“John Michael is squeezing his eyes closed and his face is all scrunched up.”
“It wasn’t me. I don’t remember what anyone else was hunting with.”
And the screen goes dark again, then shows Henry Carlisle. Same camo outfit as the others, but he’s sitting on a barstool. Behind him are several stuffed deer heads hanging on a dark, paneled wall.
“Henry’s hair is sticking up all over the place like maybe he’s been running his hands through it over and over. His left leg bounces, fast, like he’s nervous. It’s making his whole body shake.” I’m not sure why, but I don’t mention it’s a far cry from the arrogance he showed in class today.
“Henry, I’ve known you and your family a long time. I know you boys think even if you didn’t pull the trigger, you’ll all be in trouble because of the drinking and the drugs, but I’m giving you my word. Just tell me what happened this morning. Let’s start with you showing me where you were hunting.”
“Henry leans forward. Seems to study the map more intently than Logan did.”
“I was here, right by a big pecan tree.”
“All right. How’d you get there? Walk? On a four-wheeler?”
“Walked.”
“He’s really chewing on that lip. Surprised it’s not bleeding.”
“And what gun did you take out in the woods with you?”
“I had my Winchester.”
“What about your friends? Run across any of them when you were walking to your spot?”
“No. I didn’t see anyone else.”
“He runs his hands through his hair again. Leg is still bouncing.”
“You didn’t see anyone else? Maybe someone using the Remington?”
“He’s blinking pretty fast, eyes are darting around the room.”
“The Remington was Grant’s gun.”
“Wait, his eyes go straight to the officer, too, when he said that.”
“Henry, that’s not what I want to hear. I want to hear who used that gun. I want to know right now. This isn’t a game, son. A boy was killed this morning. Who used the Remington?”
“Henry chews his bottom lip every time the man says ‘Remington.’”
Mr. Stone gives me a quick nod and pride flushes through me like I’ve cracked some big clue.
Henry’s voice shakes when he says, “I really don’t know. All I know is it wasn’t me.”
“They all have the same answer?”
“Just wait. There’s one more,” Stone says.
And the screen flips to the last River Point boy—Shep Moore.
Shep is sitting awkwardly on a couch, turned sideways so he can see the officer who must be sitting next to him, but his legs are still planted on the floor. He’s staring straight at the officer, and a wave of disgust rolls through me when I look at him.
“The first thing I think when I see his face is he’s calm. Calmer than the rest.”
Mr. Stone pauses the video. “What makes you say that?”
I study Shep’s face. He’s attractive, but then again, they all are.
“I’m not sure what it is. He seems sad. It’s in his eyes. I don’t know. The rest of them were fidgeting around, eyes darting or angry faces or crying faces. But not his. He just looks different.”
Mr. Stone waits a second, then starts the video again.
The voice offscreen is different. “Where were you hunting this morning?”
“Right near deer stand number seven.”
“He didn’t even glance at the map the officer was holding out to him.”
“Okay, what gun were you using?”
“He relaxes against the back of the couch a bit.”
“I had my Benelli.”
“Did you see anyone else on the way to your stand? Do you know what gun they were using? Did you see anyone with the Remington?”
“No. No. And no.”
“He barely blinks.”
“You’re telling me you didn’t see anyone else or notice what any of the other boys were hunting with? I don’t know if I believe that. You’re a smart guy. Surely you notice things like that. Just tell me who used the Remington.”
“Shep’s staring at the ground now. His shoulders are sagging. He looks defeated.”
He takes longer than the other two to answer. “The Remington was Grant’s gun.”
“He didn’t look at the officer. He was the only one who didn’t.”
“Yeah, Shep, we know that. Grant’s dad gave him that gun on his last birthday. We’ve already verified that. But I need to know who used it this morning. You can tell me. Was it you? Were you the one who borrowed that gun? I’ve known these families for years, and those boys have been friends with each other since they were babies—you’re newest to this group. If it was you, they’re gonna throw you under the bus, son. Best to tell me now.”
“Shep’s looking back at the officer now. Staring straight at him.”
“It wasn’t me. I used my Benelli.”
And the video ends.
I lean back in my chair. From the news, I knew the police were having a hard time getting the full story out of the boys. They made it sound like it was because they were drunk or high and they were all really foggy on what happened, but I knew there had to be more.
“They all have the same story. Like practically word for word the same story. The police have to know they’re hiding who did it.” I feel uneasy. Sick even. They were his friends. His best friends.
Mr. Stone shakes his head. “Of course they know, Kate. Gaines asked me not to push too hard on this case—you can guarantee he asked the same of the police. The DA is up for reelection next year and the sheriff is up the year after. They did their jobs—they turned over what they had and nothing more. We have a few interviews, the analysis on the guns and scene. They threw in some pictures from the wildlife cameras scattered throughout the property, but there was nothing on them but some deer and other animals.”
“What’s a wildlife camera?”
He flips a series of grainy pics across his desk. “They’re cameras mounted in trees that take pictures of whatever crosses in front of them. They have motion sensors. Mr. Forres has five of them, but they’re scattered throughout the woods. They let the hunter get a feel for where the deer are. These are some copies of the images taken from those cameras.”
“But none of the cameras showed any of the boys hunting that morning?” I ask.
Mr. Stone shakes his head. “No. It would have been nice if they did. One of those boys picked up that Remington before heading out to hunt, and it would make my job a lot easier if I had a picture of the boy using it.”
I’m having trouble wrapping my head around all of this. “Is it unusual for one of them to hunt with a rifle and the others with shotguns?”
Stone shrugs. “No. It’s personal preference. That rifle was Grant’s and apparently he hunted with it all the time.”
I sit back in my chair, letting it all sink in. “So what do you think is going on?”
“We know they all had alcohol and/or drugs in their systems when they left that camp to go hunting. One of them was negligent with a gun. Whether he mistook Grant for a deer or was just horsing around with a loaded weapon, the end result was, Grant Perkins was shot. They had to know that act is punishable with prison time after going through hunter safety. I believe they are prepared to protect each other no matter what, and I would guess they know the district attorney is on their side. Those boys’ families aren’t just donors but old family friends.”
He pauses for a moment, his eyes going to the ceiling. “Finding out what really happened that morning is going to be like swimming upstream. And don’t expect anyone to throw us a rope. We’re going to be completely on our own.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. “Do you think we can do it?”
Stone tilts his head to the side. “The trick now is going to be figuring out where the weak link in that group is. That’s why I’m asking you to look so closely at th
ese videos. If one of them breaks, I think the whole group will fall apart. If that happens, we may have a chance.”
We all mourn for Grant in our own ways. Some of us tell “Grant” stories over and over while others look physically pained every time they hear his name.
But no one talks about the rifle. No one asks who used it. No one asks who pulled the trigger.
We all handled that gun. We all fired that gun.
We all know that any one of us could go down for this if the other three decide that’s what needs to happen.
It is the secret that binds us.
The clock is ticking. We have to hold it together for a couple of weeks. Then this will be over and we can find our new normal.
Right now, the others feel strong. They trust our parents and the lawyers and believe the DA when he says everything is under control. They don’t believe there is anything to bring us down.
But I know it’s going to get worse before it gets better.
SEPTEMBER 2, 12:02 A.M.
KATE: If there was only one food left on earth what would you want it to be
GRANT: This is what you’re thinking about in the middle of the night?
KATE: I’m hungry. But too lazy to go to the kitchen.
GRANT: Easy. Shrimp. I love shrimp
KATE: Well ok. Looks like there’s no future for us. I’m allergic to shellfish.
GRANT: A world without shrimp or a world without Kate?? How do I pick?
KATE: I see how you’re gonna be
GRANT: Ok I pick a world with Kate. But you’re not allergic to French fries are you cause that might be a deal breaker
It’s early; the pale morning light is just barely making its way through the tiny slits of the wide metal blinds. I love being on campus before anyone else. Really, I love getting to the media arts room before anyone else.
Since Marshall is the only public high school around, it’s pretty big. And we have one of the best media arts programs in the state. We not only keep the school’s website current and put together the yearbook, we also maintain all of the school’s social media accounts, create highlight videos from big events, and publish a monthly newspaper.
An hour from now, this room will be full of people, some of them my closest friends. Reagan will be arguing over fonts for the page headers in the yearbook while Mignon fights Mrs. Wilcox tooth and nail for extra space for her special-interest pieces in the newspaper. Alexis will take over the computer to edit her video footage and get it ready to be uploaded to the website.
But right now, it’s quiet. And all mine.
I stare at the long whiteboard on the back wall. It’s full of images the other two staff photographers and I have taken so far this year: candids of football players and cheerleaders, math bowl participants and drama club members, and everyone in between. If there’s one thing that’s really important to me, it’s that everyone be represented.
Scanning the list of upcoming events, I put my name next to the few I can cover while I’m not at work: a Shakespeare in the Park play next Thursday night, the cross-country meet on Saturday morning, and the fall food drive Sunday afternoon. The others can cover the rest.
I settle in at the computer, ready to edit the images I took at the Key Club mixer, but my mind wanders, as it’s done in quiet moments over the past couple of weeks since Grant died. My eyes drift toward my phone. My weakness. My addiction.
I don’t really need to reread the messages anymore since I know them all by heart now, but, as with any addiction, I can’t seem to stop myself.
Just as I’m about to unlock my phone, the metal door flies open and hits the back wall, scaring me so bad I almost fall out of my chair.
“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
My stomach drops. It’s Henry Carlisle.
Mr. Stone’s words echo in my ears: Steer clear of them at school. Don’t talk to them. Don’t talk about them.
Should I leave?
Henry studies me, quickly sizing me up, and then pulls a large trash can into the room. It’s on little metal wheels that squeak so loud that I feel it in my teeth. Again, he’s dressed exquisitely, in pressed dove-gray pants and a crisp, white button-down. Reagan is right, he’s gorgeous, but there’s something dark underneath that layer of cool good looks.
I turn my back, prepared to ignore him. But all I can picture is the interrogation video I saw yesterday. His hair in spikes, his knee rattling so hard I imagine it was sore the next day. Today, he’s a million miles from that disheveled boy in camo.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him how many times his leg has shaken like that since Grant Perkins died. Was it just the one time in interrogation, or is it every time they flash his face across the TV screen?
But I resist. And keep my mouth closed.
Henry chuckles quietly as he empties all the small cans scattered around the room into the big trash can, like he’s in on some private joke. I’m assuming this early-morning janitorial work has something to do with his getting sent to the office from English yesterday. He doesn’t look like the type who would perform this chore at home, much less at some public school he openly loathes.
I didn’t notice it at the time, but after reading back through the texts from Grant at least a hundred times now, he hardly ever mentioned the other four boys individually. Whenever he talked about them, it was always the boys. I’m hanging out with the boys…The boys are coming over later…I was with the boys last night. So it’s strange to see just one of them, away from the group.
Henry moves to the other side of the room, the trash can grinding along behind him. Swiveling in my chair, I see him easily over the computer screen. The light from the window has gotten stronger and it backlights him perfectly—his white shirt nearly glows. His light brown hair falls haphazardly across his forehead; his lips are full and his nose precisely straight. My hands itch for my camera. Here is this perfect specimen, dressed to kill, dumping garbage.
I reach down and slip my hand in my bag. Just one shot. Just for me.
With a quick glance, I change the settings to silent mode and inch the camera out from behind the screen, just far enough that the lens has a clear shot of him. I click once then pull it back. Even though the sound of the shutter was a mere whisper, I feel like it was as loud as a cannon. He doesn’t even flinch.
Maybe I can grab one more.
By the time Henry makes it around the room, I’ve gotten about eight shots from different angles.
Just as he opens the door and I think I can finally breathe, he turns around quickly and says, “Personally, I think the one of me changing the trash bag will be the best one, but let me know once you check them out. I’m always looking for a new profile pic.”
Heat floods every inch of my face as I sit there, frozen, looking at him. He smiles a beautiful smile and then leaves the room, laughing all the way down the hall.
I tiptoe to the door a little while later, making sure he’s really gone before I upload the images to my laptop. No way I’m using the school computer for these. I’m beyond humiliated that he busted me, but when I view the images, I don’t care how embarrassing it is. I click on the first one I took, the one in front of the window.
Is this the portrait of a killer?
His face is partially shadowed, but I can make out the grin. If I hadn’t been trying so hard to be secretive, I would have seen it immediately. But somehow I’m glad I didn’t. This is my favorite part about photography—discovering something new that I didn’t see when I first took the picture.
As I stare at him, I think about the nervous boy sitting on that barstool with all those dead animals behind him. It’s like they are two different people.
But which one is real?
Thankfully, I push Henry and the rest of the River Point Boys out of my mind by the time the warning bell rings. On the way to first period, I duck in the bathroom but stop cold when I hear a gut-wrenching sob. It’s not unusual to find a girl hiding out and cr
ying in one of the stalls, but this sounds different. Like someone is in serious pain.
I turn the corner to see if I can help and find Julianna Webb standing outside the stall door, pleading with the girl inside.
“Bree, please come out,” she says through the crack. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s never going to be okay. Never!” Bree screams, so loud it makes me jump back; then she bursts from the stall and runs toward the door. Julianna starts after her, but Bree shouts, “Leave me alone!” just before fleeing the bathroom.
Julianna leans back against the tile wall, the color drained from her face. I’ve gotten to know Julianna pretty well ever since we were partnered together in debate last year. This is the same look she would get just before having to go onstage to make our argument.
“Who was that?” Since I feel like I’ve photographed every person in this school at least once, it’s surprising to see a face I don’t recognize.
“Bree Holder. She just transferred here from St. Bart’s, but I’ve known her since middle school.”
I forget that Julianna used to go to St. Bart’s. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“That horrible picture is back online,” she says.
She doesn’t even have to clarify. I know the ones she’s talking about. “Is Bree one of the girls in that picture?”
“Yeah. She came here thinking it would be better to start over somewhere new, but it keeps popping up. Some asshole just stopped her in the hall and told her it’s up on some website called Girls Gone Crazy. She lost it. She’s always been so shy. It’s killing her that people are passing that photo around. What’s worse is she doesn’t have any memory of it being taken and has no idea who did it.”
I can’t help but cringe. “Oh my God, that sucks,” I say.
Julianna pushes off the wall. “I’m going to call her mom and let her know Bree is upset. I’m really worried about what this is doing to her.”
“How are the other girls doing?” I ask just before Julianna leaves the bathroom.
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