Wicked Hunger

by DelSheree Gladden

  Chapter Thirteen: Honest Answer

  (Vanessa)

  I stomp away from Grandma’s car, frustrated that Zander has managed to avoid me again. I stayed up as long as I could to wait for him Saturday night. When I nodded off around three in the morning, he still hadn’t come home. I doubt he was with Ivy that late since her parents seem pretty strict. I have no idea where he went, though.

  Sunday morning he disappeared again. When he came back, not only did he stick close to Grandma for the rest of the day, making it impossible for me to talk to him about Ivy without freaking Grandma out, but that taste was back. When I tried to confront him before school, I found his room empty, but that wasn’t the scariest part. Hanging out of his laundry basket was the shirt he had on the day before.

  I don’t know what made me go over to look at it. I couldn’t have seen the drops of blood on the sleeve from the doorway, but I certainly saw them when I picked up the shirt. Then this morning, Grandma announces that Zander had to be at school early so she would drive me. He won’t be picking me up from school, either. I am just about ready to kill my brother.

  Ketchup rushing over to me is a welcome relief to my horrible morning.

  “You look pissed,” he says. “What happened?”

  The whole stream of insanity bouncing around inside of me almost spills out. Almost. I stop myself in time.

  Ketchup looks at me expectantly. “Did something happen the other day? You never called, but…”

  “No,” I say quickly, not wanting to talk about Noah. “It’s Zander, again. I need to figure out what he has in common with Vega.”

  “Did that weird taste thing happen again?”

  I nod, my stomach churning as I remember the sickening taste. “There’s got to be a reason for it.”

  “Have you tried asking Zander again, or your grandma?”

  The shake of my head makes Ketchup frown. “Why not?”

  Reasons spiral through my mind. There are so many, but the one that is the most honest is what slips past my lips. “Because I’m afraid to.”

  Ketchup stops walking. Unwilling to be without him quite yet, I stop as well. My eyes stay down, but I don’t need to look up to feel Ketchup move closer to me. His hand touches my cheek briefly, hesitates, then falls away.

  “Van, I wish you would just talk to me. Tell me what this is really about.” He sighs, knowing I can’t tell him without me having to explain everything. He continues in my silence. “I don’t know what they have in common. Vega is a gang member, something I seriously doubt straight-laced Zander would ever consider. There have been rumors about Vega and drugs, but again, Zander’s not the type. Unless Zander is running around killing people, I can’t imagine what they would have in common.”

  My entire body goes ice cold. I look up at Ketchup, my body trembling. “What did you just say?” I whisper.

  “What? About the drugs?” Ketchup searches my expression as worry clouds his features. “You think Zander might be doping?”

  “No, not that.” My hands are shaking so badly I can barely control them. “No, the last thing.”

  “You mean Zander killing people?” Ketchup says slowly. His arms wrap around me and pull me to his chest. I can feel his heart pounding. He sighs with so much regret it nearly suffocates me. “Van, I’m so sorry. I never should have said that. I didn’t think.”

  I’m too scared to respond. Where has Zander been at night? What is he doing in those hours when the rest of the city is at home in their beds? Why was there blood on his shirt this morning? He’s always been the one with the most control. I shake my head, unwilling to let myself believe that Zander could be doing something so terrible.

  “Hey, hey,” Ketchup says, his voice begging. He pushes my face up to meet his gaze. The agony in his eyes is nothing compared to what is racing through my veins right now.

  “Van, please. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t want to think about the possibility that Ketchup is right, but in the darkest corners of my mind I know I can’t brush this aside. If it’s true, I have to know.

  “I need to,” I say haltingly, “to find more people that have killed someone.”

  For a moment, Ketchup just stares at me. It takes him a while to realize I’m not joking. When he does, his whole body tightens. “You really think…?” He rubs a hand across his face. “Okay, um, short of wandering around Westside and tasting people, how do we find people like that?”

  “Prisons?” I offer.

  Ketchup scowls at me. “I am not taking you to a prison.” He’s quiet for a moment before saying, “What about a senior center?”

  “What?”

  “Well, think about it. The center in my neighborhood where my grandpa used to hang out has a strong Veteran population. If they went to war, there’s a good possibility that they were involved in the fighting. I mean, it’s not the same as what Vega does, obviously, but maybe it could work.” Ketchup shrugs. “And it’s safer than a prison.”

  I don’t know if it will work. What if the weird taste is only attached to violent crimes? I have no way of knowing. That may not even be what it means. It’s a place to start, though. I don’t know what else to try.

  “Will you take me?” I ask quietly.

  “Of course,” Ketchup says. “I’ll take you after school today.”