Page 18 of Reckless
The halls were practically empty as I headed to my locker. I figured I’d go wait for Dante near his locker since I had some time to kill before first period started, but as I opened my locker, about to slide my bookbag off my shoulder to stuff it in, I saw something strange sitting on the metal shelf at the top of the locker, right on top of the textbooks I’d left.
It was not something that should be there, definitely not something I’d left there yesterday. In fact, I didn’t know what the hell it was, but as my eyes focused on it, my stomach dropped.
I pulled my locker door closed, holding it an inch or so open as I threw a look around my shoulder to see if anyone else nearby had seen it, too. Of the few other kids that were walking by, no one was paying me any attention.
Thank fucking God, because if that thing was what I thought it was…
In a matter of seconds, I pried open my locker, grabbed the top textbook—and thereby the thing resting on top of it—and hurriedly smashed it against my chest to hold it there and hide it. I slammed my locker shut and walked away at a brisk pace, my heart beating a mile a minute inside my chest.
I made it to the single bathroom just off the math hall, and with my free hand, I flipped the lock. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, threatening to burst out of my chest and run away. The deadly games these people played…I wasn’t used to them, I didn’t want to be a piece on the chessboard. Why couldn’t things be simple?
I was slow in lowering the textbook away from my chest, and I cautiously set it on the sink, balancing the book on the corner of it.
Fuck. Not to quote Jacob’s most favorite word, but fuck, fuck, fuck.
That thing that was somehow in my locker, sitting atop my textbooks? A severed fucking finger, and I’d give you one guess as to whose finger it was.
I went to hold a hand over my mouth, wanting to vomit when I realized that I’d just held that finger against my stomach as I power-walked to this bathroom. With a glimpse to my shirt, I thankfully found that nothing had gotten on me from it, but that only meant…
That only meant the finger was old.
And, duh, of course it was. Brittany’s bedroom was a bloodbath on Sunday, three days ago. This finger…this finger was not something that was fresh.
As nausea rose in my belly, I stepped closer to the finger, still holding a hand over my mouth as I studied it. It looked like it was her ring finger, maybe. Or her pointer finger? Either way, I recognized the nail polish on the acrylic nail: Brittany had been wearing those nails during the winter formal.
Shit.
With a trembling hand, I found my phone and texted an SOS to the only two people who could help me right now. If that finger was in my locker, it meant whoever did it was here, either a student or a teacher, or at the very least someone who could blend in well enough to sneak in and out of Midpark High without arousing suspicion.
And to do it on a day when half of the student class was going to be gone for a funeral…it was a good alibi, and I doubted that anyone would let us see the security footage of the hall. If I brought this finger to anyone in the faculty here, they’d sit me down and promptly call 9-1-1, and this time, I didn’t think Ollie could save me. Everyone wanted to vilify me, pin me for the crime I didn’t commit.
A few moments later, a rhythm of knocks pounded on the door, and a deep voice spoke, “It’s us.”
I didn’t need him to clarify; even through a thick door, I could recognize the timbre of Dante’s voice instantly. I moved to the door and flicked over the lock, which allowed him and Vaughn to enter. The door was locked once more, and my two crazies stood staring at the finger resting atop my textbook on the sink.
“That’s…” Vaughn stopped, frowning to himself, lost in thought.
“A fucking finger,” Dante finished for him, moving closer to it to inspect it—though I did notice he didn’t touch it. He glanced at me. “We’re assuming it’s Brittany’s?”
“She was wearing those nails at the dance,” I said. Brittany always had acrylics on; it was a stupid thing to remember, but I did. That finger was definitely hers, and it was rotting.
Would whoever killed her send me her body parts in pieces? Were they taunting me with this fucking finger? My mind whirled with the possibilities, and I felt myself growing unsteady on my feet—at least, until I felt two strong, firm hands grasp my upper arms and lend me their strength.
Vaughn.
He’d only glanced at the finger, but his attention was solely on me and how I was reacting. His dark eyes, a color so thick they were nearly black, bore into me, and I felt myself leaning into those strong arms, resting my cheek against his shoulder and burying my nose in the crook of his neck.
Vaughn said nothing, simply holding me against him, silent as he tried to soothe my worry.
Dante, on the other hand, asked, “Where the fuck was this?”
“My locker,” I spoke against Vaughn’s neck, turning my head to rest my other cheek on his shoulder so I could meet Dante’s wild blue eyes. I recognized the fire burning behind their azure hues: he wanted to hurt whoever put that finger in my locker, and he wanted to do it now.
“Who the fuck would put this in your locker?” he questioned, looking like he wanted to kill.
“Whoever killed her,” I answered, closing my eyes and wishing everything would miraculously get better.
“So that fucking finger is a fucking threat—” Hmm. Apparently the word fuck was also one of Dante’s most favorite words; it didn’t just belong to Jacob.
