A smile that has no joy stretches my lips. “Lucky us,” I mutter, disgust thickening my voice. Phillip scoots his chair over to me, putting his assignment sheet on my desk. His hand rests on top of it and I am tempted to slam my fist down on the fragile fingers.
“Listen, I feel like there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere. Did you know that I’ve been called into the police station twice to answer questions about where I was the night Nicole died?” he demands in a low, furious voice. For the first time I think I’m getting a real reaction from him. He’s definitely not happy about being questioned.
“Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that, Phillip,” I say, dropping my chin on my hand and fixing my eyes on him as though fascinated by what he has to say. Strangely, I feel no fear facing this creature, this thing that killed my best friend and no doubt wouldn’t mind seeing me dead in a ditch somewhere. All I have is that hot spiral of wrath in my chest, and it makes me reckless.
Phillip’s gaze narrows and a flicker of fury touches his eyes, gone quick enough that I’m not sure it was there at all.
“I bet.” His voice is dry and he gives me a calculating look, as though he is just now beginning to revise his impression of me. “They said that someone had reported that I was on the scene where Nicole was found. That someone had made accusations against me.”
I give him my best ‘I’m just a dumb chick that you should underestimate’ look, one I tend to employ when interviewing fat old politicians. “Who would do such a thing?” I gasp, putting a hand to my chest. “Unless…you don’t think it was me, do you? What would make you think that?”
This time there is no mistaking the flare of rage in his eyes and for a moment my bravado falters. This rage is different than mine, different from the uncontrolled ferocity I have seen in Jake’s eyes. It is the first wisp of smoke over the horizon that signals a forest fire. It is deep and simmering and absolutely terrifying.
I pull away, straightening in my chair so that I am not so close to him. A pleased smirk crosses his lips before he settles back in his own chair. “I don’t think you want to play this game with me, Derry,” he says smoothly, no trace of emotion in his voice.
I watch him for a moment and then nod. “No, I don’t think I do,” I whisper, finally dropping my gaze, uncomfortable with the alien intensity in Phillip’s eyes. Shame colors my cheeks and I realize I have just lost some kind of battle. I am failing Nicole yet again.
“Well. Let’s forget about it for now. I’m sure you’re still too upset to talk about any of this. Maybe you should take some time to think things over before you make any other statements to the police,” he says comfortably, his tone patronizing. I wonder if this is how he used to talk to Miranda.
Mrs. Sullivan is drifting through the class, talking to each pair, marking down choices as she passes. She arrives at my desk and looks at Phillip and then me, eyebrow raised.
“I think Phillip is a bit of a sociopath,” she says and Phillip nods, looking down at the assignment sheet.
“Yeah, we’d like to do our report on the execution of Anne Boleyn,” he says in answer to whatever she’s asked. Mrs. Sullivan glances at me for confirmation, but I just nod vacantly, thinking about the piece of information she has unknowingly given me.
When I look at Phillip again it is with new eyes. Why this has never occurred to me before I can’t imagine, except that no one really expects anyone they know to be a murdering sociopath. But now it is as though every blank has been filled, every question answered.
Phillip is a sociopath.
Or maybe a psychopath. I make a note to research the difference later.
From what I have learned from movies and books, however, sociopaths are without real emotion, or at least the kind that a normal person can understand. There was a movie I saw once about a con artist who was called a chameleon because he was never the same person, just a reflection of the people around him. He lied all the time and everyone believed him because he didn’t have the same kind of tells that most people have; the twitch of an eye, tightening of the mouth, those little signs that indicate someone is trying too hard. This character lied so easily because he was a lie. There was no real person underneath the façade, just the man’s ambition.
Phillip is watching me carefully, and I wonder if he can read the epiphany on my face. For the first time, I feel I understand what I’m up against, why my skin is always buzzing around him, why I have never heard a hidden truth from him.
He is a lie. There is nothing true or honest about him, and the face he presents to the world is just a mask that covers a black hole of cruelty. I feel a tiny smile pull at my lips, and I grab on to the first thread of reality I have found about Phillip and cling to it with dogged determination. Somehow this is the key to bringing him down. I just have to figure out how to use it.
I return Phillip’s look, the fiery knot in my chest smoldering in satisfaction. We won’t be giving this stupid report together.
Phillip will be in jail long before the assignment is due.
Chapter 15
I spend my lunch in the computer lab. Only two other people are here, two boys I don’t recognize who are writing some kind of program for computer class. We ignore each other and I am able to concentrate on my task.
I have no idea where to start, so I just type sociopath in the Google search bar. There are a lot of results, but after scanning some obviously homemade web pages and a lot of false information, I find a medical site which appears to be largely factual, focused on anti-social personality disorders. There are hardly any sentences that I have to read twice.
Immediately I know I am right about Phillip. The signs that indicate a sociopath are pretty varied, and there are a couple different classifications, but lack of remorse, lack of empathy, aggressive behavior, and a stunted moral code seem to sum up Phillip pretty well.
The website says that sociopaths care about nothing but themselves and their own wish fulfillment. If anything gets in the way of that or they believe themselves to be in danger of anything from humiliation to physical peril, sociopaths are prone to violence or abuse; sometimes emotional, sometimes physical. They are charming, manipulative, and tend to surround themselves with weak personalities they can dominate.
I think about Miranda, how she initially pulled away from Phillip; but once she was vulnerable because of the rape, she was defenseless against him. Given the information about sociopaths, it is not unreasonable to assume if she planned to leave him or tell someone about how he was treating her, Phillip would be moved to murder. The site states that an Amoral Sociopath, which seems to fit the bill with Phillip, can take pleasure in violence and even murder. These are the people who pluck the wings off of flies, who dissect their neighbors’ pets, who will one day grow up to be serial killers.
What is most discouraging in the midst of so much confirmation is the repeated indication of high intelligence among sociopaths. Evidently, high-functioning sociopaths, the kind that live next door and have jobs and mortgages, the kind no one would believe is a killer because ‘he was always so pleasant,’ are almost always of above-average intelligence and very good at covering their tracks.
Given how little actual proof I have been able to turn up about Phillip thus far, this news is disheartening. Particularly since he obviously knows I am onto him. He’s smart enough to know he needs to clean up after himself, and I despair of finding anything to pin to him more than my own instinct.
The tone sounds and I drag myself to class, thinking furiously of how to trap Phillip in a confession when my abilities don’t seem to work on him.
No one pays any attention to me in my third period class, which comes as a welcome relief. Toward the end of class, I hear a muffled giggling and turn around to see Tasha whispering behind her hand to the girl next to her, eyes focused on me with resentment. With a sigh, I turn forward again, acknowledging that with Nicole no longer in the picture as the perfect victim, Tasha and her cronies will probably turn their atten
tion to me. A savage glee seizes me and I almost wish they would. I could humiliate them far more effectively than they could ever manage since they will have only their feeble imaginations for material, while I have access to all their hidden secrets. When I glance back at Tasha again, my gaze is full of challenge, a giddy sort of volatility that trembles with the need to exact revenge for Nicole’s suffering at her hands.
Tasha flinches when she next looks my way, and I can see the hesitation in her eyes, practically hear her remembering when I exposed her boyfriend’s affair. She ducks her head and breaks eye contact. I win.
My victory is fleeting and shallow. As I trudge down the hall toward the journalism room, dread threads its way into my veins, slowing me down, dragging my steps. There is a bitter taste on my tongue, a sour bite that seems to reach down into my gut with noxious fingers as I put my hand on the door, knowing the man who brutally raped Miranda is waiting inside, his palms sweaty and too milk-soft, eyes shifting restlessly over the unsuspecting girls in his classroom. For a moment I am nearly faint and my fear of Shockey is as real as the moment I first read Miranda’s journal.
“I’m failing my English class,” a soothing, familiar male voice breaks into my panic and I turn to see Shane; silly, smiling, safe Shane standing next to me, holding his hand out as though he wants to offer comfort but isn’t sure how.
“Shane, hey,” I croak, stuffing the distress and dizziness down until I am able to focus clearly. “Sorry, am I in your way?”
He rolls his eyes and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, smushing my face against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “I’m so glad you’re back, hot stuff. I’m tired of flirting with Megan. She’s mean,” he laughs, and I feel his sincerity in the silence of my skin. For a moment I just let him hold me, content to bask in his overwhelming masculinity. His hand begins to make little expeditions hither and yon, brushing the top of my butt.
“Whoa there cowboy. I’m not that much nicer than Megan,” I finally object, gently pulling away. I can’t help a laugh at his unrepentant grin. “You are such a hound,” I accuse, punching his shoulder lightly.
Shane shrugs and opens the door for me and I am able to walk in, my anxiety dialed back in the secure presence of this big, overprotective male.
“Seriously though, how are you doing?” he asks, his face taking on an unnaturally somber expression. I sigh and shake my head.
“Better. But still…” I say helplessly.
Shane just nods and slings an arm around my shoulders. “Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry about Nicole. I know you guys were friends. I’m here if you need anything, okay?”
My eyes prick with moisture and I blink to keep away the unwelcome tears. “Thanks, Shane.”
He gives me another squeeze and then releases me so he can open the door into the lab. I pause and look around, but Shockey isn’t in his usual place at his desk. Knowing I am being a coward, my shoulders sag in relief. Maybe he’s not here today and I won’t have to face him just yet.
I take my seat in front of my usual computer and close my eyes for a moment, allowing my nerves to settle.
“I feel bad about being mean to you.” Megan’s voice is soft and gentle, unlike anything I’ve heard from her before. I spin around to see her sitting in her chair, looking strangely vulnerable. Shane drops into his seat, looking back and forth between us with surprise and eagerness. I guess Megan said something less snide than usual.
“Thanks, Megan,” I say, hoping that I’m making the right assumption. Apparently I am because she nods and gives me a genuine look of sympathy.
“It’s weird, isn’t it Shane? Seeing her sit there?” Megan asks, turning to look at Shane, who just shrugs and turns around to boot up his computer.
Frowning, I lean forward. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…with Nicole gone I can’t help thinking about Miranda. That was her computer when she was on the paper,” Megan answers, gesturing toward my station. My hands feel suddenly cold and I inch away from the desk that has been my home since starting this class.
“I guess I never realized she was in journalism,” I say slowly, wondering if this might account for some of the rage Jake has always displayed seeing me here.
“Well, not this year…I mean before…” Megan sighs and rubs her hands over her face. “She quit before school started this year. I think she didn’t want to have to work with Jake,” she explains. I nod, understanding why Miranda might not want to be stuck in an enclosed space with Jake every day while dating someone else.
“I see,” I say, looking at the computer as though it has teeth. I am beginning to feel like I cannot get away from Miranda, from things she’s touched, things that brought her misery.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up. It just felt kind of weird. I don’t know,” Megan shrugs and blows out her breath in a huff. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay.” She abruptly swings back around to face her own computer, staring with furious intensity at the screen as it loads. I am oddly touched by her admission and wonder how much of her dislike of me has been founded on where I’ve been sitting, feeling I was taking Miranda’s place.
“Thanks,” I say quietly and let the matter drop, not wanting to embarrass her further. Her shoulders relax slightly and some of the tension drains from the room.
The door creaks open and Jake walks in.
Though I keep my eyes trained on the floor, I feel him watching me, waiting for some opening. I am careful not to give it to him. With the uncomfortable knowledge everyone in the room is looking at me, I turn back around to face my own computer and go through the motions of starting it up, as though nothing out of the ordinary is going on.
“I hate that you’re so scared of me,” Jake says quietly, finally moving to take his own seat. Out of the corner of my eye I see Shane ease back and realize he was on the verge of jumping out of his seat. No doubt to keep Jake away from me. In the weeks before Nicole’s death, Jake and I had played an uneasy game of civility punctuated by random outbursts of hostility that usually ended with Jake stalking out of the room. More than once, Shane had come between us, clearly not understanding the tension’s source, but nonetheless determined to keep me safe.
There is a defeated slump to Jake’s shoulders as he falls into his chair and guilt stabs at me momentarily. No matter how edgy I am around him, I can feel a gossamer strand connecting us in a way I don’t fully understand. The bond I have with Cole is stronger, as though our time together has fused the strands into something more durable, less flimsy. But even with our backs facing each other, I can still sense Jake, feel the delicate filament that tangles us together unwillingly.
The door opens again and Cathy enters the room, her skin startlingly pale, streaked with traces of smudged mascara and blush ruined by tears. Her hands tremble as they turn the knob to close the door as quietly as possible, as though she is afraid any sound of her presence will bring on an attack. My heart picks up its pace and the fiery knot in my chest seems to pulse angrily, fearfully.
“Hey, Cathy, are you okay?” Shane asks, his brow creased in worry. Cathy simply nods and stumbles over to her chair, stubbornly ignoring the apprehensive looks everyone is casting her way. Jake frowns and walks over to put a hand on her shoulder.
Cathy jerks violently and draws in a sharp breath, her jaw shaking so hard I can hear her teeth clack together.
“Sorry,” Jake spits out, confusion and rejection darkening his features with the inevitable anger. An agonized expression disfigures her face as she stares up at him, her eyes shimmering with moisture.
Before anyone can say anything else, the door swings open yet again and Shockey saunters in, his hair looking slightly mussed. With dawning comprehension, I see that his fly is partially unzipped. Sick certainty grips me and rage and terror fight for dominance as I raise my eyes to look at him. Shockey’s eyes dart around the room, lingering over Cathy’s huddled figure before coming to rest on me.
“I
just molested Cathy,” he says and a tremendous rushing fills my ears, drowning out every other sound; every other word now submerged beneath the incredible rage that spreads through me, setting even my fingertips on fire. I can hear the stuttered gasps of Cathy’s breaths, the moist sound of Shockey’s hands rubbing together, the wet smack of his lips. Hatred for the man in front of me is like a thick plug in my throat, a violation in and of itself.
“Derry? Are you alright?” the rapist asks me, his rodent eyes narrowing as they take in my white knuckles and curled lip. I am incapable of speech but meet his eyes with my own, thinking of Miranda’s shame and the barely audible whimpers from across the room. He flinches at my glare and looks away quickly.
“Well. Back to work everyone. The next edition is due out next week.” Shockey practically flees the room and Cathy shudders before turning to her computer, humiliation hovering like a pernicious cloud around her.
“What is it Derry? You looked like you were going to murder him,” Shane says, his voice tight with unresolved concern.
All eyes shift to me, but my focus is on Cathy as she turns her wide, pleading eyes to lock with mine. Somehow she knows that I know, and she begs me silently to keep quiet. I give her a nod and promise myself that before the day is out Shockey will be behind bars and, with any luck, getting a taste of his own medicine.
Something in my expression seems to calm Cathy and she gives me the ghost of a smile before turning back around, shutting out the world around her.
“Nothing,” I whisper. “After today, nothing.”
After a bit, when everyone is working on their stories, I take out my cell and send a text to Cole, asking him if he can get into the building when school lets out in an hour.
After a minute I get a reply.
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