Page 16 of Blood & Kisses

I swallow over a lump in my throat. I must face this conversation head-on because people won’t stop talking about it just for my benefit. Hell, it’s giving campus gossip to make their day seem more exciting.

Me: Yeh, Cormac told me.

Z: Are u sad?

Me: No.

Z: Probably his wife after she found out he was cheating.

Me: Nah, I don’t think murder is her style.

Z: Shit happens when you’re pushed too far.

Her words cut too close to the bone, as if she knows but is pretending to be oblivious. I think I’ve mentioned Lyons twice since I returned to Torres, and even though she knows what happened to me two years ago, I didn’t tell her who did it. Did she put two and two together? My head is so full of scenarios, past conversations, and memories that now I wonder if something slipped.

I swear I haven’t told a soul, and I was always careful about never mentioning one of the Four fuckwits, unless someone brought them up in a conversation, unaware of what they did to me.

Blake found out. He only found out because he followed me like a freaky stalker. I take a moment to compose myself before answering innocently.

Me: True. Anyway, I’ve got a shift in the gardens. I’ll catch up with you later.

Z: (:

Avoiding eye contact with students and staff has always been my job. In the past, it was because I liked to keep my distance and was hesitant to open myself up to people due to trust issues, but now I do it for a slightly different reason: fear. I fear they’d read my guilt and see that my hands are stained in blood.

Throwing myself into gardening has typically been my therapy. Still, today, as the warm sun caresses my neck and birds twitter happily in the branches above where I work, I can’t relax. Every flap of a bird wing, every snapping twig, every moving shadow makes me jump. It’s an impending doom sensation expecting to be either jumped again or arrested by police, and I’m unsure which one is worse.

The skin on my forearms is scratched and bloody from pruning diseased wood off rose shrubs, and I barely notice the pain from piercing thorns because my head is a million miles away. My phone beeps, and naturally, because I’m constantly on edge, I jump at the sound, but I’m so thirsty for a familiar, comforting company that I strip my gloves instantly and lunge for my phone.

It’s a message from Blake, and I sigh in relief that he doesn’t view me as a nutcase write-off to never contact again. It’ll also allow me to apologize to him for overreacting yesterday.

When I open the message, it’s blank. There is not a single letter or quotation mark in the text box. I message back:? No message. Are you trying to contact me?

My dad has done this in the past: He’s supposed to call me, but he carelessly sends a blank message instead with clumsy fingers. Expecting a call or a reply to my message, I sit down in the shade on the cool grass, rehearsing what I will say to him.

Five minutes passed, and still no reply was received, so I swiped to call him, and his phone went straight to voicemail. That’s weird. He sent me a blank message, then turned his phone off.

I can’t keep dwelling on this mystery, so I finish my shift in the gardens and head to my next class, expecting to see Cormac there. This is his favorite class, taught by an ex-Olympian, because it inspires promising athletes, so I was surprised to find him not here.

My stomach turned when our tutor decided to do a tribute to Coach Lyons. Unfortunately, several students in the class hadn’t heard the news, so he had to explain what happened. He said that Coach Lyons was found in his car in the Olympic Pool parking lot early yesterday morning and shot dead.

To make matters worse for me, the class then spirals into a debate on who may have murdered him and why. Interestingly, some classmates were quick to make the accusation that a disgruntled person was out for revenge. I’m starting to believe that many students within the Sports Science School knew what Coach Lyons was like. The traveling fingers and hands and the offer to coach teenage girls one-on-one and early in the morning when the pool is empty of people. The only people who seemed genuinely upset were our tutor and the students who didn’t know him.

It’s a unique perspective to murder someone and then to sit listening to people try and guess how it is, even though I’m right here under their noses.

9

I returned to Gabe’s house mid-afternoon, pleased that no one was home, and poured myself a cup of iced tea from the fridge and a plate of Cormac’s dinner last night. I should also apologize to him since I missed his homemade dinner. From the outside, it may have seemed that I had an adult tantrum and sulked for 12 hours, but really, I was in an emotionally difficult place.

I take my dinner out onto the balcony overlooking the lake and breathe in the fresh air, watching birds wade in the shallows as a fishing boat rocks on the choppy waves.

Even though I’m relaxed on the balcony at the back of the house, my neck still twists toward the glass doors to see if anyone is creeping up on me. This is Gabe’s house. I’m alone in Gabe’s house, which feels wrong because he’s not here.

I’m alone in Gabe’s house.

Huh.

Throwing back the rest of the iced tea in my glass, place the half-eaten bowl of pasta in tomato sauce on the floor next to the beach chair and precariously step back inside. The main balcony leads into the living room, and I stalk to the front of the house, searching for human life. I can’t see or hear anyone, and it’s only my car parked up the drive, indicating that I’m still alone…in Gabe’s house.

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