Endangered

by Lamar Giles

  “Five minutes,” I tell Marcos, and I feel as grimy as the grease-coated tiles I’m standing on. “No one ever has to know about your part in all this.”

  “My part in—” Marcos’s olive complexion gets rosy. He bites his lip and takes a couple of deep breaths. “Fine. Ms. Emma, I’m taking a break. If I’m not back in five minutes, burn this place down with these two in it.”

  Ms. Emma doesn’t respond verbally—what do you say to that?—but her body language speaks volumes. I’ve earned her hatred as well. And not just hers.

  As we make the short walk to the booth in the back of the restaurant, I’m hating myself, too.

  Marcos snatches off his apron, scrunches it into a ball, and tosses it in the booth before sitting. I slide in across from him, then Taylor joins me. The padded bench is tiny, so our thighs touch. It’s comforting in the wake of Marcos’s radiating disgust.

  “Ask your questions.”

  “You said Keachin was confiding in you about Coach Bottin. Why?”

  He looks away. “We were friends. I told you that.”

  “Marcos”—I motion toward a mural of Monte FISHto himself—“don’t take this the wrong way, but you work here.”

  “She wasn’t what everyone thought. She wasn’t shallow. Not for real.”

  I’ve got photographic evidence to the contrary. Still: “I don’t remember you two being close before. I’ve never seen you together around school.”

  “It started over the summer. My dad’s landscaping business does her lawn. I was helping out, and she let me come inside for some lemonade. We talked, she told me to text later. I did. It went from there.”

  It started. It went from there. What is “It”? “Are you telling us you and Keachin Myer were a thing?”

  “We could’ve been.”

  He’s quieter now, anger replaced by something more raw. Regret?

  Him and Keachin, though? He’s maybe six inches shorter, thirty pounds lighter, and forty-five IQ points smarter than the typical jock toys Keachin usually wrapped around her finger. Then again, Coach Bottin didn’t fit her brand either.

  I say, “Did you have sex with her?”

  Marcos flinches, and Taylor tactfully rephrases, “Why do you feel like you two could’ve been more?”

  “We used to be friends. Back in the day,” he says. “We were in kindergarten together, played together, went to each other’s birthday parties. All the way until middle school, then social bullshit got in the way. When we reconnected over the summer, it was like that bad time in the middle never happened. All that stupid stuff when she couldn’t speak to me in front of her rich friends and I had to call her names behind her back to feel superior, we got over it.”

  Did he get over what she did to Nina? Was that water under the bridge?

  I don’t say it. What would it accomplish? How much deeper do I need to bury a dead girl?

  He’s watching me, reading my thoughts. “I’m not saying she was perfect, Daniels. I’m saying I could look past her jacked-up public persona.”

  His moon eyes are off-putting, and I’m not feeling very tactful. “You were in love with her. Weren’t you?”

  Moon eyes become rage eyes, he leans forward. Taylor’s watching us like the referee at a Ping-Pong match.

  “It wasn’t a one-way thing. We kissed,” Marcos says.

  “When you were alone? Sneaking around so if it ever came out it would be her word against yours?”

  “I don’t have to worry about that now. Do I?” He looks at his watch. “One minute.”

  He’s already twisted sideways in his seat, ready to leave when the time is up, his obligation fulfilled.

  “In the hall the other day, you said she was going to leave him. Was she doing it for you? Is that what she told you?”

  He shakes his head, and I can tell he wishes that were the case. “She was breaking it off because she was tired of all the craziness that came with him.”

  “Craziness?”

  “Bottin’s sick. He’s like the dude who graduates, but keeps coming back to the high school parties. Only, a thousand times worse. It’s like he’s sitting in his car down the street from the party waiting to see which chicks are drunk and stumbling home.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “He wants the vulnerable girls.”

  “Keachin didn’t seem vulnerable to me.”

  “You don’t know her father. That dude could make Wonder Woman have self-esteem issues.”

  I try not to look surprised, but the implication that Keachin had a problematic home life never occurred to me. Her car was always too shiny, her outfits too pristine.

  Camouflage.

  “Time’s up,” Marcos says, rising. Done.

  “What craziness, though? What made her want to end it?”

  “What aren’t you getting?” he says. “The other girl. Keachin wasn’t his only one.”

  He’s walking away, and I’m shoving at Taylor to let me out. “Coach was seeing another girl? From Portside?”

  Marcos shrugs. What’s it matter now?

  It matters a lot to me. “Keachin didn’t tell you who it was?”

  “She didn’t know. She said there were clues around his place. An earring between his couch cushions. A bra under the bed. Stuff like that. She said it’s like the chick was leaving it on purpose to mess with her. At first, Keachin treated it like some stupid competition. Leaving her own stuff behind. Until a pair of underwear got returned to her doorstep, soaked in lighter fluid.”

  That makes me back up, like I can smell the combustible fumes. Taylor mumbles, “WTF.”

  “Yeah,” Marcos said. “Two days later, Bottin’s crib was charcoal. She got scared. Tried to end things. I wish she’d wised up sooner.”

  Marcos seems . . . saggy, like his skeleton’s too heavy for his muscles. He says, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. You tell whatever lies you’re going to tell about me. I’m going back to work.”

  He does. No good-bye, no “eff off.” I know I will never speak to this boy again.

  I hope what he gave me was worth it. I think it might be. “Come on.”

  Taylor follows me to the car. “Would you really have told people he was in on Gray Scales if he didn’t do what you wanted?” he says.

  “No.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  So do I.

  CHAPTER 40

  IT’S LATE AFTERNOON. MY PARENTS WILL be home soon, so I need to be there sooner. But I can’t let Marcos’s words go.

  Keachin wasn’t his only one.

  Had I been going about this all wrong? I kept thinking this was a Keachin thing, some lovesick boy lashing out because Coach had what he wanted. What if it was the other way around? A vindictive girl tired of sharing?

  Someone burned down Coach’s house and called it hell.

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as the old saying goes.

  We’re back at Taylor’s place, and I’m on my Mac, clicking to the Gray Beards group on Facebook.

  Taylor says, “Do you have any idea what you’re looking for?”

  “Yes.” And I find it. Or her.

  Alyssa Burrell.

  She’s a member of my fan club. I noticed her name and others from my Digital Photography class the first time I browsed through the group page. I wrote her—and every other girl in the group—off. So stupid.

  When I click to Alyssa’s profile, on a beeline for her photos—I find all her info is unavailable to me. I’ve been unfriended. Smart.

  “Are you FB friends with Alyssa Burrell?”

  “No,” Taylor says. “Me and her aren’t that cool. You think she’s—?”

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Because Alyssa and I have a mutual friend. Roz.

  “Fill Roz in on as much as you can, as fast as you can. I want to know if Alyssa Burrell has any particular technical skills that might fit our profile. Also, tell her to copy and send any unusual or spectacular photos from Alyssa’s FB albums
.”

  “On it.” Taylor steps away to call Roz.

  Wow, Gray should’ve recruited sidekicks a long time ago. It’s nice to share the workload.

  I hear him running down the details to her. While he does, I cycle through all the various data I’ve collected on my Admirer. Locations from our game, the dates and times of our chats, an inventory of the photos from Bottin’s apartment. All of it in front of me, all overwhelming. Until now. I’m thinking on everything Alyssa’s said and done since I blew up the Keachin-Coach affair.

  I just shot Coach Pedophile and the football team for the yearbook. Thank God I wasn’t alone with him. Who knows what might’ve happened.

  To her, or to him?

  Do you mind if I take your picture? It’s for my next class project. On grief.

  Why say that to me? On that day?

  Her photos, always so mediocre in DP class. As were mine. Hiding in plain sight.

  A half hour later, Taylor taps me on the shoulder.

  Turning toward the Bride, I see the email from THX778083 with a subject line that reads: This seems important.

  Roz has sent us a picture from Alyssa’s FB albums. She’s making a pouty, smoochy duck face in a selfie. It’s not the overdone pose that catches my eye. I’m stuck on the AGG Tech shirt she’s wearing.

  It’s the one I saw in Coach Bottin’s closet.

  CHAPTER 41

  “FORWARD ME THAT EMAIL FROM ROZ and pack up.” I’m at my Mac, saving and closing files, preparing to move.

  Taylor says, “Why? What are we doing now?”

  “Gray’s final exposé.”

  While he fulfills my request, I dial up Quinn Beck.

  On our way to the library Taylor’s quiet. As am I.

  Alyssa Burrell.

  My Admirer. A killer.

  I never—never!—would’ve expected her capable of something like this. Apparently, I’m not the only one.

  “So, she’s the other girl Coach Bottin was boning?” Taylor says, the air of disbelief thick in his voice.

  The evidence is there, though.

  Alyssa’s a photographer. She’s taking classes at the technical school Bottin dropped a thousand bucks on. The school that’s in the same building where View from Heaven was taken. A school that could, conceivably, give her the skills to hack my email, and make the world think I exposed my own alter ego.

  “I think she is,” I say, seeing no solid reason to dispute it.

  “She’s really different from what he seems to like.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m a dude. We have types. If your type is Keachin Myer, then your type is not also Alyssa. No disrespect to our potential psycho.”

  We pull into the library parking lot, me and Beck’s favorite meeting spot. “What if his type is young? Coach is a predator. Like Marcos said, he looks for vulnerable.”

  “He also looks for brunettes. Which she isn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Grab your machine, I’ll show you.”

  Inside the library we claim a quiet study room for privacy, and I arrange the Admirer files on my desktop.

  “Look,” he says, and points to a panorama of Bottin’s office, which I enlarge. “Check the calendar.”

  In the flattened, 360-degree photo the calendar hangs next to the THX 1138 poster on the door, even though there’s a corner between the two in real life. The featured model is indeed brunette.

  “Okay, the college hottie of the month has dark hair. That could be coincidence.”

  Taylor huffs and points again. “Yeah, if the calendar was on the right month. This is November. She’s Miss March.”

  Zooming in, I see he’s right. When I saw the calendar initially, I’d been repulsed by the scantily clad girl, so brazenly displayed in an accused murderer’s home. Never even glanced at the dates.

  “You really do have them Sherlock skills,” I say.

  “Actually, I sort of stared at that one for a while when you went to the bathroom earlier. She is special.”

  I punch him in the arm for being gross. “Okay, Alyssa doesn’t look like a brunette bikini model. What’s up with her in the AGG Tech shirt? Combine that with her camera skills, it lines up.”

  The email he forwarded is in my in-box. I open it to take another look at the photo Roz sent when an odd doubling catches my eye.

  The letters THX are on my screen twice.

  In the THX 1138 poster on Coach Bottin’s office door, and in Roz’s THX778083 email address within the forwarded message.

  Blinking, I mouse over the paper clip icon to open Alyssa’s picture, but can’t bring myself to click.

  THX

  Twice.

  “Something wrong?” says Taylor, picking up on my hesitance.

  “I don’t know.”

  He starts to say something else; I shush him, afraid of losing this thought, because it’s a foggy one. As skittish as a deer in swirling mist, as likely to step forward as to dart away.

  I say, “Roz’s email address. THX778083 means ‘Thanks Gray,’ right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Filtering my in-box, I open other emails I’ve gotten from Roz. I want the one where she confirmed that very thing for me. When I find it, I highlight a line for Taylor.

  Us nerds love our Easter eggs and double meanings, and love decoding them even more.

  “She says ‘double meanings’ here. ‘Thanks Gray’ is just one meaning. What’s the other?”

  He doesn’t have an answer. I’m afraid I do.

  The corkscrew in my stomach is a spinning blade now. Like the blender you throw a Panda in to get the color Gray.

  Back to the panorama. THX 1138, a film by George Lucas, released in ’71, according to the tiny gold plaque affixed to the frame. Followed by Star Wars in ’77, The Empire Strikes Back in ’80, Return of the Jedi in ’83. All represented by posters arranged in chronological order on Bottin’s walls: ’77 and ’80 and ’83.

  778083 is a hex code. It’s also a combination of the years when George Lucas’s most famous films were released. Tack on the three-letter prefix of his first science-fiction film, you get THX778083.

  An Easter egg a nerd like Coach Bottin would love.

  “I know Roz,” Taylor says when I float my theory. “She’s not a photographer. She can barely defrag a hard drive. No way she did the stuff you’re accusing her of.”

  My head shakes of its own volition. “I know it sounds crazy. I can’t wrap my mind around it all the way. But she could’ve hidden her talents. Easily. You said it yourself. Bottin’s got a type. Tall, dark hair, blue eyes. That’s Keachin and Roz all the way.”

  “Roz and Keachin carry those features a lot differently.” As if I didn’t get it, he turns sideways and cups one hand in front of his chest, while the other hangs by his butt. It’s like we’re playing charades and he got “Keachin’s T&A.”

  Sigh. “You’re thinking of Roz in school. You ever see her when she loses the Nerd Layers?”

  Her Facebook page is on my screen in a second, her selfies where her normally conservative looks are set to stun.

  “See this shot of her in the canoe? The one with her on the hiking trail? She’s gorgeous when she tries.” I click to the sexy, bedroom-eyes photo of her. “Check out this one of her rolling in the sheets. It’s—”

  My head tilts.

  “Oh my God.”

  Through the study room window, I spot Quinn Beck. He slogs over, a “thrill me” look on his face. His timing couldn’t be better.

  “Let him in,” I say to Taylor, while I shrink the browser window for a better view of more pictures from Bottin’s place. Specifically the selfies on his living-room wall.

  The ones that aren’t selfies at all.

  When Beck’s in the room, he plops his recorder on the table. The power light’s glowing red, and the digital timer ticks incrementally. He takes a seat, eyebrows high, expectant. “Well, we gonna have that discussion about cyberbullyi
ng now?”

  “We could,” I say, “but I think you’d like to know about the other young girl Eric Bottin was sleeping with first.”

  “Lauren . . . ,” his voice on scold.

  “Look and listen.” I point to the photo of Bottin in a canoe; it’s lit beautifully. Without another word, I show the Facebook photo of Roz, also in a canoe—the same canoe, but the opposite end—overly dark due to the sun’s backlighting.

  There’s a picture of Coach on a hiking trail, with him looking studly, like he’d climbed Everest. There’s a picture of Roz. On the same trail.

  A picture of Coach shirtless, coiled in the silk sheets I’d seen with my own eyes earlier. And Roz, sultry in those same silk sheets, the logo from her AGG Tech T-shirt just in the frame.

  All pictures taken in the same place and time. Roz photographing Coach Bottin (with superior skill), and Coach Bottin photographing her. Never together in a shot—because no one could ever know—yet together all the same.

  I stop on a picture of Roz, maximizing it. Letting Taylor and Beck see what I missed before. Bottin has a type. Roz fits it perfectly.

  She looks like a young Keachin Myer. With some effort.

  “This girl killed Keachin. She tried to kill my best friend.” I motion to Taylor. “I think she wants to hurt him, too.”

  For the first time since I told him about the Admirer threat, Taylor looks truly shaken.

  “You really think you have enough to prove what you’re saying?” Beck asks.

  “I do.”

  “Maybe it’s time to show someone,” he says.

  My phone rings. The only thing that surprises me is how spookily timed it is. I answer and put it on speaker: “Hello.”

  Roz speaks, her voice wet and phlegm-filled. “Just what is it you think you’re going to show?”

  CHAPTER 42

  HOW?

  There are no security cameras in the room. No one beyond the window that I can see. Twisting, searching, I notice the green on light shining next to my Mac’s web camera. It shouldn’t be.

  I shake off the sensation of spiders crawling along my flesh, and mouth to the guys, “She’s watching.” After a moment of consideration, realizing if she can get the camera, she can get the mic, I say, “And she’s listening.”