Elusion(55)

I spot Zoe in the distance, waving from one of the mammoth escalators and moving her petite frame around the masses as she trots down the steps. She’s wearing a bluish-violet knit cap and the hottest accessory on the market—round oversize Florapetro glasses. The tinted lenses are designed to make the world seem bright even when the sky is under siege by oil clouds.

I don’t really feel like talking to anyone right now—after last night, I feel so drained. Still, I wait until Zoe catches up with me and manage a smile.

“Well?” she says, a hint of warm breath escaping her lips in a puff of white.

“Well, what?”

Zoe loops her arm through mine and pulls me closer, as if we’re old friends out for a stroll. “You’re not going to tell me what happened after I left you with Josh?”

I realize that the last time she saw me was the day before yesterday, right before Josh and I left school and he took me to the warehouse.

It seems like worlds ago.

“I would, but there’s really nothing to tell. He and I . . . we barely know each other.”

Although it’s not like I haven’t been trying to remedy that. After Patrick left my house last evening, I spent hours on the Net looking for everything and anything I could find about the assault case. While my search didn’t turn up anything new, the article Patrick showed me had other background details that proved the assailant was Josh. The timing was right, of course, but specifics about his family, where they lived, and the fact that the perpetrator’s sister was somehow involved—all of it added up.

The scariest thing, though, is that Patrick wasn’t lying about how bad this Sasder guy was hurt. He was on life support at one point.

How could Josh be so vicious?

“He’s gorgeous. What more do you need to know?” Zoe grins mischievously as we walk out of the station and start off on the express pedestrian route to school.

At first, I don’t really want to confide in Zoe what Patrick told me, but then it occurs to me that my best friend—the one person I could talk to about everything, the only one I could trust—might not be either of those things anymore.

“Zoe, do you know anything about Josh’s . . . violent streak?”

“Violent streak?” She rolls her eyes. “That’s a gross overstatement.”

My eyes widen in surprise. She knows exactly what I’m referring to.

“That fight with Sasder wasn’t his fault,” she says defensively. “Seriously. I would know. Our parents are friends with Josh’s mother, and I heard all about it.”

“I read something that said Josh nearly killed that guy.”

“It’s a lot more complicated. After his sister Nora was assaulted—”

I practically trip over a crack in the pavement. “Nora was assaulted?”

“Yeah. Sasder was a total bully and ran with this group of thugs. He had been asking Nora out for weeks, and she kept turning him down. I guess he snapped one day and went after her. Gave her a concussion,” Zoe says, zipping up her leather jacket as she quickens her pace. “Once Josh found out, he confronted Sasder, threatening to destroy him if he ever touched Nora again. Then Sasder and four of his goons ambushed Josh, thinking they would teach him a lesson. They didn’t know Josh was Mr. Black Belt, so they had no idea he could beat the crap out of all of them.”

“Wait, more than one guy attacked Josh? How come that wasn’t in the article?”

“The media has spun this story at least ten different ways,” she replies. “Sasder was injured the worst, and his dad’s the deputy DA, so his father went after Josh with a vengeance. Couldn’t get a conviction, but he used his connections to get him sent to Ashville.”

I tuck my cold hands in my skirt pockets. As relieved as I am to hear that Josh isn’t the monster Patrick made him out to be, I’m also just as angry. Patrick had to have known the real story about Sasder and Nora. Just how many more lies does he intend on telling me?

“What the hell is going on at school?” Zoe says, as we turn a corner.

The long stretch of campus is right in front of us. Dozens of reporters stand in the central quad, some talking into their tabs as they hold them up in front of their faces, broadcasting their reports, while other press members frantically scramble after students.

A throng of teachers is outside too, trying to escort the kids through the commotion and inside the school. I glance around to see if there are any ambulances, police cars, or other signs of trouble, but there’s nothing.

“Excuse me, coming through!” a voice booms from behind us.

Before I can move, I’m shoved into Zoe by a man in a peacoat who is flanked by three women in khaki trenches, all hurrying toward the school.

More reporters?

I grab on to Zoe, steadying her. Our tabs both start to buzz at the same time—I bet someone has sent a mass text, alerting us to what’s going on. Zoe reaches into her bag to answer hers, but I ignore mine. The main building is a short distance away and I’d much rather see what’s going on myself.

“Come on!” I urge Zoe.

She puts her tab away and we jog toward the central quad. Once we reach the heart of the action, we stop to watch a blond reporter interview a scrawny kid whose features are relatively generic—brown floppy hair, brown eyes, medium build—but as soon as I hear him talk into her tab, I recognize him from my tech ed class, although I can’t remember his name. He’s smiling at the screen, his two idiot buddies behind him doing their best to attract attention to themselves with lewd gestures and silly faces.