Page 66 of Burned By Sin
I stand and pace, unable to sit still but having nowhere left to go. After staying at Rhys’ place, the dorm walls are more like the confinements of a cell. Tomorrow, I’ll have to brave the cafeteria and the very likely possibility of my student card being declined. Not that any of those things are at the top of my worries right now.
Has Harper gone to the party with that smug asshole? Does he get to hold her one last time? Kiss her neck and feel her curves pressed against him. Or has he convinced her to stay, to be exclusively his? The thought finally triggers the delayed anger I’d been waiting for.
Lifting the desk chair, I hurl it with all my might, the wood splintering against the wall and dropping onto Kenneth’s bed. My chest heaves, my mind clouded. I’ve walked away. I’ve let Wavershit win. Kicking the singular, wonky wardrobe while clawing my hands through my hair, a solid thud reverberates through the floor, followed by a dull thud beside my shoes. The kickboard has fallen from the base, laying uselessly on the floor.
“Shit.” I crouch and reach to shove it back in place, but pause when I notice the shallow groove along the top edge, just deep enough for a thumbnail. Slotting the kickboard back into place, the smoothness of the action causing my brows to pull together. Using my thumbnail in the groove, I pop it out again, repeating the action until my brain manages to catch up. The piece isn’t broken, it’s been designed to come out.
My pulse starts pounding as I lower onto my back, pushing my hand into the empty gap underneath. Expecting my fingers to brush against dust and lost socks, I almost flinch at the cold, hard edges they graze instead. One by one, I pull the contents free and line them up on the floor. A laptop, a thick brown folder, a photo album, a zip-lock bag stuffed with hard drives and USBs. The longer I stare, the heavier the air around me becomes.
Clicking sounds at the door, the handle being tried from the outside. I jolt, gathering up the items and stuffing them beneath my pillows. The unmistakable jingle of keys comes, low muttering following. Pushing the kickboard back in place, I manage to throw myself onto my bed as the door opens and Kenneth steps inside.
“Kenneth, what the hell are you doing here?!” I ask a little too hastily. My orange-haired roommate freezes, wide-eyed and pale. His gaze drags over my bare torso, the way my chest is shifting heavily and then sweeps the room, only briefly snagging on the kickboard before staring at the shards of broken chair littering his bed. Opening his mouth and closing it again, Kenneth ‘s attention returns to me, remembering I asked him a question.
“I just need to get something for the party. How come you’re not there? Are you going later, as a surprise? Ohh maybe you should?—”
“Just get what you need, Kenneth. I’m not in the mood for small talk,” I huff, eager for him to leave. Something strange is happening around here and I need silence to sort through it all. Nodding, Kenneth rushes to retrieve something from the dresser drawer, keeping his back to me so I can’t see what it is. He hurries out just as quickly, my feet following him to the door. This time, I lock and deadbolt it.
Lifting my pillows, I place the items on the dresser in a line before going back to the kickboard, wanting to check I haven’t missed anything. Pushing my arm in, all the way up to the shoulder, my fingers brush over fabric, which I retract to find one of my black beanies with a phone nestled inside.
Blood rushes in my ears, my heart picking up speed as I stare at thebeanie. There’s no mistaking the foreign label and for a split second, I doubt myself. Is it me? Have I been sleepwalking, am I schizophrenic? Did the JDC break me in ways I don’t understand, am I even here now or is this all an illusion? Holy fuck, am I in a coma?
“Snap out of it, you idiot,” I mentally slap myself. Rising to stand at the desk, now that there’s no chair to sit on, I hover over the items that could make up a serial killer’s collection. I reach for the album first, the photos inside washed out and grainy. An image of two boys around six or seven stares back at me. Both scruffy, both smiling with the kind of closeness that only comes from growing up together. The taller one has tight black curls. The other, a mop of uneven blond hair. They wear threadbare shirts and hold each other in every shot, like brothers clinging to the last bit of good in the world.
I flip faster, growing impatient and more uneasy as I go on. I don’t know these kids, but the last photo makes me stop. In baggy sweatpants, the pair stand in front of a recreation center Iknow.The old brick building downtown, the one I walked past every day growing up.
A prickle of unease runs down my spine. For a kid from my neighborhood to attend Waversea is a big deal. I thought I was the only one. Moving onto the folder, my hands tremble with urgency. It’s full of newspaper articles about…me. My arrest, my trial, even a news article about Jeremy’s funeral. ‘Final claxon for basketball prodigy’ fills the space above his black and white picture, a huge smile tugging directly at my heart.
Breathing through the slice that threatens to split my chest open, I continue searching through the plastic sleeves looking for any kind of connection between these boys and me, until I find it.
A tiny obituary clipping glued to the corner of a page. The photograph is barely the size of a stamp, but he’s older in this image. His tight black curls have become an unruly mess, his face filled out. I recognize him instantly. Antonio Langton.
‘In loving memory of Antonio Langton, who died on March 4th,aged 17. Much loved and sadly missed by his father, cousin, and friends at Croswell High.’
I stumble back, managing to drop onto my bed before the floor is whipped out from underneath me. My hands go numb, the folder slipping to the floor with a dull thud. Antonio was with me the night my life went to shit, the night I lost everything.
But why is his face here, staring up at me from the floor? Even without that answer, connections start to form in my mind. Harper’s attack at the lab. Kenneth was there. Harper was drugged with a coffee. Kenneth works at a coffee shop. The day my locker was vandalized with white spray paint. Kenneth came back from work early, his body covered in white powder. He knows my mom’s birthday. He steals my clothes. He’s majoring in both science and veterinarian studies, giving him access to the chemicals that would start a fire, to the blood that desecrated Jeremy’s sports jacket. He’s the stalker.
I shoot to my feet, dragging the shirt and jacket back on without bothering to button it up. I’m out the door and down the stairs before I’ve even decided where to go. Should I track down Harper and Wavershit at the dance, telling them all I’ve discovered? Shaking my head, I decide to take this straight to the Dean as I shove my way out of the dorm building doors and crash straight into Addy. She staggers back on a broken heel, panting with her hair stuck to her face, her eyes frantic. She’s been running.
“Clay,” Addy gasps, her forearms against my chest. I hold her in place, dreading whatever is about to come out of her mouth. “I didn’t…I left Harper, she told me to. I was going to the dance but something felt off, so I went back.”
“Addy, what’s happened?” I implore, giving her a little shake, gripping her too tightly. “Where is Harper?”
“Kenneth wanted to give her something in the parking lot,” Addy manages to force through her chattering lips. Her adrenaline is wearing off and the cold realization is setting in for both of us. Shrugging out of my jacket, I wrap it around her shoulders and take off, my armspumping as I close the distance between the dorm buildings. Running the length of the parking lot, I skid to a stop at Harper’s cherry red Audi. The doors are unlocked, her bags still in the trunk.
Skidding around, my dress shoe knocks something on the ground, a gentle rattle sounding as it skates beneath the car. For the second time tonight, I’m on my knees, reaching for a truth I don’t want to admit to myself. My hand curls around the cylinder as I retrieve the needle, my head lowering onto the tarmac. What have I done?
Kenneth has been right under my nose this entire time. I’ve missed every clue, dismissed his strange ways as harmless. I’ve been so distracted, I couldn’t see what was happening right in front of my face. And even still, I want to believe that he couldn’t have done all of this alone. That he’s another pawn being blackmailed, but the evidence covering our dorm room floor says otherwise. This was premeditated. It’s personal. But why?
I’m back on my feet, dizzy and disorientated. Wherever Kenneth has taken Harper, he can’t have gone far. Taking off in the direction of the quad, I shove passed party-goers making their way to the main hall. Naivety forces me to check each one, jogging up the line of those waiting to go inside, hunting for a silver dress. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he couldn’t go through with it. Two smart suits lean against the building, all smirks and humor as they talk to their girl, until Huxley spots me.
“Clayton? What’s wrong?” Huxley steps forward, frowning at my open shirt and distressed hair. I almost stumble into him, the relief at seeing a friend is too much to deny.
“It’s Harper. She’s in trouble,” I start. My words are hurried and incoherent, but I manage to force a brief recount through my trembling jaw. Huxley’s hands grip my face to center my focus, whilst Garrett slides in to button up my shirt. He shifts his shoulders and head in time with the music streaming from the hall, his face showing none of the malice that comes out of his mouth.
“So we find and gut the ginger bastard,” Garrett smiles, his eyesdevoid of emotion. If I weren’t already worked up, I’d feel a trace of fear at his calm demeanor. Huxley shakes my shoulders, being the voice of reason.
“Go tell the Dean everything you’ve just told me. We’ll round up sophomores and check the campus.” I’m already shaking my head, my throat closing as the panic seeps in. We’re losing too much time.
