The final warning bell rings and the quad quickly empties. A young guy in a vintage Ohio State hoodie sits at a picnic table on the opposite side. I’ve never seen him before, but today he’s permanently in my peripheral vision. He’s clearly my Black Angel watcher. I examine him with his dark features and muscular build. He definitely looks just young enough to be a student, but I know better. He’s most likely a trainee at the academy. He feels me staring and looks up from the notebook he’s writing in. I give him a knowing glance before he returns to his fake homework. The double doors next to him swing open and Luke walks through, the high winds ripping open his jacket. He tugs at his coat, looks across the quad, and spots me.
Damn. I’ve been hiding from him all day. He’s supposed to be in the AP bio class I’m purposely skipping just so I don’t have to see him. Luke stands frozen and stares at me for a second, unsure of what to do. Go away. Go away. But he doesn’t listen. He shoves his hands into his pocket and begins walking toward me, tightening the anxious knot in my stomach that’s gotten so big, I feel like I’ve swallowed forty pounds of lead.
I spent all of Sunday locked away in my room, unable to apologize or face my parents. This morning, I heard Mom getting ready in the bathroom. I stopped in the hall and listened to the low hum of the morning news and the buzz of Dad’s razor, sounds I’ve become so accustomed to hearing, it’s like they were built into the house between the brick and the drywall. I could have knocked on their door and kissed her good-bye or said I was sorry. But that angry burn in my veins was still there. So I turned my back, walked down the stairs and out the front door without saying a word.
My eyes stare back down at my books. I pretend to engross myself in King Henry VIII and all his lays. But Luke keeps coming. I take a deep breath. I don’t want to do this.
“Why are you cutting?” Luke says, his voice accusing and angry.
I shrug and answer, “Just didn’t feel like going, I guess.”
“Avoiding me?” Luke asks, his eyes on the ground, his feet kicking at imaginary rocks.
A gust of wind shakes the red leaves on the trees next to us. I look up. Most of them hold on to their branches, but a few break free and float to the ground, adding to the carpet of colors. Reds and yellows and oranges and browns cover the grass and cement sidewalk. When I look back at Luke, his eyes are fixed on me, waiting for me to speak.
“What do you think?” I respond, my voice quiet, not the sharp, icy voice I was hoping to project.
Luke shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back and forth on his toes. He shakes his head slightly and narrows his blue eyes. “Really? Some random Australian dude? Who’s a sophomore by the way. Or did you not pick up on the fact that you were making out with an underclassman, Reagan?”
Reagan. My own name stings my skin. Luke never calls me anything but Mac.
“Never thought you’d do something like that to me,” Luke continues to push. He stares at me, waiting for me to say something. Say I’m sorry. That I was drunk. That I never meant to hurt him. But I did.
As I look into his eyes, aching, anguished emptiness tears at the walls I’ve carefully constructed around my heart and slips inside. I want to crumble. To tell him the truth. But I can’t. I’m shocked we’re still here. It’s only a matter of time until we disappear. So I’ll continue to crush his soft heart until the thought of me, the memory of us, makes him sick.
“I guess you don’t really know me as well as you think you do, Luke,” I finally reply, each syllable wrapped in daggers.
Luke stares at me, long and hard. He opens his mouth to speak but the sound of squealing tires pulls our attention toward the parking lot. I can see the top of a gray van come to a stop behind a row of cars. And that’s when I hear the scream. The piercing, heart-stopping scream of a young girl.
“No, please, no!” the voice screams. “Help me. Somebody help me!”
My training kicks in and I sprint across the quad. The screaming intensifies as I get closer to the parking lot. Fifty yards. Forty yards. Thirty yards. My Black Angel watcher is still twenty yards behind me, shouting my name.
“Reagan! No, stay back,” he calls out but I keep running. The girl screams for help again and I push my legs to go faster.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, my muscles in overdrive. As I reach the parking lot, a group of teachers and students have started streaming out of the buildings, still one hundred yards behind me. I’m twenty yards away when I lock eyes with him and those pins prick my spine. The janitor. He’s inside the van, the side door swung open, a knife to the girl’s throat. Her dark hair swings wildly away from her face and even with a blindfold over her eyes, I recognize her. Tess. Claire’s bully. Her exposed arm is cut and bloodied but she’s still fighting and screaming and pulling out of his grasp. As soon as he sees me, his dark eyes widen and his mouth drops open.
I sprint full speed for him. He immediately lets go of Tess and lunges for me, the knife outstretched in his hands. Before he can reach me, I grab his thick wrist, pushing his arm down and away from my body, then kick him square in the groin. The knife falls to the ground with a clang. I reach down to pick it up, ready to return it to the janitor’s neck, but he’s already back inside the van.
“¡Vamos!” he barks at the driver, sending the tires squealing. Tess is crumpled on the ground, grabbing her arm and crying in pain.
“Somebody call nine-one-one,” I yell behind me as Luke and a group of teachers and students finally reach the parking lot. I run to her side and tear off the blindfold. She throws her arms around me, pulling my body closer to hers, her damp tears transferring onto my skin.
“Thank you,” Tess cries into my shoulder. I position her on the ground, tear off my jacket, and tie a tight knot around her arm to stop the bleeding.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say and wipe her dark hair out of her eyes. I can already hear the sirens in the distance. “Help is coming.”
“He called me Reagan,” Tess says, grasping her bloody hands in mine. “Why did he keep calling me Reagan?”
I swear my heart pauses midbeat. By now, dozens of teachers and classmates have crowded around us and are shouting panicked questions. What happened? Who did this? Are you okay?
Every muscle in my body is buzzing. I stand up and look her up and down: same long, dark hair, same olive complexion, same gray T-shirt and same dark jeans. We could normally pass as sisters but today … we could pass for twins.
They came for me.
The sirens grow louder as I push my way out of the crowd and dial home. Please pick up, please pick up, my mind begs with each ring.
“Hello?” my mom answers after the third ring.
“Mom, get in the panic room right now,” I yell into the phone as I run across the parking lot.
“Reagan, calm down for—” she answers, her voice tight.
“Just listen to me. Grab Dad and get in the panic room immediately!” I am now screaming into the phone, my breath heavy from running.
“What’s going—” she begins to say but I cut her off.
“There’s no time to explain. You’re not safe, someone is—” But before I can finish my sentence, the sound of shattering glass fills my ears.
“Reagan!” she screams but her voice already sounds muffled and far away.
“Mom!” I shriek, but the line goes dead. “Mom!” I scream one more time before I shove the phone back into my pocket.
I’m running faster than I ever have in my life but it feels like I’m wading through quicksand. Every step I take feels like I’m sinking further into the soft earth. But I keep pushing and running and breathing and begging. Please, God. Please, God. Please, God.
“I’m coming, Mom. I’m coming.”
SEVENTEEN
I place my hand, caked with blood, on the metal doorknob. It’s black and gold and made to look antique even though the house is only a decade old. The metal is cold and soothes my fiery grip. I hold it there for one second. Two second
s. Three seconds. Contemplating what I’m going to do once I get inside. Wondering what kind of scene I’ll find. I close my eyes. An image of our foyer flashes behind my eyelids. Blood is splashed on the white walls and bodies lie at the foot of the stairs. I shake my head and open my eyes before my brain shows me who the bodies belong to. Stop thinking like that, you psycho, I scold myself. Pull yourself together.
A rush of dread fills every inch of my body as I turn the knob, my finger wrapped around the trigger of the pistol. Part of me expects the door to be locked, but it’s open. The foyer walls are still white. There are no bodies on the ground. I blow the air out through my lips and take a silent step inside, my arms outstretched and my gun pointed in front of me, ready to shoot.
I close the door as quietly as I can, but the click of the bolt brushing against metal fills the room. I stand in the foyer and listen. For footsteps, voices, fighting or screaming or gunshots. But I hear nothing.
The dining room and living room are untouched. The light from the kitchen pours from the doorway and streams down the hallway. I try to control the sound of my breath, the strike of my feet as I sidestep down the dim hallway, my back against the wall, gun pulled against my chest. I listen again. I’m straining to hear something, anything. The refrigerator kicks on in the kitchen. It hums and hums and hums and stops. I take a few more steps toward the kitchen, but Dad’s half-open office door stops me.
Dad never leaves the door like that. It’s either wide open when he’s not using it or closed shut when he’s inside. I listen for a second more, then kick the door open, sending it crashing against the wall. I point the gun in front of me, my finger gripping the trigger.
Dad’s heavy desk is overturned, picture frames and lamps are shattered, and bullet holes dot his built-in shelves. “Holy shit,” I whisper. I step across the splintered pieces of desk and run my fingers along the dark wood. The bullet holes are huge, made by a high-powered automatic weapon. My boot kicks a piece of glass. A silver frame with a picture of me as a little girl is on the ground. My face smiles wide for the camera. I have an ice-cream cone in my hand and chocolate smeared across my upper lip. I can’t be more than five. My eyes are the same dark color as the ice cream and I’ve never looked so happy. I lean down and pick it up. The glass is cracked and a piece falls to the ground as I pull it toward me. Something red is smeared at the bottom. Blood. I look closer. A bloody fingerprint. But whose fingerprint? Whose blood? I place the frame on the shelf. My head is screaming. The muscles in my body feel like they’re unraveling. But I won’t scream. And I won’t collapse. The training is taking over. I’m not scared anymore. I’m pissed. And the only thing I can think of is finding and stopping whoever is inside my house.
I step over the splintered desk, broken glass, and shell casings, making my way down the hall. I sidestep along the wall, my gun at my chest. My heel taps the woodwork along the kitchen door. My muscles tighten as I watch the light at my feet, waiting for a shadow to pass. Nothing happens. I whip my body around the doorframe and point my gun straight ahead. My eyes search the room for intruders but it’s empty. Shards of glass are everywhere. I feel a cold breeze on my face. I point my gun to the left. The patio door is shattered and the glass that once stood there now glitters in a million little pieces on the floor.
The glass crunches under the weight of my feet as I sidestep toward the garage, my back pushed up against the wall of cabinets. On the other side of the island, a red brick lies on the ground. There’s a deep gash in the wood above it where it first hit. The sound of it—the breaking glass, the pieces scattering across the kitchen, my mother crying out for me—floods my ears once again. There is a coffee cup on the counter; Mom’s creamy pink lipstick hugs the white rim. Today’s mail is spread out on the island and the portable phone is smashed to pieces next to unopened letters and unread magazines.
Wind passes through the kitchen and something flapping near the brick catches my eye. I step carefully across the kitchen, lean down and pick it up. My hands are trembling as I pull at the rubber band wrapped around it. It snaps against a coarse edge, coming undone, and the sound makes my muscles jump. I unfold the piece of paper. The word VENGANZA is written in all caps followed by a drawing of a hammer. REVENGE, the thick black ink screams at me. The fumes are still fresh and make me dizzy.
“No,” I say to myself, crumbling the piece of paper in my hand. “No!”
If someone is still here, they certainly know by now I’m inside. But I want them to know. I want them to come after me. I run out of the kitchen and into the den. My breath is short. My pulse is panicked. I point the gun into the room. My arms outstretched. Searching. No one.
I run through the hallway. The sound of my pounding feet echo and fill the silent two-story foyer. I sprint up the stairs, two, three at a time. My legs are moving without me even telling them what to do. Without me even thinking. The hall is empty. I shove open the guest bedroom door and point my gun inside. Nothing. I move down to the next and the next and the next. Still nothing.
I sprint down the hall toward my parents’ room. The door is closed. I stand and listen. I hear my breath going in and out of my lungs. I push open the door and point my gun inside. I step onto their plush carpet. Slivers of glass stuck in my boots catch on their floor. But the room is empty. The house is silent.
The panic room. Maybe they made it downstairs in time to the panic room.
My body flings down the stairs so quickly I almost fall. I catch myself with the railing and keep going. The glass flies in the air as I sprint across the kitchen but before I can open the garage door, a thud stops me cold.
I stop and listen. I hear the thud again. I raise my gun to my chest and sidestep along the cabinets of the kitchen, careful not to disturb the shattered glass and give away my location. Footsteps walk quietly down the hallway. My body presses against the side of the door frame as the footsteps get closer and closer. They’re heading right for me. My heart pounds, matching the thud of the footsteps. I take a breath and whip my body around the door frame, my gun raised and pointed at the temple of Luke.
His eyes widen to the point that I can see all the white around his blue irises. Staring into the barrel of my pistol, Luke instinctively raises his hands into the air.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper as I lower my weapon.
“What the hell is going on?” Luke replies, his voice a low and unsteady gravel. He peers into Dad’s trashed office and the sight unhinges his jaw. “Oh my God…”
“Quiet,” I whisper, cutting him off. I grab his wrist and pull him into the kitchen.
“Mac, we need to call the cops,” Luke whispers, his shoes crunching against the broken glass.
“Luke, quiet, I’m better trained than any cop,” I say and look up into his stunned eyes. “Just stay close to me and don’t say another word.”
Luke stares at me, momentarily frozen, then nods and takes a step closer.
I open the garage door. He follows me inside. I punch the code into the basement. Luke’s mouth drops again as the doors open and the stairs appear.
“Let’s go,” I whisper and pound down the stairs.
I reach the gun range. I scan the room with my eyes and my weapon. I pray to see someone. Anybody. Even if it’s a Colombian. If someone is down here, then I know I’m not too late. My finger tightens around the trigger. My heart sinks. There is no one. I run to the weapons room, Luke on my heels. Nothing. I turn toward the martial arts room and inch my way toward the closed panic room door.
Maybe they’re in there. Maybe they made it, my brain repeats over and over again. But somewhere inside, I know they haven’t. I feel tiny pieces of me start to break apart. Like my soul is being slashed one square inch by one square inch and thrown into the air like confetti. Mocking me. I try to breathe the pieces back in. I try to collect them. But they float away. And I feel emptier and emptier with each step I take.
I reach the door. I close my eyes. I beg. Please, God. Please, God.
>
I open my eyes. I open the door. It’s empty.
My knees are shaking. I swallow the scream inside my throat. The adrenaline drains from my body and it begins to ache. I grip the handle of the panic room door. My knuckles are white and every time I breathe, I feel like a knife is being plunged deeper and deeper into my spine.
There is a crack in the weapons room followed by the sound of metal scraping against metal.
My muscles twitch and tighten back into place. I pull Luke by the collar and we duck behind the wall, my gun at my chest. The sound of scraping metal stops. I hear footsteps on the cement floor. I watch as two shadows move closer.
“Anything?” I hear a male voice whisper. The footsteps are now only a few feet away. I take a breath, whip my body around the door frame, and point the gun into the room.
The escape door is open and standing inside the weapons room are two faces I recognize. Aunt Samantha and the young Black Angel watcher from school, both with Glock pistols pointed at my head. I lower my gun. They lower theirs. We stare at each other.
“They’re gone, aren’t they?” Sam finally asks, her voice calm and quiet, her gun hanging at her side.
I bite my lip and slowly nod. Their faces become a blur. They’re gone. My parents are gone.
EIGHTEEN
“Reagan, come on. Let’s get you somewhere safe,” Sam says, but I don’t move. My jaw, my eyes, my arms, and my legs are locked and feel like they weigh about a thousand pounds. Her eyes are kind and wide and blue. They stare at me, waiting for me to follow her. The axons and synapses in my brain fire, telling my body to take a step forward, but I can’t. I don’t shake or cry or speak. I am stone.
My brain repeats two words over and over again. They’re gone. They’re gone. They’re gone. The words rattle back and forth in my skull and I want to scream, but my mouth stays tight. My tongue doesn’t move.
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