person in a hood standing at the head of the trail. He steps forward, raises his head to look at me, and my heart stops.

Marcus Perez.





FOUR


HURLBURT HIGH IS TUCKED INTO a picturesque green hillside just beyond the business district. Directly next door, the ground is torn open where the skeletal frame of a new community center rises from the earth. It’s been the most exciting thing to happen in Hidden Falls for half a decade. The plans include an indoor pool and track, fitness area and senior center, along with an array of classes and activities available to the public. They just broke ground on it two months ago, and the construction site usually buzzes with activity by this hour, but today the bright yellow equipment sits as still as the air. The project is funded by Gretchen’s parents, Carlton and Marcia Meyer.

Judging by the cluster of news vans and reporters gathered at the edge of campus, the school grounds have been deemed off-limits to the media. I guess this ought to be a relief, but even with our windows rolled tightly up, we pull into the parking lot through an onslaught of cameras and people shouting Gretchen’s name.

“Ask you a few questions—”

“Take a minute of your time—”

“Did you know Gretchen Meyer—”

My stomach turns. Maybe this was a mistake. I could’ve waited to come back, made my mother happy, laid low for a couple of days. I notice the toothy reporter from the diner and my skin crawls at the idea of people exploiting Gretchen’s death for a news story. If she’d wanted to be a headline, she would’ve found a more fantastic, glamorous way to do it—hosting a celebrity tennis tournament, or even skydiving for charity. I imagine her posing for cameras, stylish in a tennis skirt or a jumpsuit, and I can’t help smiling. But as Aisha and I climb out of the Jeep and walk toward the low-slung building, I realize if I’d stayed home, the crowd of gossip-hungry reporters would be my only lines of information. If I want to figure out who could’ve attacked me and murdered Gretchen, there’s no replacement for being inside the walls of the school—surrounded by potential killers.

“Hey.” Aisha touches my arm. “You okay?”

I nod quickly, pull out my phone, and text my mom.

Went to school. Got here safe. Love you.

I turn the phone off.

Conversations fade to whispers as we approach the building, just as they did at the diner yesterday. Some kids stare, some offer condolences about Gretchen, but the unasked questions are in their eyes and the anxious hum of their voices.