Page 19 of Even in the Dark

“Didn’t think they let serial killers into prep schools,” he drawls, as he and a couple of other guys box Dylan in. They snicker, and Dylan’s jaw clenches.

My new neighbor stares them down, giving away no visual clues of the taunts’ effects, other than the tic in his jaw.

And because Trevor’s an idiot, he takes Dylan’s silence as weakness. “You moving up in the world?” He steps closer. “Scouting out higher-end victims? That what’s going on here?”When that gets no reaction, Trevor forges on. “Or did they just get bored with you at the loony bin they had you locked up in? Decided to let you loose just for fun-sies.”

Dylan’s eyes flash with venom at that one, and everyone standing around goes dead quiet. They’ve all read the stories, heard about the violence-prone, wild and fearless Maytag Kid. EvenI'mtense as hell, because even though I may have had advance notice that the newer version of Dylan Braun does not match up to those headlines, I’ve still really only seen him with his family around. He might be entirely different away from them, in a different setting. Around people like Trevor Albrecht and his potato-brained cronies.

Things could get ugly really fast.

But freakingstill,Dylan keeps his emotions reined, not rising to the bait. Not backing away or averting his eyes or showing any signs of fear or submission or anything – but he’s also not pushing back, either. There’s some sort of serious internal conflict licking like waves around the edges of his liquid-green irises. The tension radiating off him is hard-core; this restraint is costing him.

Trevor leans in, shoving Dylan’s shoulder. “What’s the matter, Killer? Can’t—”

At the contact, Dylan’s arm shoots up. He shoves his thickly veined forearm into Trevor’s chest and pushes him back a few paces, slamming him up against the lockers beside the door. Trevor’s body careens against the metal with a loudcrash!that draws even more attention their way. The crowd has grown even larger, no longer just the group waiting to head into Mr. Hogan’s classroom.

“Don’t…put your fucking hands on me,” Dylan drawls, his voice low and so restrained it’s almost a whisper. Yet still laced with an eerie kind of menace.

Trevor scoffs, shooting for unaffected but landing somewhere in the vicinity of stunned and about to crap his boxers. “Whoa… Chill, dude.” He lifts both hands, palms out. “Just messing with you, bro.”

Dylan’s hold doesn’t budge. I’m pretty sure Trevor is pushing back with his full body weight, but not getting any traction. Dylan is clearly strong as hell. “Scrappy,” my Uncle Clay would call him. Which always made me picture a stray puppy—not a keyed-up, surf-grunge model with a fearless attitude and a steely green stare.

The two of them continue their silent stare-down for several drawn-out seconds.

“Get your arm off me, bro,” Trevor growls. Still trying to save face.

Dylan doesn’t budge. He’s got that stoic mask back in place that makes it impossible to tell what’s going through his brain right now.

“Yo, the Maytag Kid’s about to drop a body!” someone calls out from the crowd.

“Deck him, Trev!” someone else yells.

I almost step in and tell Dylan to walk away and ignore them all.Almost.Then I realize it wouldn’t do a bit of good. It’ll either egg him on more or make him look weak in front of everyone. Neither scenario solves anything.

“Where are those killer instincts, Braun?” someone heckles.

“Ohhh! Trev is shaking in his panties right now!” another guy jeers, somewhere near the front.

And that does it. Trevor pulls back his arm, fist curled…

Then Mr. Hogan rounds the corner. He slows in his tracks, eyeing the mob of kids outside his classroom.

Trevor quickly drops his arm, but Dylan takes his sweet time releasing his grip. A few more seconds pass and he reluctantly steps back, flexing his fingers a couple of times at his sides. Then he pushes his hands in his pockets, almost as if he’s doing it to keep his fists contained. His forearms are still taut, and his biceps contracted, straining against the fabric of his shirt.

Trevor adjusts his top where it remains bunched up from Dylan’s grip just seconds ago. “Someone’seasily offended,” he scoffs, but only a few people laugh.

“Everything okay, here?” Mr. Hogan asks as he approaches, eyeing Trevor, then letting his gaze slide to Dylan. There’s a flash of recognition, then weariness, before he schools his features into an expression that is a cross between a cautious smile and reluctant authority. I don’t blame him; Dylan’s gaze is like ice right now- mesmerizing but cold and unbendable. Sharp as cut crystal.

“Just welcoming the new kid.” Trevor flashes his toothy smile.

Mr. Hogan nods slowly. “Hmm.” He eyes them both dubiously. “Let’s all head into class, shall we?” Then his focus shifts just to Dylan. “Welcome, Dylan. It’s great to have you at SH Prep.”

Dylan doesn’t respond. To be fair, Mr. Hogan’s tone didn’t make the “great to have you” part sound super convincing. His hands remain shoved in his pockets as Mr. Hogan passes on his way to the door.

Once Mr. Hogan is out of earshot, Trevor backs into the classroom, tossing a parting taunt in Dylan’s direction. “See you round.” Then he winks. “Psycho.”

Dylan’s eyes don’t stray from Trevor, tracking him all the way to his seat. His jaw tics. Then he pushes through the crowd and strides after him into class, taking a seat in the corner of the very back row, jaw still clenched, jade eyes meeting every gaze that lands on him, almost like a challenge. And it works. People’s stares flicker and look immediately away as they pass.

I know what it means now when people say someone is an island. Because that’s what Dylan looks like right now: a solitary island, with the reflection of the stormy sea in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word the entire class. Doesn’t avert his gaze once from the front of the room, either. When the bell rings for lunch thirty-five minutes later, he leans back in his seat, balancing his chair on its back legs, and watches as everyone files from the room. I’m pretty sure he’s the last one to leave.

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