A thousand knives poked his stomach. She just had to go there. He wanted to tell her off, or at least tell her she was wrong, but he knew she’d never see it that way. The people who controlled his life never saw things his way.
“Can I say one thing?” he asked. “In my defense?”
Soward narrowed her eyes.
The lever dropped, and the bell rang its shrill, machine-gun chime.
Chapter 4
Though the fire drill lasted only fifteen minutes, a siren wailed inside Ken’s head all morning. Everywhere he went, alarms sounded, his mind urging him to get out of this school, this town, this life. Rather than heeding the warning, however, he oversaw two more study halls before wandering into the cramped second-floor teacher’s lounge.
There he was greeted by the tangy scent of fresh hot pizza. Ken took a window seat over by the fridge and lifted a cardboard lid to reveal a steaming pie covered in hot peppers and extra sauce. It was from Gerry’s on Carey Ave, and on any other afternoon he would’ve devoured half the pie before reaching for a napkin. Today, however, the sight of melted cheese left him queasy. He sank into his chair and stared across the table at two brand-new student teachers who would likely obtain full-time positions before him. They tore at mozzarella strings without a care in the world.
Sighing, he glanced out the window. Beyond the faculty parking lot stood a wall of evergreens that stretched toward the distant gray line that was Interstate 81. Tiny cars and trucks flitted by. Some approached the exit near Walmart, where Ken spent his weekends explaining 4K TVs while wishing he were teaching something more valuable.
His thoughts were interrupted as a figure dashed between two parked cars in the middle of the faculty lot. The person ducked behind a sedan, out of sight. Ken slid his chair back against the fridge and craned his neck for a better look. Who was it? A thief? A student? If it were the latter, Ken couldn’t blame them for making an early escape.
The lounge door squealed open. In strutted Angela Marconi, the biology teacher. Ken’s eyes shot toward her before he could stop himself. She wore a fitted black dress that matched her hair almost perfectly. That hair of hers always left him breathless; when she walked, it swished around her smiling cheeks like a dark, elegant fire. Today her triangular neckline dipped enough to reveal the upper squeeze of her cleavage. He wondered how any boy in her class could concentrate on cell walls and mitochondria.
“Hey, all! Happy Thursday!” Angela said. Her energy brightened the room. As she approached the fridge, Ken realized he was blocking the chrome door. For a moment she studied him; then she grinned. “Do I have to fight you to get my chicken and quinoa?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “No way am I surrendering that quinoa.”
Angela burst out laughing. That laugh was part of why he’d been crazy about her ever since he co-chaperoned a field trip with her last year. He didn’t consider himself a comedian, but recently he’d been getting a lot of laughs out of her, especially in the past week.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Let’s call a truce. If you agree to concede, I may let you indulge in a spoonful—just a spoonful, though.”
He rubbed his chin, pretending to consider. When she sent him puppy-dog eyes, he caved and slid his chair under the table.
“Thanks.” She pulled a container from the top shelf and headed over to the microwave. “You’re too good to me, Ken.”
Hoping to look casual, he grabbed a pizza slice. He wasn’t hungry, but he took a bite and chewed until he noticed both student teachers smiling at him.
“What?” he said.
“She’s looking at you,” a guy named Jeff whispered.
Ken waved it off. “She’s looking at the pizza. Anything beats quinoa.”
“Another sneaky glance,” Jeff said. “Corners of her eyes, bro.”
Ken glanced sideways and caught Angela in the act. She turned back to the microwave, but not without reaching up to twist a finger through her hair. He felt his stomach float.
“Go for it,” Jeff said.
“I can’t,” Ken said. “Angela’s off limits. Remember, her name’s Mrs. Marconi.”
“Not according to that shiny new name plate on her classroom door,” Jeff said. “It says Ms. Marconi.”
“So? It’s probably some politically correct thing.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Hell, ask her.”
Ken squirmed in his seat, the chair legs squeaking underneath him. There was no denying he was curious about the “Ms.” nameplate. And considering how bad his day was going, asking her a private question and looking like a moron wouldn’t sink him much lower.
“Angela?” he said. When she turned, he cleared his throat. “I walked past your classroom earlier and noticed your new nameplate. How’d you get it?”
“I asked the custodian,” she said, taking the seat beside him. His pulse hiked as she stirred her quinoa, which smelled overdone. “Wait, do you need a nameplate? Oh my God—did you get full-time? That’s great!”
Normally he loved her enthusiasm, but now it embarrassed him.
“Not me, no.” He shifted uncomfortably.
“Aw, Ken…” She faced him, her lips pouting. “Next time it’ll happen for sure.”
“Definitely.” He pinched his pizza crust. “So what’d you tell the custodian?”
“That I wanted my nameplate updated.”
“Updated? Why?”
“Because,” she said, “I wanted a letter taken off.”
A chill blew through him. Froze him to his seat. He tried to reply, but his jaw wasn’t functioning. The student teachers stood, said their goodbyes, and left.
Ken felt the pressure mounting. While Angela stirred her food, he glanced out the window, trying to collect himself, trying to decide how to play this. Whenever he’d spoken with her, she’d never discussed her husband in detail. She’d mentioned the guy a few times, but in the way you’d mention the mailman. Considering that and the fact that she’d been flirty in the past week, Ken liked to believe he had a shot.
Plus, she no longer wore a ring on her finger. That had to be a signal, right? She could be finalizing a divorce for all he knew.
His thoughts were once again interrupted by movement in the faculty lot. That same figure sneaking around. Ken stood for a better look, recognizing his student Pete Chang. The boy crept between cars and SUVs until he reached the chain-link fence separating the parking lot from the forest beyond. He squatted between two vehicles and anxiously shook the fence.
“Any action outside?” Angela asked.
“Yeah, a student’s sneaking around.”
“Ooo, should be interesting.” She stood beside him, their shoulders brushing as she craned her neck for a better look. “Must’ve snuck out the smoker’s door. Oh, wait—that’s Pete.”
“Yeah, he’s in my one class. Was acting strange today.”
“How so?”
“He was…mopey, angsty. I asked what was wrong, but he shut me out.”
“He’s a brilliant artist,” she said. “Artistic types usually have their rough stretches.”
“My brother was that way.” Ken frowned. “That’s why I’m worried about Pete. I’d hate for him to—wait, see that?”
The trees twitched behind the fence. Someone wearing a black hoodie emerged. The guy made a “gimme” gesture with his hand, and Pete poked some money through the fence. In return, the hooded man passed him something.
“Great,” Ken muttered. “Pete’s going down the same path as my brother.”
Angela shrugged. “Could just be weed.”
“If he wanted weed, he’d wait till after school. Sneaking outside now and risking a week in detention—he’s hooked on something else.”
“You’re probably right.”
He pushed his chair in. “I’m gonna talk to him.”
“Wait,” she said, taking his elbow. “If Pete shut you out this morning, he’ll do it again. I have him for a study hall next period. Let me try.”
&nbs
p; He glanced back outside. Pete snuck back toward school while his dealer vanished into the trees.
Ken balled his hands into fists. This frustrated him like nothing else. On the many occasions he’d witnessed his brother scoring drugs, he always fantasized about breaking the dealer’s legs and throwing the asshole down the nearest storm drain. He’d like to do that right now. If only.
“It’ll be fine,” Angela said, squeezing his elbow. “I’ll talk to Pete and figure out how to help. Trust me.”
Her smile sent tingling relief through him.
“Thanks,” he said, noticing her hand still held his arm. Now or never. “Hey, Angela, you know what I hate about our lunches together?”
“What? The smell of quinoa?”
“That too,” he said, “but what bothers me is we don’t get enough time to talk.”
She tilted her head. “Oh?”
“What I’m trying to say is…would you like to get dinner this weekend?”
Her eyes widened. She released his elbow. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” His cheeks burned. “You and me.”
“Out in public? I-I don’t know about that.”
“Oh.” He stepped away. “Okay.”
“Look, Ken, you’re a sweet guy. It’s just…things are complicated right now.”
“Say no more. Forget I asked.” Blood drained from his legs as he stumbled toward the lunchroom door. He bumped into chairs, causing an embarrassing rattle. Stupid, Ken! Why’d you even think you had a shot?
“Hey, Ken?”
He stopped short. “Yes?”
“I’m hosting a cookout tomorrow night at six,” she said, twirling a finger through her hair. “It’s supposed to be the last warm weekend of the year, so there’ll be burgers, drinks, swimming, other fun stuff. It’d be great if you could come.”
He couldn’t tell if she were inviting him out of pity or genuine interest. Maybe it was the latter. He liked to believe so. After all, she hadn’t been opposed to dinner, just dinner in public. Considering her marital situation, public meals with other men were likely a no-no. This cookout might be the next best thing.
After taking a deep breath he said, “I’ll be late. I have to make sure my father gets into bed without any issues. Otherwise, I’ll be there.”
Her dark eyes smiled. “Is that a promise?”
“Sure,” he said. “Can’t picture anything stopping me.”
Chapter 5
Driving east across the country had a funny way of snuffing the sun below the horizon. Though the clock on the dash read 5:14 pm, that was only true back on the West Coast. Now, out here in the Lone Star State, the two-hour time difference drained life from both the sky and a road-weary Michelle Saito. After driving left-handed for thirteen of the last seventeen hours, she could barely grip the wheel. Fatigue crept beneath her skull. Soreness swallowed her arm. Her fingers cramped in spots she never knew existed.
In the passenger seat, her sister Hannah leaned against the van window, inhaling musty A/C fumes and snoring like a buzzsaw. Eight hours ago Hannah took a snooze pill, and she’d dozed through the entire American Southwest, oblivious to its towering mountains and shaggy desert shrubs.
Now, with the gas needle drooping and Michelle’s eyelids doing the same, it was time to refuel their rickety Ford Windstar and swap seats.
“Hey, Hannah,” Michelle said. “Wakie wakie.”
When Hannah didn’t respond, Michelle stretched her gunhand out and knocked the revolver’s butt against her sister’s shoulder.
“Ow,” Hannah muttered. Her voice sounded groggy. “Why you hitting me?”
“Thought you should see Texas.”
Grumbling, Hannah pushed her choppy hair from her eyes and stared ahead at the endless highway. “Great. Texas. Woo-hoo.”
“Since you’re so energized, how about driving the final few hours? There’s an exit coming up. It’s about time we switched.”
At the next gas station Michelle pumped unleaded while Hannah went inside to order hot food. Michelle hadn’t eaten since taking the wheel—it was hard to drive and snack with only one hand—and at this point she’d devour anything she could chew. Stomach growling, she whistled along with a country song drawling through the overhead speakers. Some wannabe cowboy bemoaned the death of his dog, the loss of his girl, the misfire of his gun.
Luckily I haven’t had that problem yet, she thought. Two more direct hits and I’ll be able to wiggle my fingers again. Yee-fucking-haw.
Hannah returned with a couple Cokes in one hand and a plastic bag the size of a money sack in the other. When Michelle climbed into the passenger seat, Hannah set the bag on her lap and tucked the sodas into the cupholder. The bag was cozy warm on Michelle’s thighs; toasted subs were a road trip favorite. She devoured one, relishing the tangy buffalo flavor until she realized there was no meat in it.
“They forgot the chicken.”
“No, they didn’t.” Hannah buckled herself into the driver seat. “I ordered veggie subs with buffalo sauce.”
Michelle groaned. “Hannah, I’m starving. Veggies won’t cut it. Go back inside and order one with grilled chicken.”
“You go order it.”
“I can’t. Not with a gun in my pocket.”
“Then you’re stuck with veggie subs.”
Michelle rolled her eyes. “Y’know, I used to think it was cute that you stopped eating meat. Now it’s a full-blown pain in the ass.”
“So are you.”
“Oh, please. I’m pure bliss. That reminds me, I had an amazing idea while I was invading the ramen shop. Picture this—me on a Hollywood set. Cameras, directors, everything. When we take this gun back to our buyer, I’m gonna ask if he has connections. Maybe I can costar in something with Scarlett Johansson. Or Gal Gadot. Or J-Law.”
Hannah glared at her.
“What? Can’t a girl dream? I’ve got talent.”
“Chelle, you couldn’t even convince the Ramen Emperor to give us the names—not until I cut that poor girl’s cheek open.”
“You’re still broken up about that?”
“Yes,” Hannah snapped. “I am.”
“Well, don’t bitch at me. It was your idea.”
“Only the old man was supposed to get hurt. Not his daughter.”
“Relaaax,” Michelle said. “I bet she’s fine.”
“Oh, sure. She probably loved waking up in the hospital today.”
“Depending on what painkillers they gave her, you may be right.”
Hannah didn’t laugh. She sat there staring at the steering wheel.
“Try inserting the key into the ignition,” Michelle said coyly. When her comment earned no reply, she took another bite of her meatless sub and said, “You think too much. Sometimes when you make mistakes, you gotta let things ride.”
“I can’t stop hearing that girl’s screams,” Hannah said. “Can’t stop feeling the knife cutting through her face. And the blood, Chelle—I didn’t know people’s cheeks had so much blood in them.”
Michelle set her sub back in the wrapper. Gone was her appetite. “Ready to hit the road? Maybe it’ll take your mind off things. Either way, I need you to drive. I haven’t slept in over thirty hours. Can you do that much for me? For Mom and Dad?”
Hannah frowned at the wheel. She turned the key.
As Michelle drifted in and out of sleep, she grew feverish. Her forehead burned while the rest of her shivered. Then something strange happened. While she dozed against the window, her gunhand, which had been resting in her lap, moved on its own. At first she thought it was nothing. Just a stray twitch, a reflex, or her body overreacting to the greasy meal. But upon opening her eyes, she watched her wrist bend firmly toward her left.
Toward Hannah in the driver seat.
The hell?
With her free hand Michelle clutched the weapon and steered the barrel toward the passenger door. Her heart rate soared as anxiety crept beneath her freezing flesh. To counter her nerves, she drew deep brea
ths of the stale air, counting to ten several times before her pulse settled.
Exhausted, she leaned her head against the window. The moment she shut her eyes, hideous thoughts cluttered her mind. Red, hateful ones. She recalled when she was a toddler and Hannah gave her an unwanted haircut with a pair of safety scissors. After Michelle saw herself in the mirror, she bawled for hours. The next day she retaliated by firing a squirt gun at Hannah’s eye with enough accuracy to warrant a trip to the optometrist. But now as that memory replayed itself, the details changed. Instead of a squirt gun it was the revolver in Michelle’s grasp. And when she pulled the trigger, little Hannah’s head burst like a watermelon.
Michelle shook awake. She gasped. Found herself staring at the nighttime highway ahead.
It was a dream, nothing more.
But a cold stiffness cuffed her wrist, as if the circulation were cut off. Her gunhand angled itself toward Hannah again, wrist bent sideways to the point of snapping.
Michelle grabbed the revolver. She tried redirecting it away from her sister, but her wrist wouldn’t budge. She applied more force, using all her strength, growling through her teeth.
“Chelle?” Hannah glanced over. “What’s wrong?”
A nasty urge overtook Michelle. The sensation was fueled by a lifetime of sisterly disappointment, irritation, and betrayal. Like the unwanted haircut. Or when Hannah wrecked Michelle’s first car—a blood-red Chevy—on the LA freeway. Or, most prominently, when Hannah put their parents in fatal danger.
Michelle couldn’t understand why these memories were bothering her. Normally they didn’t. After all, her hair grew back. The Chevy was replaced. And their parents would have been murdered anyway.
Right?
No. Her vicious mind insisted otherwise. Bitter memories swarmed, corrupting the image of her bossy big sister. She hated every offense, every indiscretion. The list of lifetime grievances mounted and mounted until the gun targeted Hannah’s face.
Entry Wounds: A Supernatural Thriller Page 3