Page 61 of Revenge At Raleigh High
Ahh, Jake. Jake, Jake, Jake. Our individual codes of ethics are diametrically opposed. Our hearts and our consciences pull us in different directions, but we both have strong personalities. We both inspire strong feelings in others, that sometimes result in them contemplating murder. We are both the kind of guy who shouldn’t let his guard down, even when he’s sleeping. Except you’ve dropped the motherfucking ball, haven’t you, son? You have let your guard down. Here you are, sleeping like you’re already fucking dead…
I motion down the duffel bag, giving him the go-ahead to take out another weapon. The moment he and I have both been waiting for has finally arrived. Jake should never have been allowed to go this long unpunished for what he did to Silver, although there is something bittersweet about the fact that so much time has passed since that party at Leon Wickman's house. The first couple of weeks after Jake raped Silver, he was probably on edge. Antsy. Wondering if a pair of handcuffs were going to be slapped on his wrists and he was going to be carted off to jail. He probably held his breath a lot. Every time his father's phone rang, he probably suffered at the hands of his own paranoia, but as the days and weeks continued to roll on without consequence, Jake must have become more and more complacent.
Darhower shut Silver down when she tried to report to him what had happened. She didn't tell her parents. Her friends were actively shunning and bullying her in the corridors of Raleigh High. She had no one by her side. No one was listening to her. No one believed her, which essentially meant that Jacob was in the clear.
Now, after months of rote Raleigh High routine, showing up at school, intimidating Silver in the classrooms and the canteen, making life as miserable as possible for her at every available turn and absolutely nothing happening about it, Jacob must think he's gotten away with his crimes scot-free. Well, tonight, here in his pool house, with none of his dumb, knuckle-dragging Neanderthal football cronies to back him up, Jacob is about to find out just howwronghe was.
Cam’s nerves have dissipated since we entered Jacob's bedroom. They’ve gone. Evaporated. The bumbling, panicking guy, tripping over his own feet and shaking with uncertainty is gone, and the Cameron from pizza night has finally made an appearance. His down-turned mouth is locked in an unhappy grimace, firm but set. He's made up his mind. He's accepted what he's about to do, and he's made his peace with it. The change in him is miraculous.
When I glance over and see the weapon he’s chosen to draw out of the black duffle bag, a cold chill skates up my spine. There are plenty of implements Cameron could have selected to hurt Jacob, plenty of things that could cause him immense pain, and drag out this whole experience for a very long time indeed. Cameron's choice of weapon is endgame, though. It's the most final option he could've chosen. It’s the desert eagle.
Aiutami, Passerotto. Aiutami…a premere il...grilletto.
The cool, silver metal in Silver's father's hands gleams.
My heartrate slows.
Time slows.
What the fuck am I supposed to do here? It's one thing terrorizing a vile asshole who hurt someone you love. It's one thing doling out much-needed justice. It's another thing entirely staring down the barrel of a murder charge and preparing to pull the trigger. If I allow Cameron to do this, I’m more than complicit. I'm an accessory. Even if we aren't caught for the crime, this kind of violence leaves a stain on the soul that can’t be undone. How far am I willing to go here? How much am I willing to lose? Am I willing to pay the ultimate price? Am I willing to lose Silver? Really lose her, for good?
Cameron raises the gun, determination sparking in eyes that have hardened to flint. There's nothing soft about him now. Nothing comedic or unsure. His finger hovers over the trigger, a millimeter above the steel. If I’m going to stop this, I have to do it now. The moment presses down on me, weighing in from all sides. I am underwater. I’m drowning in the depths. The pressure of a billion tons of water crushing my lungs. Cameron's eyes narrow. His hand’s steady, arm outstretched. The moment hangs heavy as poison in the air, and I—
Jacob's loud snoring abruptly cuts off, and the boy in the bed jerks awake. Cam's lips peel back, his teeth bared. He takes a half step forward, ready of fire, but then the covers on the bed move and Jacob is sitting up, suddenly alert and awake, scrambling back against his pillows.
Fuck!
Shock washes through me. This is really happening. This is really happening. I'm about to watch Cameron Parisi put a bullet in the evil piece of shit who raped his daughter. But…
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! The fuck you playing at, Moretti? I know you're still mad but having me murdered in the middle of the night seems a little excessive, don’t you think?”
Holy fucking shit!
Now,my heart kicks into overdrive.
Now,I can feel my pulse racing at my temples and thumping in my ears…
…because the guy Cameron Parisi nearly put down in his sleep like a dog isn't Jacob Weaving after all.
It's Zander fucking Hawkins.
25
SILVER
I shower and get ready for bed, taking time to give myself a face mask. My phone dings while I’m rinsing my face, but I’m still covered in gunk, so I don’t read the message right away. I’m in no hurry. It’s probably Dad. Given how weird he was acting earlier, I’m almost one hundred percent certain he was going to meet a woman. He can deny it until he’s blue in the face but that bag he was carrying around with him could only have been an overnight bag. And I know him; if he’s planning on sleeping over at someone’s house then it has to be fairly serious. He doesn’t mess around with people’s feelings. He must like whoever he’s been seeing for it to have gotten this far, which is confusing.
When has he has time to meet and date someone? And who the hell could it be? He goes to the office for a couple of hours every day, but other than that the man seems to have decided not to leave the house come hell or high water.
It’s past midnight now. He knows I’ll be heading to sleep soon so he’s probably just checking in with me, making sure everything’s okay before I pass out for the night. I pat my face dry, wiping remnants of the thick cream from the edges of my face with a towel, and then I head back into my bedroom, picking up my phone from the end of my bed.
+1(564) 987 3491: All alone for the night. How sad. Poor Second Place Silver.
My blood runs colder than Lake Cushman.
Second Place Silver.
I’ve known exactly who has been sending me all of these hateful texts. It’s been obvious, but for some reason I’ve been unwilling to accept that Jake would be dumb enough to do it. The messages are a very permanent trail. They’re evidence, and Jake’s always been careful about avoiding that at all costs. They’re impossible to deny now. He’s the only person who calls me by that name. Jake has been texting me, threatening to kill me, and now he knows that I’m all alone?
