Page 53 of Satan's Spawn
“It’s Bex.” I growl. “And this is not my lock.”
“It’s on your locker.”
“I know that!” I release the lock with a huff. “Someonemust have changed it.” I pin him with an expression that makes it clear who the culprit is.
“There’s no way to prove someone vandalized your locker without proof.”
Now we’re concerned with fucking proof. Of course. How convenient when the school has no hallway cameras.
“You know who did this.” I reproach.
“Maybe. But what matters here is what you can prove.” I can sense the apology in his tone. Not that it helps. “My advice to you is quit while you’re ahead. This isn’t the place to make enemies. Especially with…” His words taper off, but we both know who he’s referring to.
“That’s your fucking advice?” I scoff. “Stay silent?”
What planet am I on? Better yet, what century am I in?
“You won’t win. Not here. Trust me.”
I know Lawrence truly believes that, but I’m so far past being complacent.
I will not be silenced.
“You can go. I am no longer pursuing the vandalization complaint.” I turn my back to the guy, feeling his presence drift as I make my first attempt at breaking the three digit code.
These types of locks don’t come with a default combination, and even if they did, it’s not like there’s a package or pamphlet anywhere I can use to find it.
Whoever did this made sure it was as inconvenient as possible.
I tap my fingers against the keys again, then again and again, using all different variations of numbers with no prevail.
I do this relentlessly until the joints of my thumbs start to ache. I ignore the pain and push through, typing another, trying the most basic numerical sequences now since the random ones are not helping.
There’s 1-2-3, then 3-2-1, even tripling the numbers for the hell of it.
That’s when it hits me.
Triple numbers.
Of course. It would be the most obvious choice for such a diabolical dickhead.
Also the one that proves the point.
Begrudgingly, my thumb starts tapping the keypad once again, and sure enough, the lock clicks open right after the final dreadful six.
6-6-6
The devil’s number.
By devil, I meanCrayton Shaw.
* * *
Blinding rage engulfs me,so much I can’t even focus on what the hell Mr. Beckett has been lecturing about for the past twenty minutes.
I spent the remainder of second period with the intention of getting my hands on a new lock. But when I stormed inside the school store looking for one, I was told every single one had been bought for “donation” purposes.
Every. Single. Lock.
