Off the Deep End (77)
I snapped my head to the side, giving Mark a bewildered stare. What was he talking about? None of that statement made sense, but for some reason, it registered with Isaac. His eyes widened, and his face went slack.
“What? I don’t . . . wait . . . that was you?” he asked in disbelief. Mark nodded, and it suddenly dawned on me that they were talking about Dracho. “You’re Loserstreet41?”
“I am,” Mark confessed.
“Like the whole time? Since the start of the server?” Isaac asked like he couldn’t believe it. His eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, the whole time, and I’m going to continue being here for you the whole time, Isaac, do you understand me? No matter what you’ve done. I mean that. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” He took another step closer to Isaac. And then another. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Nothing. Do you hear me?”
“But Dad . . . I just . . . I just . . .” He burst into tears. His entire body shook. We all knew what he’d done. The emergency sirens in the background told us it was only minutes before what he’d done caught up with him. My heart sped up.
“It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. You’re still my son and I love you.” Mark reached out his arm and held out his hand, open palmed, to Isaac. “Now, please, son, just give me the gun.”
Tears streamed down Isaac’s face. Snot dripped from his nose. The sirens wailed in the background, getting closer and closer. Isaac took one last look around before he took a tentative step forward and slowly placed the gun in Mark’s hand.
And just like that—it was finally over.
THREE MONTHS LATER
AMBER GREER
I sat in the back seat of the car staring at the back of both Mark’s and Isaac’s heads as we logged the last few miles to Bridges Academy. Bridges was so far north it was practically Canada, but it was the only acute psychiatric facility that would take Isaac while he awaited his upcoming trial. We had no idea if it was going to be days or months until it was through, and after that, he’d be looking at prison. Lots of it. Maybe forever. They were charging him as an adult for murder since two of the boys he’d shot didn’t make it. He’d injured four others, including the science teacher, and he faced felony charges on those too. The familiar panic squeezed my chest, and I forced myself to breathe. To get back into the minute. Anything else was too much.
I was surprised Isaac had allowed me to come along for the ride since he hadn’t let me visit him the entire time he’d been in jail. Only Mark. He said I made him too soft, and he couldn’t be weak in jail. I’d only gotten to see him during his hospital stays. Even though Isaac was on suicide watch, he’d ended up at the Hennepin County hospital twice. Once after he drank the cleaning solution they used on the cafeteria tables and the other after he’d hanged himself with a drawstring he stole from another inmate’s sweatpants. Each time I kept it together in front of him, but I lost it in the waiting room afterward. Mark held on to me while I sobbed, rubbing my back and whispering that it was going to be okay, that we would get through it even though there was absolutely nothing suggesting we would. Gratitude flooded me at how loving and supportive he’d been to me through all this.
As if he felt me thinking about him, he looked up and caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes lit up, and a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. I blushed and smiled back. In a strange way, I’d fallen in love with him all over again. We’d traveled to the darkest places of humanity together and held each other’s hand through it all. Nobody understood what we’d gone through—what we were still going through—and it’d bonded us together like never before.
It wasn’t lost on either of us that Katie’s spot was empty in the car. She’d refused to come just like she refused to talk to Isaac, even though he kept trying to connect with her. She didn’t want anything to do with him. She wouldn’t even write him a letter or send him a card while he was in jail, no matter how many he sent her.
“He’s a murderer, Mom.” That’s what she said every time she heard his name or overheard someone talking about him.
And he was. My son was a murderer.
Turned out, Allen, the new friend he’d brought home earlier last month, was someone he’d met on Dracho, just like I’d initially feared. He lived across town in an old beat-up and run-down Victorian with his grandmother. His parents had abandoned him with her when he was a toddler. She was in no position to take care of Allen since she was in the throes of dementia, but Allen offered up her basement as the perfect place to stash Isaac and carry out their plans. Isaac wasn’t the only one who went to his school and targeted classmates just like he’d done in their game. Three other boys had done the same thing. Allen was one of them.
The media referred to the two of them as the classic psychopath-and-depressive dyad, just like the Columbine shooters. Allen had been in and out of juvenile detention centers since he was eleven for things ranging from truancy to arson. He’d been waiting for a submissive partner, and Isaac was the perfect depressed and suicidal teenager to copartner his plan. Mark had been right all along about Isaac having another phone, and the messages between Isaac and Allen made my blood run cold. The shooting had been a suicide mission for Isaac, but it’d been a fun game for Allen. At least Allen’s grandmother wouldn’t remember what her grandson had done or that he was no longer with us.