Boy Shattered

by Eli Easton

  Mike: You have something to share with me about those two, Brian?

  I blew out a breath. Shit. I hesitated, then typed.

  Brian: Have you checked out their alibis for the time of the shooting?

  Another long pause. Then:

  Mike: Stahler’s alibi checks out.

  That meant Cameron’s didn’t. Right? My mouth went dry, and the Gollum in my head stirred. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known Cameron didn’t have a good alibi. But for some reason it was unnerving having Detective Mike confirm it.

  Brian: Cameron’s a suspect?

  Another long pause. So long, I didn’t think Mike was going to answer.

  Mike: A suspect is a specific thing. Even if you were, for example, interviewed three times that doesn’t mean you’re officially a suspect.

  My eyebrows shot up. Wow. Was Detective Mike telling me Cameron had been interviewed three times? Holy crap. That sounded bad. I wondered what his parents made of that.

  Mike: Talk to me about Cameron, Brian.

  I started to type, stopped. Started again, stopped.

  What could I say? Cameron creams guys on the football field? He’s a bigot? He can be an asshole? None of that added up to anything. I’d gotten the impression from Cameron he’d only fired a gun in video games. His parents weren’t into hunting or anything like that. And if Gordo’s alibi was solid, I had no idea who Cameron could have done it with.

  And yet.

  Waves of unease rolled through me, and there were cold prickles on my neck. Goddamn it. There was something there.

  Mike: Brian?

  Brian: I’ll get back to you soon. Bye.

  I tossed down my phone.

  It was time to stop jerking around. I needed answers from Cameron Diggley. And it was time to get them.

  Chapter 29

  Landon

  SUNDAY, I slept in since my set call wasn’t until three. CNN had put me up at a funky little hotel three blocks from the studio. I got showered and changed, nervous about going on camera. I made sure there weren’t any visible nose hairs or zits. Then I went out to look around the city a little since I’d never been there. It was awesome to see Times Square, but I wished Brian were there with me to see it. I walked and gawked and thought about him.

  I’d lost my temper with Brian—it had been our first real fight—and I felt bad about it. I knew he was scared for me. And I hadn’t even told him about the death threats I’d gotten in PM. Mostly they weren’t concrete threats but vague hostility like I hope someone shoots YOU, you little twerp cuck. Yeah. They all seemed like nice people.

  I was torn. I didn’t want to upset Brian. I’d never been closer to another human being. I wanted him by my side 24-7. I loved him so much.

  But I couldn’t give in to Brian’s fears. This was my chance to make a difference, fight for something I believed in. And it wasn’t just about me. Maybe I could save lives, help prevent this from happening at another school. What if I was part of a solution that stopped a shooting from happening in, say, a middle school in Illinois? Or New Hampshire? How could I step away from that?

  And anyway, it wasn’t a healthy relationship if I did only what Brian wanted me to do.

  I thought about what my mom had told me on the drive to the airport.

  “Brian has a gentle soul, honey, like your father. You’re strong, like me. We need someone to soften us a little. I think Brian’s good for you. But the flip side of that is you need to take care not to run over his feelings. I know you’re passionate about this, but, honey, don’t let it come between you. I think you’ll regret it if you do.”

  Ugh. Moms. I hated taking advice from parents, because they were sort of out of it. Even my parents, who were totally cool compared to most parents. But she had a point. I didn’t want to ignore Brian’s concerns or just plow over them.

  Anyway, with the attention span of the media, they’d probably stop asking me for interviews in a few months. Right?

  No. Probably not. The truth was, this cause wasn’t going away anytime soon. A few of the kids from Parkland were getting internships in DC. That would be a dream come true, to work for the ACLU or a senator or something. And that kind of experience would totally be worth taking a gap year. I thought my parents would support the gap-year idea if I was passionate about it and had a good, concrete opportunity.

  But that wouldn’t exactly take me off the alt-right target list. How could I work things out with Brian if this cause not only went on but grew?

  Fuck. It was too complicated. Love was complicated.

  My phone dinged. I hurriedly dug it out of my coat pocket.

  Brian: Sorry about the fight. I know this is important to you. Have a good trip and kick ass.

  My heart melted. My boy!

  Maybe we’d be all right.

  Chapter 30

  Brian

  LANDON HAD left me the keys to his car, so I drove over to Cameron’s house. He lived in a seventies split-level home on a street of similar houses. Some of them had been fixed up in a sick retro way—like fresh puke green or mustard paint and wood shingles—and some just looked old. Cameron’s was the latter, painted white with sad bushes and a lawn in front. I’d never been inside the place, but I’d been by with Jake lots of times when we’d picked up Cameron for a ride somewhere.

  I’d thought about calling Madison and Josiah to come with me, because they’d been helping me with the investigation. But that would never work. Josiah was afraid of Cameron and loathed him. Cameron didn’t like Madison and Josiah. If I showed up at his house with them, he’d slam the door in my face. No, my best shot was to go in alone, appeal to our past friendship, then hit him with it hard and fast. I’d accuse him straight up of being one of the shooters and watch his reaction. Cameron always had been a crap liar.

  That was my strategy if his parents were home, anyway. I wasn’t stupid. If Cameron really was one of the shooters, he was dangerous. I still had trouble reconciling that idea with the dipshit Cameron I knew, but then, I’d seen him be vicious on the football field. I knew he had it in him.

  So the plan: His parents would be home. I’d suggest we talk in his room, then I’d spring it on him. He wouldn’t dare do anything to me with them in the house. I was pretty sure.

  His car, an old Jeep Wrangler, was in the driveway. An older green sedan squatted next to it like an ugly grasshopper. I pulled in behind the sedan and idled.

  Okay, problem number one with this plan: How could I be sure his parents were home?

  Just act like you dropped by to say hello until you see them. Do it.

  I got out and went up to the door, knocked loudly. I heard footsteps thudding down a few stairs, and the door was yanked open.

  Cameron stood there looking like he’d been taking advantage of the school vacation. He wore a grungy, faded navy Steelers sweatshirt and old jeans. He had dingy white socks on his feet and stubble on his face.

  He blinked at me in confusion. “Brian? What are you doin’ here?”

  “Hey,” I said lamely. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

  He stared at me for a long moment as if that did not compute. Then he made a “whatever” face. “You comin’ in or what?” He stepped back.

  I went inside, and he shut the door.

  “I’m suddenly good enough to talk to? What happened? Your gay best friend is busy over Christmas or something?” Cameron crossed his arms over his chest, but his tone was more resentful than angry.

  “Just wanted to talk. You here alone?” The house had a landing by the front door, and a short set of steps led up and another set led down. I didn’t see or hear anyone.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Great. I gritted my teeth. I should go. But now that I was there, I burned to confront him. There were so many pissed-off words dancing around in my head, wanting to come out.

  Hell, if he was one of the shooters, I wanted to punch his fucking face in. Anger churned inside me. My fists clenched.

&n
bsp; “So now you wanna talk? You never responded to any of my texts,” he bitched.

  “You texted me?”

  “Like, a bunch of times, asswipe.”

  “Oh. I, uh, blocked you. Way back in October.”

  “Nice. Whatever, dude. Fuck off.” Sounding depressed and disheartened, Cameron stomped up the stairs.

  I looked at the door. I could leave now. Or I could follow him.

  For some reason, Jake came into my head. Cameron’s not that bad really. He talks a lot of crap, but he’s just insecure and likes to brag. The guy’s loyal as fuck.

  Jake had been friends with Cameron Douchebag Diggley, and Jake wasn’t stupid.

  Also? I was sick of being a coward.

  I followed him. We ended up in a kitchen. It was an ordinary sort of room, a bit old-fashioned. A round oak table and chairs sat in a corner by two windows, bathed in the light of the gray winter day outside. It looked like Cameron had been sitting there with his laptop.

  “Wanna Coke?” he asked, opening the fridge.

  “Uh… sure.”

  He tossed me one and headed over to the table, flopping down in a chair. “So whaddya want, Brian?”

  I sat across from him at the table and leaned forward on my elbows. I popped the top on the can. “Heard you’ve been interviewed a bunch of times by the police.”

  Cameron frowned. “How do you know that?”

  “Did you do it?” I asked, turning the can around in my hands. “Did you take your little arsenal, you and Gordo, and kill forty-two people?”

  His brow furrowed into a glower as he looked at me. Then his face relaxed, and he slumped back. “Nice! That why you came over here? To accuse me? Expect me to blubber like a little girl?” He made sarcastic sniffling and boo-hooing sounds, waving his hands in the air. Then he dropped them. “Well, fuck you, Brian. I’m not a fucking killer. Sweet that you think that, though. Way to be a pal. But then, you already sucked at that.” He took a long pull off his Coke, then crushed the can in his meaty fist. “I need a real drink. Too bad the ’rents don’t have a liquor cabinet.” He let out a loud belch.

  I watched him closely. I didn’t think he was lying. Not exactly. But he wasn’t as bored as he pretended to be, or as calm. Underneath the crap, he seemed nervous and maybe a little… hurt? Scared?

  “You were, what, in the bathroom, you said? So no alibi. Kinda suspicious. And you didn’t seem to have a problem killing that rat in science class.”

  Cameron groaned. “That stupid rat! Is that what people are saying? Do they really think I’m a killer because of that rat? It got away from me, and I was embarrassed, and I panicked, all right? I still feel bad about it. That… crunch. Arg.” He shuddered. “That shows you right there. I’m not a killer. Jesus, Brian, come on!”

  I felt kinda bad. But not that bad. I wiped my face with my hand and studied him.

  “You were honestly in the bathroom the entire time the shooters were in the building?”

  “Yeah. So?” Something crossed his face. A guilty look.

  I shook my head slowly. “I call bullshit. Did the cops believe you when you said that? Where were you, Cameron?”

  His face crumpled, much like the can he’d just crushed. He leaned his elbows on the table and put his forehead in his hands. “Fuck, Brian. I’m in so much trouble. And I didn’t even do anything! I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “Okay. Then why are you in trouble? Talk to me, Cam.”

  He snorted. “Yeah. Now you want me to talk. After blocking me for two fucking months.”

  “I shouldn’t have blocked you. All right? I did it because I didn’t want to hear you keep calling Landon a faggot. Or have you get all up in my face.”

  His chest rose and fell in a heaved breath. He picked at something on the table.

  “You want me to beg?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Please. Please tell me what you want to tell me anyway.”

  He looked at me from under his hand, as if trying to judge if he could trust me or not.

  I took a sip of my Coke and waited. If there was one thing I’d learned about Cameron after sitting with him at lunch for three goddamn years, it was that he liked to talk. And if he was feeling salty and put-upon, he really had to whine about it. Sure enough, he started in.

  “That day. When I said I was in the bathroom…? I wasn’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Fuck. Okay. So Gordo and I had smoked a joint down in the basement a few times, in this room that was, like, an equipment room. It was just something he came up with, like a month before the shooting. He said this one door was open and no one was ever down there. So we went down there and smoked. That happened twice. And I’m all, like, ‘Why don’t we go outside,’ and Gordo said there were cameras, which we never cared about before.”

  “Go on.”

  “Anyway, the day of the shooting, I saw Gordo in the morning. He said he had a primo fat one and he wanted to meet in the basement at exactly 11:06. Told me to get a bathroom pass and meet him there. He was really specific about the time, right? Something about how his detention teacher always went out at 11:05 or some shit. Just to shut him up, I said ‘fine.’”

  “So I do that. I check my watch. At 11:05, I asked for the pass and left the class. I went down there. Only Gordo doesn’t show. I waited for ten minutes. No Gordo. So I left, completely pissed off. It wasn’t until I got upstairs by the office, and saw the glass and the blood, that I even knew what happened. I mean, I walk up to this… like, war zone. And the cops weren’t even inside yet, and I didn’t know where the shooters were. So I went into the bathroom for real and stayed there until I heard cops in the hall calling ‘clear.’”

  He rubbed the top of his buzz cut with his hands, frustrated. “I swear to God, that’s exactly what happened. I had no idea how fucked I was ’til later. I probably sounded like I was lying when the cops questioned me, and then I couldn’t change my story or they’d know I was lying. And I don’t even have a text message from Gordo about meeting him. ’Cause he told me in person.” His voice sounded wrecked. “What if they arrest me? What if they say I did it?”

  I thought about what he’d told me, trying to make sense of it.

  “So… you think Gordo set you up, or what?”

  “I have no fucking idea! When I saw him, he said he couldn’t get away on time, and he’d been barricaded in detention because of the shooters. But I dunno. He’s been weird.”

  My hands felt clammy, and it wasn’t because of the can of Coke. Was it possible that Gordo, for real, was one of the shooters? I wanted to curse or scream, but I knew I had to stay chill with Cameron.

  “Acting weird how?” I asked casually.

  Cameron rubbed his face. “Well, first he said he was stuck in detention because his teacher didn’t go out like normal at 11:05. Then later he said I got it wrong, that he’d told me 11:10. Which was not what he said. And then he told me to shut up about it. But he’s been so manic. Like half the time he acts like he’s stoned, even though he swears he isn’t taking anything. And half the time he’s freaking out. And he’s said some stuff, man.”

  “What stuff?”

  Cameron dropped his hands and looked at me with haunted eyes. He slowly shook his head. “Bad stuff. About the shooting. I know you think I’m an A-hole. But a few of the things Gordo’s said…. They were way over the line. Like about how maybe most people deserved it, or it was better to die young anyway. And he hates Landon, hates how everyone thinks he’s such a hero. Said Landon’s brains should have been… well, you know.”

  “What?”

  “And then he’s always like ‘I’m kidding.’ But he’s not. He’s really fucking not.”

  I swallowed something foul and hot in my throat. “God, Cameron. Why haven’t you told the cops?”

  “Tell them what? That Gordo has said some crude shit? And anyway, he has an alibi. Plus, if they decide Gordo’s one of the shooters, who are they gonna p
in for the other one, huh? Yeah, that’s right, his best friend, the guy who’s always with him. Me. The guiltier he looks, the worse I look. So, no. No way.” His words were bitter, and he slumped back in his chair. “And meanwhile, where the hell have you been? Some friend. You jumped ship, man. You fucking bailed.”

  I could have reminded him that he called Landon, my new friend, a faggot. I could have argued about how much of a turd he’d been that day. But that was getting off the point. Eye on the prize.

  “Hang on. So what about Gordo’s alibi? He was in detention where?”

  “I tried to hint around for details, and he told me to eff-off. The way he tells it, there were lots of people in the room. He says stuff like, ‘Everyone was freaking out.’ But I don’t think there were, man. I think it might have been just him and the teacher, Fishbinder.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  I sat there and thought about it. It felt like my brain was stuck in one gear, though—like I couldn’t really focus on looking at it logically. I flashed hot and then cold. My gut clenched tight, cramping up, and my legs went weak with fear.

  Holy shit. If Gordo and Fishbinder were alone that period, they gave each other an alibi. They could have done anything. Anything at all.

  I had to seriously consider what Gordo was capable of. I thought about what Landon had said, what he’d seen that day. I could totally see Gordo acting like ‘the manic one,’ the one Landon said had been swinging his gun and bouncing on his toes. On the football field, Gordo was always showing off, dancing around and stuff more than anyone else.

  But what about Fishbinder?

  Seriously?

  I didn’t know much about the guy except he was in his forties and he was a hard-ass teacher. I hadn’t heard any rumors that he’d been in trouble with the administration. I supposed he was in good condition for his age. Physically, he could have done it.

  He was smart. And well-organized. His classroom was as neat as an operating room. Everything on the chalkboard or bulletin board was in perfect rows and boxes.