“She’s not allowed to open the door unless there’s an adult with her. I’m sure some of the parents of the kids you babysat had the same rule, right?”
“Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that.”
Anza gives me a warm smile, her ebony eyes sparkling. Her waist-length black hair falls in a shining river down her back. When she wraps a tiny hand around my fingers, my insides heat. I haven’t felt such naked trust in a long time.
On the top step sits a book. My history book. Somehow Justin knew I’d lost my history book. He knew because he must have been watching me close enough to notice. I scoop up the book and scurry inside.
Justin may not have gone far, and if he’s been watching me… I recoil when I imagine him pawing through everything in my locker in search of my history book. He would have had to use the keys he has access to for his job. They can’t just go into our lockers, can they?
A huge red flag of unease unfurls in my mind, making me hold the book tighter against my chest. It might be the proof I need to convince Aunt Karen that the guy she’s known since she was in school is watching me.
Esperanza and Matteo are so riled up that Noah caves and puts on some kiddie show for them in the living room. He bribes them with gummy bears to keep them quiet.
I sit there staring at my history book and trying to focus, but all of the noise from Noah and his siblings is distracting. I keep having to read the same sentences over and over. I’d get so much more done if I was at Aunt Karen’s, shut behind my bedroom door with my headphones in my ears. I’m going to have to stay up so late tonight to get through everything.
“Can I ask you a question?” Noah’s words are gentle and inquisitive, bringing my attention up to his eyes. They slide over my face in a way I’ve seen a hundred times since school started.
And here I was thinking he simply wouldn’t ask. Not like all of the people at school who can’t help themselves at the sight of such an ugly, permanent reminder of trauma scrawled across my face.
“I got it in a car accident,” I say, “and no, I don’t want to talk about it.” It comes out with more bite than I intended, and I almost wish I could take it back. Try again. It’s not his fault he was curious about the vivid white seam that bisects my cheek.
Noah nods, returning his attention to his books. There’s something in the line of his shoulders that makes me pause. If I knew him better, I might know if that meant he was embarrassed or hurt or annoyed, but I don’t.
“I had an older brother.”
My head jerks up at this. Noah has murmured it like one would a confession, soft and quick, as if trying to avoid being overheard. It doesn't escape me that he says he had an older brother. Past tense. “You did?” I lick my lips, then push it further. “Where is he?”
“He died. He was killed.” The bleak look in his eyes behind the thick black frames of his glasses guts me. It’s obvious he’s exposed a festering wound by uttering those first two words, so I don’t press for more. He’s not ready for it. Neither am I.
But I recognize it for what it is: an offering. He sees my trauma and offers up his own in trade. So that we’re even. So that I don’t feel so alone. For a hundred reasons that I can’t begin to understand.
Something unfolds in my gut, beckoning me to acknowledge it. Acknowledge the newly uncovered truth that Noah too has known loss. The heavy black curtain of death being lowered down too soon. The stumbling in the dark after the lights have been snuffed out.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s not enough. Those paltry words will never be enough. Not knowing what else to say, I change the subject.
“He used to work at the dairy, right?” I ask, giving up on my homework.
“Who?” Noah’s black brows furrow in confusion.
“That janitor guy, Justin.” I toss my thumb over my shoulder.
“Not that I know of.”
I go still. “Are you sure? Aunt Karen told me he worked there before he got the job at school.”
“I don’t think so,” Noah says, shaking his head.
“And you’re sure.” I frown. I know I sound more combative than is necessary.
“I mean, the dairy is pretty big, so it’s possible I just never saw him, but…” Noah tousels his hair and shuffles through his papers.
“But?” I’m leaning forward over the table, the hesitance in Noah’s tone drawing me in like the gymnastics finals at the summer Olympics.
He sighs. “I don’t want to say your aunt was wrong, but I don’t think that guy’s ever worked at the dairy. I can ask my dad though. He’s worked there for twenty years, so he’d know for sure.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he starts tapping on the screen.
“Wait. No. Don’t do that. I must have misunderstood her. Maybe she meant he’d applied at the dairy.” I shrug it off even though my blood is pounding in my ears. There’s no way I misinterpreted what Aunt Karen told me. Where did he work before he started at the school? The dairy. Either she was wrong, which doesn’t jive with the careful competence my guardian exudes in pretty much every area aside from actual parenting. Or she lied.
Chapter 14
Day 119, Sunday
The newspaper article on Esau came out today. I’ve been scoping out Aunt Karen’s newspaper each day so I wouldn’t miss it. I’m curious about what he said to that reporter.
Every morning, Aunt Karen leaves that day’s rolled-up paper in the middle of the kitchen table while she’s making her coffee. She uses one of those French presses and lots of flavored creamer. Then she sits there in her dark shirt and pressed pants and reads in silence. “It’s useful to keep up to date on current local events,” she said the first time I saw her reading an actual newspaper and couldn’t stop my eyebrows from rising into my hair. I didn’t know anyone still read a physical newspaper, since everything is available online. I didn’t even know they still printed them.
This morning the newspaper is twice as large as during the week, and Esau’s brooding face is right on the front, above the fold. Aunt Karen’s attempting to make breakfast, so I snatch it off the table and fall into a seat to read it. I barely speak to Esau during drama club, so who knows why I’m interested in an article about him, but I am. It starts by talking about his humble upbringing—those are the literal words the journalist used. I smother a huff into my palm. Aunt Karen looks at me over her bottle of creamer, then turns to the giant stack of plain, buttered, almost-burned toast she’s made.
Quietly, I keep reading, but stop again to take a bite of the peanut butter and banana wrap I threw together.
Reading all of this background info about Esau is making me feel kind of voyeuristic. Like, if I wanted to know about his childhood I should ask him in person, not read about it in a newspaper. Then I shake the feeling away. If Esau didn’t want everyone in town reading about it, he wouldn’t have told the reporter. Fair is fair.
“Is that you in the newspaper?” Aunt Karen bellows, tearing the pages out of my hands and bringing them closer to her face.
Dropping my breakfast on the table top, I scramble out of my chair. “No. I’m not in any photos. They didn’t ask permission, and they have to have…” My voice dies when I look where Aunt Karen is pointing. Sure enough, there it is, my profile behind Esau in the photo. In color. In the county newspaper.
“I thought I told you to stay away from cameras! Do you realize how many people will see this?”
“Most people don’t even read these anymore,” I say, trying to placate her. Aunt Karen is just trying to keep me safe.
“That isn’t funny.” Each word is clipped, as is the sharp look she sends my way.
I cross my arms. Go completely still. She’s right. It’s not funny.
“If you can’t stay away from the press, I’m going to pull you out of school.”
“No, please don’t. I promise to hide the next time someone shows up with a camera. It probably won’t happen again,” I add hastily.
“I’m calling that good-for-nothing edit
or right now,” Aunt Karen decrees, scrolling through her phone. “I have his number here somewhere…” She puts the phone to her ear and paces across the kitchen.
“What can they do? It’s already been printed,” I say halfheartedly. “Besides, he already knows where I am.” She’s clearly not heeding me, her back turned as she taps her foot on the dingy linoleum floor.
“They can take it off their website!”
Apparently she was listening.
“Can you believe he hasn’t been home to see his family in five years?” Marisa says contemplatively as she takes a long swig of her mint grasshopper milkshake.
Despite the fiasco this morning, Aunt Karen agreed to let me meet my friends at the only diner in town for milkshakes this afternoon. After a lot of groveling and promises that I’ll never let anyone take my photo ever again.
It’s a blistering day and Main Street is like a ghost town. Except the diner, which boasts a whopping thirty milkshake flavors. Pretty much everyone from school is here. Noah is sitting across the diner on a counter stool, flanked by Esperanza and Matteo.
Despite all the buzz about the article, Esau is absent. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to be out with everyone talking about me either.
“I can’t imagine not seeing my mom for that,” Viv says from behind her vivid pink cherry milkshake.
“Same,” Erin says, her arm slung behind Viv on the back of our corner booth.
Next to me, Fiona nods, looking down at her phone screen. “I had no idea he wanted to be a film director. It explains why he’s so uptight about everything being perfect at practice all the time.”
Next to her, Dariel nods.
“Seriously,” Marisa says.
“I wonder why none of the teachers have tried to start a film class,” Fiona muses.
“Mr. Baugh says there aren’t funds for it,” I say, thankful to have something safe to add to the conversation.
“And that quote about Megan!” Fiona crows, reading in a fake man-voice. “There’s a girl in my drama club who is constantly questioning how I direct, the choices I’m making, and it’s been challenging. But you know what? I secretly enjoy it, because every one of her questions makes me re-evaluate what we’re doing and why.”
I caught the line when I read it this morning. Even more surprising than the fact that Esau mentioned me of all people in his interview is that I don’t hate it.
“You vex him, and he likes it,” Viv teases, winking at me.
“Ugh, Megan, you’re so vexing,” Fiona says through her laughter.
I focus on my chocolate peanut butter milkshake. The best flavor, obviously.
“I wish it said what kind of tractor he drives,” Marisa says, dreamy eyed. “I wonder if it’s an International or a John Deere.”
“John Deere,” she and Viv say simultaneously, like it’s obvious.
The rest of us burst into laughter.
“I bet you’d like to see his tractor,” Viv says through her giggles, prodding at Marisa with the hand that isn’t on Erin’s thigh.
“Shut up,” Marisa says, an indignant flush to her cheeks. “He’s hot, but no. Besides, I think he’d rather show Megan his tractor.”
My neck heats. “Gross. Like I want to ride a tractor with a sweaty, bossy grump.”
The table falls silent.
Crap, I may have gone a little too far.
That’s when I notice everyone looking past me with guilty expressions.
“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”
Fiona nods. “Yep.”
I turn, my eyes climbing past the sweaty white t-shirt and messy bun of black hair to settle on a pair of annoyed eyes. “Esau, I…”
His gaze locks on mine. “Grumpy, huh?” He pulls his t-shirt up to wipe the sweat off his forehead, and everyone suddenly is very interested in their food. My eyes jump back up to his face, but from the wicked tilt to his mouth, he definitely thinks I was peeking at his abs.
“See you around,” he says, walking past us to the counter to order.
I watch him walk away, his words from the article on a loop in my head.
“Film is supposed to be evocative. It pushes the boundary of human experience in a way that is intensely relatable and inspiring. At least, that’s the kind of film I hope to make someday.” I can hear Esau speaking the words in my head.
That longing to provoke emotion in other people is a feeling I can relate to. Whenever someone comments that they love one of my photos, it cements in my mind my love for photography. The ability to capture a feeling in an image in a way that other people understand is breathtaking. Empowering. The shared experience makes the hours of shooting and editing worth it.
I study Esau while he orders his milkshake and stands to one side to wait. Somewhere behind that grumpy, bossy exterior is a guy who wants to relate to other people through film. Through emotion.
I can’t hate him for that.
“Hey, isn’t that your aunt?” Fiona asks, nudging me.
I turn to look out the window. “Yeah.” She must have decided she wanted a milkshake.
“Maybe she’s come to yell at you about that photo some more,” Fiona says. “She is so strict. If I was ever in the newspaper, my mom would buy copies to send to all of our relatives.”
Aunt Karen steps out of a shop across the street and walks toward the diner. Even in the oppressive heat, she’s wearing dark slacks and a short-sleeved button-down.
I wave at her through the window, but she must not see me, because she keeps going. Passes the front door and goes around the side of the building. That’s weird.
“I’ll be right back.”
Fiona slides into the aisle so I can climb out of the booth. I go outside and have to gasp at how hot it is compared to the interior of the diner. It’s like walking around in molten lava. The hair hanging down from my ponytail sticks to my neck. Maybe Esau had the right idea about the bun.
I round the corner but don’t see Aunt Karen. She must have gone around back, but why?
I walk to the back of the building and freeze. Aunt Karen is there, but so is Justin. He’s got my guardian pinned to the wall.
I open my mouth to scream at him or yell for help. He’s attacking her! Where’s her gun? I thought she always had it on her. My mind reels as I stand hot glued to the concrete, the heat seeping in through my sandals and searing the soles of my feet.
Oh.
Justin leans into Aunt Karen and kisses her. Her hands fly up to his hair, and they’re one beast with hands and lips and teeth.
Gross.
I back away as quietly as I can, stunned. Aunt Karen is secretly dating Justin. It explains so much—why he’s always around, the warmth in her tone when she mentions him, the casual way his name rolls off her lips.
Then it hits me. The reason she lied to me about him working at the dairy. She’s covering for him. The only question is, what are they covering up? There’s no question his past is shady, but is it murderous?
Chapter 15
Day 122, Wednesday
Noah’s map of sightings of the Mayday Killer has another pin. Another couple is dead, stabbed ruthlessly over and over on their couch. Their children found the bodies when they got home from playing soccer in the park with friends. I wish I could send them something, anything to let them know they’re not alone, but the press are withholding their identities since they’re minors.
It’s the right call. The sickos and freaks who come out of the woodwork when there’s a serial killer involved make my stomach turn.
And I didn’t see Justin at the school today. Which is why I’ve spent the afternoon looking for him on social media and searching his name on the internet to see what I can find out. There’s not a trace of him anywhere. Any mentions of him on the web have been scrubbed eerily clean.
Visions of viscous, crimson blood on bright green latex gloves swim across my vision, tainting the hung map red. It creeps across the wall, inching closer and closer to where I’m sitting at
Noah’s desk with my refurbished laptop. I’m supposed to be going through my backlog of photos to find ones that are the right colors for our project, but all I can see is red.
My throat tightens. “I need to go.”
Noah jumps up from where he’s sprawled on the carpet, head propped on his hand. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Ever so gently, his fingers brush my elbow. “You sure? You look a little pale.”
“I’m wiped. Long day.”
He huffs in agreement. “It’s almost dinnertime. We could order pizza or something.”
It’s a sweet gesture, and I try to plaster a smile on to my face, not sure if I succeed. “Thanks, but not tonight. I really should get home.”
He nods, adjusting his glasses up his wide nose. “Maybe next time.”
I pack up my stuff quickly, avoiding looking at the back of the door. Avoiding Noah’s eyes. I’m afraid if I meet his gaze, he’ll be able to see the panic behind my own. The fear and revulsion that war inside me.
On the way home, I ask Aunt Karen if she can pick up a couple things for me when she’s at work tomorrow.
The old house creaks and groans when we unlock the door and step inside. Despite the sun’s high position outside, all of the blinds are closed to shutter out the radiant heat. Dropping my backpack onto the floor with a thud, I head to the kitchen for snacks and the cardboard box I know is on the back porch. I hesitate before unlocking the back door, an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
If Justin’s working with the Mayday Killer, he could be waiting back there to help finish what the murderer started.
I spend a long minute peeking through the back window to make sure there’s no one hidden out there before I unlock the door, snatch the box, and slam it shut in a blink. Slide the bolt into place with heart stammering behind my ribs.
A while later, Aunt Karen comes back downstairs wearing an oversized tee and yoga pants. “What’s going on in here?” she asks as she comes into the kitchen. Her hair is down around her shoulders with the ponytail crease still visible. It’s the most casual I’ve ever seen her.
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