The Gray Serial Killer Book One E-Book

Gary Adam

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Are you all right?” An arm reaches out and grabs me firmly. I squint as an overhead light shines too bright in my face. A sense of dread washes over me; I have no idea why. My body tenses at the touch. I try to pull away, but I can’t move the way I want. It feels like I’m fighting my way through mud, thick and heavy, weighing me down. The voice calls out again, I think it’s a woman’s. I turn my head to the side and force my eyes to open, blinking slowly. A face hovers over me, their features blurred. “What?” I croak. The voice that comes out of my mouth doesn’t sound like mine. The voice doesn’t respond. Something drapes over my shoulders, and a figure walks in front of me and drops to their knee. It is a woman. I can see her face now. I can see the color of her eyes, a deep, dark brown that begs me to find comfort in them, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. I try to focus on her face. She has thick brows and a crooked nose, broad and covered in freckles. Focus. Focus, I try to tell myself before a high-pitched ringing tears through my eardrums.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is quiet, as if she’s trying not to break me with her words. I want to nod. I can’t comprehend why she’s looking at me like this, where I am, why I’m wrapped in a rough cotton blanket, why I’m so cold. I scrutinize my surroundings as my head clears, and I try my hardest to remember. How did I get on the ground? Rows of shiny, plastic-wrapped snacks fill my line of sight, and a long fluorescent tube-lamp above me swings back and forth. I think I’m in a gas station. I wipe my face with my arm and glance down. Is this my arm? Every part of me feels unfamiliar. I shake my head, trying to collect myself. “I’m okay,” I slur, realizing that she’s staring down at me with that searching expression. Squinting, I focus on the mass of blue and brass before me as she gets to her feet. “Why are you here?” I ask her, trying to take another glance around the room. I must have missed something. Something important. She puts her hands under my arms, hauling me to my feet. She’s stronger than I expected. My knees falter as I attempt to straighten my body. I stop struggling as she gently shushes me and lowers me back to the ground. It’s cold. Please don’t vomit on this nice lady. Her voice is soft but firm. “What’s your name?”

Leseprobe

Gary Adam, Gary Adam

The Gray Serial Killer Book One

Horror

I take a deep breath. It strikes me hard that I have to remember myself. “Lake, my name is Lake.” I nod, happy that I can finally give her an answer. “Okay, Lake, do you remember anything that happened? Anything at all?” Her body language shifts; something about her demeanor strikes me as odd, as if she’s trying to hide something. Happened? What is she talking about? The last thing I remember is—What do I remember? I bring my hand to my face. It slides subconsciously to my ear to silence the ringing. No good. There are flecks of red on the back of my hand, extending over the sleeve of my shirt. Holy crap, is that blood? Is that my blood? Holy crap. “I don’t—I don’t remember how I got here. Where am I?” She sighs. I want to apologize to her. I know I probably sound like a crazy person, but I can hardly think straight. “Okay, Lake, you’re in a gas station. There has been an incident. I’m going to need you to come with me, all right?” That’s a funny request. “Why? What’re you doing, kidnaBookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

Book One

One

Are you all right?” An arm reaches out and grabs me firmly. I squint as an overhead light shines too bright in my face. A sense of dread washes over me; I have no idea why. My body tenses at the touch. I try to pull away, but I can’t move the way I want. It feels like I’m fighting my way through mud, thick and heavy, weighing me down. The voice calls out again, I think it’s a woman’s. I turn my head to the side and force my eyes to open, blinking slowly. A face hovers over me, their features blurred. “What?” I croak. The voice that comes out of my mouth doesn’t sound like mine. The voice doesn’t respond. Something drapes over my shoulders, and a figure walks in front of me and drops to their knee. It is a woman. I can see her face now. I can see the color of her eyes, a deep, dark brown that begs me to find comfort in them, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. I try to focus on her face. She has thick brows and a crooked nose, broad and covered in freckles. Focus. Focus, I try to tell myself before a high-pitched ringing tears through my eardrums.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is quiet, as if she’s trying not to break me with her words. I want to nod. I can’t comprehend why she’s looking at me like this, where I am, why I’m wrapped in a rough cotton blanket, why I’m so cold. I scrutinize my surroundings as my head clears, and I try my hardest to remember. How did I get on the ground? Rows of shiny, plastic-wrapped snacks fill my line of sight, and a long fluorescent tube-lamp above me swings back and forth. I think I’m in a gas station. I wipe my face with my arm and glance down. Is this my arm? Every part of me feels unfamiliar. I shake my head, trying to collect myself. “I’m okay,” I slur, realizing that she’s staring down at me with that searching expression. Squinting, I focus on the mass of blue and brass before me as she gets to her feet. “Why are you here?” I ask her, trying to take another glance around the room. I must have missed something. Something important. She puts her hands under my arms, hauling me to my feet. She’s stronger than I expected. My knees falter as I attempt to straighten my body. I stop struggling as she gently shushes me and lowers me back to the ground. It’s cold. Please don’t vomit on this nice lady. Her voice is soft but firm. “What’s your name?”

I take a deep breath. It strikes me hard that I have to remember myself. “Lake, my name is Lake.” I nod, happy that I can finally give her an answer. “Okay, Lake, do you remember anything that happened? Anything at all?” Her body language shifts; something about her demeanor strikes me as odd, as if she’s trying to hide something. Happened? What is she talking about? The last thing I remember is—What do I remember? I bring my hand to my face. It slides subconsciously to my ear to silence the ringing. No good. There are flecks of red on the back of my hand, extending over the sleeve of my shirt. Holy crap, is that blood? Is that my blood? Holy crap. “I don’t—I don’t remember how I got here. Where am I?” She sighs. I want to apologize to her. I know I probably sound like a crazy person, but I can hardly think straight. “Okay, Lake, you’re in a gas station. There has been an incident. I’m going to need you to come with me, all right?” That’s a funny request. “Why? What’re you doing, kidnapping me or something?” I joke, but the somber look on her face tells me it fell flat. I can sense that nothing about this moment is silly, yet I can’t stop myself from wanting to laugh. I once heard that inappropriate humor is a common reaction to trauma. Trauma? Do I feel traumatized?

“Can you do that?” she asks, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. There’s something in her eyes that scares me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. I nod. She grabs under my arm and helps me up, and I close my eyes firmly when I notice the room starts to spin. I let her drag me back to my feet. We take two wobbly steps before I gain my footing and we move forward. “I promise I wasn’t drinking. I’m not old enough for that,” I say halfheartedly. I don’t hear her make a sound. Tough crowd. She’s quick. One step after another she pulls me. I stumble twice. I reach my fingers down and grab onto her shirt. For a second, I feel her pull away. She stops and lets me hold on. “Sorry,” I whisper. My foot catches something on the ground, and I stop myself from lurching forward. “It’s fine,” she says, before I can speak. She tugs me forward, desperate now, but I hesitate. Something about the way she’s so frantic to keep me moving gives me a weird feeling. I freeze and stand there for a second. Something about the sudden noiselessness of the room makes me shudder. “We need to keep moving.” It sounds like an order. Something doesn’t feel right. I open my eyes. At first, all I see is a shoe, but that’s enough. “No.” Because I know that shoe. “No.” I know that leg. I know the face. I know. “Please, no.” I drop to the floor, my fingers landing on the leg. Instantly, I heave. The ringing in my ears fades as my body convulses from the vomiting. I wipe my mouth, my hands wildly try to touch every piece of them I can, as if I can fix this like I would a puzzle. Panic clouds my vision. I can’t see, I can’t breathe. Maybe it’s better that way, I don’t want to see what’s in front of me. There is not a thing about this person I don’t know. There is not a part of this face I haven’t seen before. I grab their head between my hands, cradling it in my lap. I feel the thickness of blood-matted hair but I don’t care. I pull them closer to me. Their head on my chest as I hyperventilate on this cold, stupid floor. There’s so much blood. I scream. ome on! Open it.” Mom stares at me, her red lips pulled in a wide smile, her curly hair bounces as she fidgets around the table. She’s wearing her yellow blouse today, her lucky shirt. Dad sits in his recliner, an expectant grin under his graying mustache. His dark brown eyes glow in the sunlight as he ushers me forward with his worn, leathery hands. My brother, Dev, is lounging on the couch just over my shoulder. He isn’t looking at me. Instead, it seems he’s trying his hardest to look anywhere else. Usually he’s the one jumping and screaming every time I get another letter from a school. I shake off the weird feeling tickling the back of my mind. I use the sharp edge of my fingernail to tear open the envelope. This is my backup, my safety school. My hands tingle as I separate the single sheet of paper from the mailer. I scan the letter quickly, my mind already registering what it says before I turn a disappointed glance back to my family. “Nope.” I try to keep the devastation out of my voice. Mom stops in an instant like someone’s pressed pause on the TiVo, grabs it from me, she slides her rimless glasses up her nose, squinting at the print angrily. “Excuse me? What do you mean, nope?” I lean back against the leather sofa and close my eyes, waiting for the adrenaline that had been building since Mom handed me the envelope to wash away. “It’s okay, Mom.” “The hell it is! I can’t believe it,” her voice is becoming more shrill by the second. “They should be so lucky.” Dev, finally joining the real world, swipes the letter from her hands and takes a quick look. “Eh, it was a crappy school, anyway. In Ohio, no less.” He hands the letter back to Mom. I appreciate his effort, but it still stings. I haven’t told my parents that this is the last school where I plan on applying. Twelve rejections, twelve other moments just like this. A heart can only take so much and I, for one, will not be the one the send my mother into an early cardiac arrest. Mom and Dad trade a few more words before Dad turns and pretends to be interested in a news report on the television. His shoulders are slouching, I can feel his disappointment from here. “David! Don’t you turn away from me and pretend to watch the news. You know damn well you do not understand what’s going on.” My father slaps himself on the chest as if in shock. “I beg your pard—” he begins, before my mother cuts him off. “Last week you thought a scene from Saving Private Ryan was footage from a war that was going on right now. And that the Kardashians were part of ISIS.”

“To be fair, one of them was speaking a language I didn’t know.” “She was slurring her words,” my mother counters. My father opens his mouth as if to say something and then shrugs in defeat. “Besides, this is more important. Apparently the admissions board, this woman”—she scans the letter like a robot from The Terminator—“Cynthia, here, must smoke the good stuff. Obviously, you know what we need to do, right, Dave?” My father nods his head vigorously. The second my mother’s eyes leave him he mouths the word ‘No’ at me. I grin and pull myself off the couch, still concerned that Dev has now returned to his uninterested zombie state. Usually, he lives for any argument between these two, but as I glance at him, I notice that today something’s different. Looks like I’m on my own. “Okay,” I say, waving a napkin I picked up off the table. “I will call a truce and excuse myself if you guys don’t mind. Besides, there’s always next semester.” I smile. Liar. No, there isn’t. My father ignores me and turns to Dev. “Dev, what do you think about this guy? Pelwit? Running for Senate. Dev?” My mother’s hands fly up in exasperation, and she rolls her eyes. Probably at the overload of male idiocy in the house. She huffs and starts to clear the table.

My father clears his throat breaking Dev out of his stupor. “Uh, I don’t know, Dad. Seems sleazy if you ask me. But something serious must be going on because that guy looks pissed today.” He turns to look at my father and I catch his eye. He throws me a sly smile—it’s the first time he’s looked directly at me all morning and now I see why. His eyes are bloodshot. How could Mom and Dad have missed that? Something is wrong. I contemplate asking him what’s up, but that look he shot me is enough to know whatever I could get out of him, will not happen in front of our parents. The kitchen table rattles as Mom sits. “Ugh, fine, if you all want to ignore this heinous decision, go ahead. I, for one, will not stand for it.” I take a seat to watch her unzip her knock-off, Gucci laptop bag and pull a sleek laptop out none-too carefully. It bangs against the table, and out of the corner of my eye, I see my father jump. “That school will hear from me. And the dean? She will be— well, you don’t even want to know what she’ll be.” My father turns and places his chin on the couch like a kid expecting candy. “No, Nadine, please tell us what you’ll do to her.” “Oh, shut up, Dave! All you need to worry about doing is marking my words. Mark ’em!” His brows drop to a more serious expression before he nods his head in agreement, and then spins back around on the couch. Uh-oh. He turned his back on her. I watch in fear as Mom shoots up from the table like a panther locked in on a kill. She glides across the living room and drags my father off the couch. I can’t help but laugh and turn towards Dev, knowing he’s probably dying over their little scene, too. I’m disappointed when I see the same blank look on his face, not even a hint of amusement. Every part of me wants to ask him what’s wrong, but I don’t. I’m such a coward. I leave the living room and make my way up our sweeping staircase. My eyes fall on an abundance of family pictures hanging on the walls. Most of them of me and Dev. Correction: all of them are. We were pretty much inseparable growing up, always hanging off of each other, joined at the hip. He’s never been this distant with me. Ever. I reach the top, and peek my head around the corner towards my parents' room, I see Mom pounding away at her keyboard and Dad turns up the sound on the TV. The voice of some generic politician drones on about security being heightened in town after a recent disappearance. A kid. I lean my head a little closer and catch a name, Pelwit. Wait, isn’t that the name of the guy who’s running for Senate? “It’s not nice to eavesdrop.” I jump backwards and smack my head against the wall. “Dang it, Dev.” I massage the pain away. He snickers as my soul descends back into my body. We look up to see our parents staring in our direction, my mother's hands hovering over the keys and my father giving us a pleading look. Dev waves them off and drags me off the staircase and into the hallway. “Anyway, there’s always next year. Oh, wait, you said you weren’t planning on applying anymore, didn't you? Do you ever plan on telling Mom and Dad that? Because I will need to be there for that, you know, to identify whatever they decide to leave of your body.” I laugh as we stop in front of my bedroom door. I glance up at him, his bloodshot eyes still just as red, maybe worse. “Yeah, I’ll tell them. You know, after I’ve gotten a job at Dairy Queen and a place to live.” “Actually, the big DQ requires a degree now, bud. So you might be out of luck.” I can’t help but laugh. “Shut up.” He can see that I’m hurting. Why couldn’t I see that he was? He runs his hands through his buzz-cut. Straw-colored strands wisp between his fingers, and he stares at me for a second. He needs to shave. The stubble on his face is getting way out of hand, the muscles on his forearm flex as he crosses his arms. His eyes are glowing in the sunlight, making the unusual green color stand out more. I suddenly start to feel self-conscious about my lame brown ones. He looks like he wants to tell me something. Next thing I know he’s pulling me into a hug. I sink in his arms. This feels like the Dev I know.

I feel his breath hit my neck as he squeezes me tighter. He’s always been known to hug harder than anyone should. Must be because Mom boosts his ego too much telling him he’s an amazing hugger, but something about this hug feels...different. It feels like it’s whispering goodbye in its silence and screaming desperation in its firmness. Like a goodbye hug. It’s final. He lets go. “Come on, it won’t be so bad. This just means you got another year to hang out with me. I mean, who would pass something like that up?” His hand lingers on my shoulder. “You know what? Let me make it up to you. I have an early birthday present for you.” I smile. “You don’t have to get me anything.” “You know damn well you’re getting a gift no matter what, but I’ll wait if you insist.” He opens his bedroom door, directly across from mine. “Are you sure you don’t want it now?” I nod with a wide grin and slip into my room, shoving the door open past the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. He winks and closes his door. I do the same. Stepping over everything, I sit down at my computer, flexing my fingers in anticipation. My mind still holds tight to my musings about what is going on with Dev, but I guess we can talk about it later tonight. Like he said, we have all the time in the world to hang out now. My desk is messy, full of paper—some of it older rejection letters that never made it to the trash—a few soda cans. Mom keeps trying to get in here to clean. I should probably let her. Down the hall, I can make out the faint noises of Mom and Dad bickering

over what I assume is the news. I crack my door open to hear a little better. Sometimes their fights are funny. “You honestly think we need more security?” my mother bellows. “Yesterday I went to go buy a new top, and the mall cop was practically smelling my hair. I had to bark like a dog to get him off my ass.” “I’m sorry, you did what?” my father snorts back. “Don’t you dare laugh at me! It was crazy, I’ve never felt so uncomfortable in my life. I—” Suddenly the arguing stops. Well, that was quicker than I expected. A second later, I hear the smack of a kiss and a moan. Then another and another. Oh, my God. I jump in my chair at the sound of a bang coming from across the hall. Dev’s room. I jump again at another crash. What in the world? Instantly, I’m eight again, trying to spy on my cool older brother and his friends. I half-expect them to ambush me as I sneak closer to his door. I cross the hall, scared that a single floorboard creak will ruin my espionage. By the time I place my hand on the doorknob, I feel my palms sweating. I turn it silently and press my ear to the cheap wood. The door swings open easily. I’d secretly hoped he locked it. A part of me is scared to find out what might wait for me on the other side of the door.

Looking up, I allow my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness for a moment. Dev’s blackout curtains wrap tightly around both of the large windows behind his bed, blocking out the afternoon sun. Dev sits on the edge of his bed, it sags under his weight as he rubs his eyes with his hands. He doesn’t notice me at first. “Hey,” I say. “Hey, bud,” Dev says, quickly sniffling and trying to flash me a smile. “What’s up?” I open the door a little wider. “Oh, you know, heard some intense noises coming from the other side of the hall and just wanted to make sure everything was going okay over here.” I scan the carpet for a fallen trophy, maybe some books. But, as always, the room is perfect. A few pieces of art, some of his own, some of his friends’, hang on the walls. His shirts, coordinated by color, hang in a straight line in his closet. The computer desk is positioned the same way as mine. On his television is the news report they were watching downstairs. “Wow, you and Dad are trying to get into the news lately, huh?” I joke. He chuckles, but it’s off, there’s no emotion behind it. “Oh, yeah, for sure. It’s important to know what’s going on. And what do you mean, loud noises? Real funny coming from you, walking around the house sounding like a stampede of elephants,”—he forces a laugh—“Nah, nothing’s wrong bud, I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long week.” I notice his eyes are duller, he looks so tired. As if he was just waiting to be alone so he could let out whatever was making him like this . My chest aches. How could I miss this? I want to ask him what’s going on. To let him know that he can tell me anything. That I’m here for him, just like he’s always there for me. Instead, I just nod, uncomfortable. Something about seeing him so vulnerable makes me feel weak. Not wanting to intrude further, I return his half-hearted smile with one of my own and gently close the door. As I walk away from the other side of his door, I can hear him begin to cry.

Two

As I wake up and stare at the ceiling in bed, I hear Mom, Dad and Dev singing an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” from downstairs. Groaning, I force myself up, realizing that it’s already almost noon. As fast as I can, I hop into some jeans and a mostly clean tee, and rush to the kitchen. I take the stairs two at a time. “Give me your first cuddle of your adult life, baby boy!” Mom rushes at me when I reach the bottom floor while Dev slips his phone out of his pocket. Mom wraps her arms around me and nuzzles my neck. I give him a look. “You better not!” “Oh, baby boy!” he says, laughing, the sound of the camera shutter going off simultaneously. I struggle to free myself from Mom’s grip, even looking at Dad for help. He shakes his head, his eyes wide in fear at the thought of getting in between my mother and me on my birthday. They’re impossible. Finally, after a few minutes, he takes pity. “Nadine, let’s get the boy’s breakfast on the table.” Mom leers at him defiantly, her hair mussed from trying to coerce me to lift my arm for her to get closer. “Fine, I will get the rest of my birthday love in later.” She gives me the ‘I’m watching you’ gesture then plants a big kiss on my cheek and hops off to finish breakfast. “Hey, bud, stay out of your room for the rest of the day, okay?” Dev nudges me in the shoulder. I sit down at the table opposite Dad, who’s wearing the ugly walrus sweater my mom made him when I was a kid. I think he is contractually obligated to wear it every time Dev or I have a birthday. “Uh, why?” Dev stuffs his face full of bacon and eggs and then rushes out of the kitchen before responding, his voice echoing through the tiled entryway between him and the kitchen. “You’ll see!” I hear the door to my room open and then close. Inwardly, I cringe. I hate being kept in the dark; whatever Dev is doing in there better be good. Mom lays a plate of perfectly round confetti pancakes in front of me with a flourish. “You know your brother, let him give you the surprise!” “Thanks, Mom.” I immediately drench the plate in syrup. “Can I have—” Dad slides a can of whipped cream over to me, smiling. “What is with you and whipped cream?” “Thanks,” I say again, my mouth full of deliciousness. “So, sweetie, what do you want to do today?” Mom asks, taking a seat after making a plate for Dev and herself.

I shrug, answering between bites. “I don’t know. Maybe a movie?” Mom immediately pulls her phone out to look at showtimes, shifting her glasses the way only she does. “Are there a lot of good pictures playing right now? Oh, Dave! That sexy one with the little actress you like is out!” Dad grunts his approval. “But, I’m sure the boy doesn’t want to see that one, hon.” “Oh, he knows sex isn’t taboo around here. Right, honey?” “No eighteen-year-old wants to sit next to his mother during a sex scene,” my father counters. Thank you, Dad! “Oh, hush, I’m cool. Remember when we all went to go see Fifty Shades of Grey?” I hear a combined groan erupt from my father, and Dev, who has somehow heard my mother’s comment from upstairs. I nod at my father, agreeing that I’d rather not talk about that experience again. “Honestly, I just want to spend time with Dev and you guys after I—” I start before Dev’s voice overpowers me. “Running to the—somewhere. Later!” Dev’s voice comes from the door where he is hastily tying his shoes. “For what?” Mom calls after him. “Your pancakes are getting cold!” “Lake can have them! God knows he needs to fill out that twig body!”

I cup a hand around my mouth and shout, “Hey! I’m working on it!” “He’s not a twig, Devlin, your brother is a twink! Isn’t that right, Lake? You’re a twink?” I freeze with my green food-colored eggs about an inch away from my face and stare at my father in wide-eyed shock. “No, honey, I think he’s an otter. That’s what it is, right? An otter?” I can feel the blood in my cheeks rise, in shock that a) they know what either of those things are, and b) they’re talking about this at the breakfast table. My parents stare at me expectantly, waiting for me to reveal which of them is the expert on gay culture. I find the strength, and will my body to move, continuing to eat my eggs, pretending I don’t know what they’re talking about. I go back to shoveling food into my mouth. “Hey, Mom, let’s plan for a late movie.” Mom smiles. “A late movie?” I finish my food and Mom grabs the plate from me. “Yeah! Why, do you and Dad have other plans?” She shakes her head. “Nope, just catch up to your brother and let him know.” I skip over to the door to slip on a pair of shoes. Before stepping out, I glance through the glass pane of the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Devlin at the end of the street. He’s almost hidden behind Ms. Schwab’s silver Suburban. It looks like he’s standing there talking to himself. I move to a smaller pane to get a better look. Okay, so at least he isn’t going crazy. There is definitely someone out there with him. The stranger looks like they are trying their hardest to stay hidden, both because of the oversized sweatshirt they have pulled over their face and the way they flatten themselves against the car. I could be wrong, but the way they put their hand on their hip, and the way Dev reaches out to touch their shoulder makes me think it’s a woman. You can’t just assume gender like that, Lake. I duck a little when Devlin looks around as if making sure nobody is watching. The hooded figure’s head hangs low. Their hands slice through the air vigorously, as if their words aren’t enough to get the point across. In a flash, Dev’s face changes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so angry. He throws his hands in the air, and turns to walk back towards the house. I spin around and go back to pretending I’m just putting my shoes on. “Hey.” He opens the door just as I pretend to finish tying my shoe. I look up, trying my hardest to seem nonchalant. “Hey, I was just coming to get you.” “Oh, yeah?” “Mom and I were talking about seeing a movie later. You down?” He doesn’t even try to force a smile. “Sure, yeah, that sounds fun…” He pauses. “Hey do you want to go for a ride later?” “Always.” I stand. “Where to?” “Later this afternoon, though. Let’s get some ice cream or something. There’s some stuff I have to do first.” I nod as he gives me a wink and walks upstairs to his room. I watch until he disappears. What is going on?

I’m still thinking about that stranger from earlier, as we drive through our neighborhood. Dev told me today was my turn to DJ, so I land on some generic top-100 station. As I stare at Dev, I notice his jaw is clenched it and his hands grip the steering wheel so tight I think he might pull it off. I try to calm myself down from being overly crazy about the whole situation and turn my attention towards my window instead. The sun is setting. The tops of the hundreds of nearly identical suburban homes that surround ours reflect a rosy hue back into the cloudless sky. To keep my mind busy, I start to count. First the roofs, then passing cars. Usually, Dev and I can be comfortable in silence, we love taking little road trips, but today it’s different. We round the second to last corner before we’re at the small gas station that, over the years, has become our go-to spot. “So, what did you do to my room? Is it a good surprise or a bad one?” “What do you think?” Dev’s voice is playful, but there’s no smile on his lips.

Dev jumps the curb into an almost- empty parking lot. Only one rusty Ford sits at the farthest pump from us. “So, no thumbtacks on my floor, then?” Even as I say it, I laugh, knowing he wouldn’t ever do anything that could hurt me. “What?” Dev wasn’t listening. He takes a moment to register what I said. “Oh!” He gives a short laugh. “No way. Just stop asking, you’ll see.” He tells me to go inside while he parks the car. I take off and yank open the gas station door. I turn expecting him to have at least made it out of the car by now but when I turn he still has one hand on the wheel, the other on the keys still in the ignition. “Are you coming?” I ask. “Yeah, yeah, I am.” I enter the fluorescent-filled shop, heading straight to the frozen desserts. The front doorbell chimes I assume Dev’s finally made it in. “Welcome back, Lake, and happy birthday. What’re you, like eighteen now?” The owner of the station smiles at me, and waves. “Yes, sir!” I wave back. Mr. Peterson had been a friend of the family for years. We always came to his station for snacks. A lot of the ice cream and candy that he sold is homemade, and the best you could get in town. He was our families not so secret secret. He’d graduated from the same school as my mother and father, star center of the Darkridge

Dragons basketball team; he’d gone by the name ‘Thunderbolt’. Back in the day he was town royalty. I hear the front door jingle again, as I pop my head in the fridge. Dev says something I can’t hear over the sound of the freezer humming around me. “What?” The bell chimes again as I straighten up and look behind me. This time someone walks in whose face I can’t see. As he turns, something inside of me forces me to duck. To the right of me is a mirror. I can see him now, a man, his face covered by a ski mask. My heart races. I want to say something, to call out to Dev. Make sure he’s okay, or sees what’s happening but I don’t. I can’t. Everything happens at once. Dev says something incomprehensible; Mr. Peterson reaches for something behind the counter, slowly. The masked man reaches into his waistband and pulls out something metallic and heavy. He jerks it towards Mr. Peterson and he stops. The masked man screams for him to stop moving and put his hands in the air. He does. My mouth goes dry. Dev’s eyes open wide and in that moment I see something flash across his face. He looks remorseful. All of the sudden, time stands still and I can hear everything clear as day. “Open the register!” the robber yells, charging over to the glass-topped counter, his voice high-pitched and scared. He seems like he doesn’t want to do this. Mr. Peterson fumbles with the buttons, raising one hand. “I am, I am, I am!” Something in the corner of my eye moves and I twist my neck to follow the movement but I see nothing. I glance back towards Dev who is standing, still staring at the robber. Get out of there, Dev. Get out! Everyone jumps as the register makes a beeping sound. The robber yells again at Mr. Peterson, who starts panicking. Dev tries to tell the robber to stay calm. All of the sudden, the gun is pointed at Dev. No, please. Don’t. I start to panic. I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do? I crouch down and try to move closer to Dev. My sneaker squeaks against the cheap linoleum flooring. “Who the hell was that?” the robber screams, spinning in my direction. His voice is anything but confident. He’s visibly shaken by this entire experience. Then why is he doing this? As I begin to stand, I’m slammed to the floor. Something knocks the wind out of me. I can’t breathe. I still have eyes on what’s going on in front of me. Dev moves, trying to explain to the robber that his sneakers are what made the noise, and the gun is again on him. The robber screams at him. Mr. Peterson continues to try to open the register and the safe in a panic.

I struggle to move against an unseen force holding me down. I try and get a good look at what’s happening; the robber doesn’t seem to think Dev is telling the truth and points the gun at his back telling him to walk forward so they can check out the noise. Dev pleads with him one more time before the robber screams at him. They start to walk. The robber keeps turning around, making sure Mr. Peterson isn’t trying anything weird as him and Dev make their way closer to me. Move, you idiot. You coward, move. I scream at myself as I try again to squirm my way back up. Black spots start to dot the edges of my vision, as something crushes my body even harder into the floor. Dev and the robber are steps away from where I’m now struggling for air. This is bad. One quick glance in my direction and Dev knows that the robber will see me. He turns around. I can see their reflections in the mirror positioned in the corner. The robber screams at Devlin again. Dev takes a step forward. Everything goes quiet and then I hear the sound that I know will haunt me for the rest of my life. I want to close my eyes. I want whatever’s crushing me to just knock me out. Then maybe I wouldn’t have seen it. I could pretend it never happened at all. Just drift away and cease to exist. I see the robber's finger slide to the trigger. Dev takes another step. The robber pulls the trigger. Again, again and again.

I watch my brother’s body lurch with each bullet that tears through him. I watch a stranger take everything from me. The scared whimpering of the robber rushing out of the station is the last thing I hear before my body gives out and I surrender to the darkness. Hoping that it keeps me. It feels like only moments before I begin to come back, my mind fuzzy and confused. “Are you all right?” An arm reaches out and grabs me firmly.

Three

The sun has no right to shine so bright. I throw my jacket onto the back of the sofa and slam the front door behind me. I curse, wishing I could shut out the cheery daylight that sneaks toward me through the windows. “Hey,” Mom calls to me from the kitchen. I follow her voice, knowing that if I don’t, she’ll just find me anyways. “Hey, Mom. Where’s Dad?” Her eyes dart to a small wooden door in the kitchen's corner. The basement. Dad has been spending most of his time in the basement. He and Dev used to pretend they knew how to build things. They’d lock themselves down there for hours under the guise of making some new, unique furniture. A horrible looking birdhouse, with a built-in slide had been their most recent project. God, that seems like so long ago. The darkness under my mother’s eyes has worsened, probably from lack of sleep. She’s cried every single night since Dev died, and the tears have left an unmistakable mark on her face. Her smiles have lost their glow. The change in her so drastic, I forget what she used to look like before.

I nod and grab an apple from a basin on the counter. I know I won’t eat it. “Oh, yeah?” “He always is...” Her voice fades. “Won’t let me down there anymore. Even to clean.” The house is spotless. Mom, who hates cleaning, has been obsessive, scrubbing and washing everything since the incident. After she washed my dirty, bloodstained clothes—rhythmically bleaching, dabbing, scouring the crimson stains on the shirt until they were all gone—she’d made it her mission to purify the house. As if she thought she could wash away the pain. Part of me hopes, as she turns her attention to dusting the island in our kitchen, that it works for her. I can’t stand to see her like this. The only two places she hasn’t been able to bring herself to touch are the basement… and Dev’s room. I nod again. “I shampooed the couch,” she mumbles over her shoulder, like it’s not a big deal. “It will take about a day to dry.” I whip back to face her. “Why would you do that?” For the past few weeks, I’ve slept on the couch. It’s the furthest place from Dev’s room, and it keeps me from going to mine. She knows that. She knows I can’t bear the thought of entering my room, or seeing the surprise that Dev set up for me that night. “You need to go up there, honey. You knew eventually you would have to go back up there.”

“But you can’t just—” I glare at her for a moment before snapping to a realization that something has got to give. This family is breaking. She’s right. I know that. “You’re right, Mom, I’m sorry.” I flinch, realizing that I almost yelled at my broken mother. Some son I am. I give her a kiss before trudging up the stairs to my room, careful not to let my eyes wander to Dev’s door. A tightness pulls in my chest until it feels as if it might snap. I don’t know what I’m expecting when I turn the knob and let myself into my room. It is neat and tidy. Mom wasn’t able to help herself; she’s made the bed and gathered all the trash and dirty clothes. She even dusted off my computer. My throat catches when I see what she didn’t touch. Green and yellow streamers hang by push pins crisscrossing my ceiling. Four balloons sit low to the ground, deflated and sad. They seem to beg to be put out of their misery. In the center of my smoothed bedspread is a small pile of confetti I’m sure was gathered from the floor and carefully piled there, and a little flat box. Wrapped in Christmas-themed wrapping paper, snowmen and elves dotted over a shiny red background. The seams are held together roughly with ten pieces of scotch tape. I’d recognize Dev’s handiwork anywhere. I slowly lift it up, careful not to disturb the tiny pieces of tissue paper it rests on, and slide a finger over the wrinkled edges of the gift wrap. A chuckle sneaks it’s way from my throat. A part of me doesn’t want to open it, to leave just a small piece of him untouched. The other part, the part that still won’t accept that he’s gone, reminds me he would kill me if he knew I never unwrapped a perfectly good gift. Compromise. I grab my seldom-used letter opener from my closet and slice the bottom of the package cleanly, leaving Devlin’s wrapping skills intact. I sit on the bed and slant the package downward. A brand-new video game slides into my lap. I expect tears to prick at my eyes, but instead the corners of my mouth turn up. It’s perfect. Dev knew how bad I wanted this one. He must have run out and bought it as soon as I mentioned it, it had sold out almost as soon as they released it. I shake the package again, and an envelope falls out. It’s thick and addressed with my name in Dev’s familiar, scrawling penmanship. There’s a soft knock on my door as my Dad enters. He gives me a small nod and sits on the bed, making it creak under his considerable weight. “Your mom said you finally came up here.” He’s almost as bad as Mom. His beard is untrimmed and wild, the gray thicker and more pronounced now. His disinterest in grooming himself is clear in the mismatched socks and crookedly buttoned shirt. The ever-present pride that once twinkled in his eyes, gone. A piece of me yearns for the family we once were.

“Yeah,” I say, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, “he got me a game.” Dad nods, he’s always been comfortable with small talk. This is his area of expertise. “He told me.” Dad reaches over, enveloping my hand in his. “I’m sorry,” is all I can say, as my eyes search for answers in my carpet. My father doesn’t move as the words linger between us. I don’t know what makes me apologize, but those two words are enough to send me into a tailspin. Everything I’ve been holding inside these past few weeks comes out. “I’m sorry that I didn’t stand up and try to save him. I’m sorry it wasn’t me instead of him.” His head spins toward me. I can feel him staring. “Is that what you think?” I want to cry, but for some stupid reason I can’t. “Lake. Is that what you think?” My father raises his voice. “Yes,” I say, weak from exhaustion. Weak from feeling like I don’t love my brother enough to shed a single tear. “You honestly think we wished it had been you instead of Devlin? Look at me.” I don’t. I can’t. “Damn it, Lake. Look at me!” He lifts my face up with his hand. He looks so sad, so tired. I know how he feels. It’s how we all feel. This place is draining us. Like a black hole, eating away at all the light this house used to hold.

“Dad, come on. Dev was so much more than me. He had it all, tons of friends, a girlfriend, scholarships, the world was at his fingertips, you know? You guys were always so proud of him. I don’t get it, Dad, he had so much to live for, why would anyone want to hurt him? Why would someone do that? Dad, it doesn’t make any sense.” I struggle to find the words. I can feel myself rambling; none of this makes sense. My father pulls me towards him, locking me in a tight hug. I can’t remember the last time he held me like this. Probably when I was a kid. I sink my chin into his chest. It feels safe, warm. I never realized how much he and Dev smelled the same. “You listen to me.” His voice cracks. I can feel his tears slide down onto my head. “And you listen well. Your brother wasn’t better than you. You and him are both perfect. Perfect. Your mother and I, we had it so tough early in our marriage. We’d been going through a rough patch. We were fighting all the time. Things weren’t going well. And then we found Dev and brought him home, hoping that having something to love, a little person of our own, would help things.” “Did it?” I sniffle, shocked to hear a story where my parents hadn’t been happy. “For awhile, yeah, it did. Dev was a firecracker,” he chuckles, his eyes lighting up at the memory. I imagine how Dev must have been when they’d first brought him home. A big smiled devilish child. Causing chaos for Mom and Dad.

“Then as he got older, he started hanging out with the wrong crowd. The police even brought him home a few times. It was bad, but this was around the time we found you. I never thought I’d find something I loved more than being a dad to one child, but then I saw you. Lake, I saw you and, poof, oh my gosh, I was a goner.” I shift my head and look at my dad. He glances down at me with so much love, it makes my heart hurt even more. “What do you mean?” I ask. He laughs and wipes his face, I feel him start to pull me closer to his chest. He’s holding me so tight. Like he wants to protect me from something. Maybe the world. “When I saw you smile and the way you looked at me. You grabbed onto my shirt and wouldn’t stop following me around. I turned around, picked you up, and I still haven’t let you go.” “Dad…” “Hold on, I ain’t done with the story yet. You keep thinking Dev was this perfect saint that you can’t possibly compete with. But you don’t get it, do you, Lake? There was never a competition between you two. Your brother—” He chokes up again. I grab his shirt. His eyes grow wide before he smiles and continues on. “When you were eight, we asked Dev to babysit. He was in middle school and your mother was really worried, but I told her he should prove himself to be responsible, you know? It would only take a few hours. Anyway, from what he told me later, some of his friends had stopped by on their way to play basketball. They got this idea

that Dev should take our other car and drive them to the park since I had been teaching him how. So he took you with him, thinking that it would count as watching you, I don’t know...” Dad looks down. His mustache quivers with emotion. “Anyway, he had almost made it to the freeway in my car before he hit a damn tree. You were in the hospital for over a week.” I rack my brain, trying to remember any of this. Nothing. I remember missing school at the end of second grade. I dig deeper, now that I think about it, I can recall it, vaguely. I remember waking up one night with Dev standing over me, muttering something under his breath, a strange flower in his hand. We were in a big white room with a lot of blinking lights. How could I forget something so big? Dad must know what I’m thinking. “The doctor said it might be possible you blocked the memory. Dev made us swear not to tell you. You were pretty… banged up.” I look down and trace a long silver scar that had been on my wrist for as long as I could remember. “I remember yelling at him all night. He tried to give it right back to me. That boy believed you were gonna die, and that it was all his fault. Something clicked in Dev that night, something I couldn’t explain even if I tried. He came to me the next day vowing that he would never, ever put you in danger again. Then he went and said something cheesy, he said—He’ll always choose you.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, I see his eyes begin to well up. “So don’t you ever, ever think you aren’t good enough for this family. You hear me? We are ‘family’, because all of us are a part of it. It doesn’t matter where you came from, who we found first. None of it. We’re a family, all of us. You’re a Smithson.” My father pulls me in tighter. I feel his chest rise and fall. His heart thumping against my shoulder. Pounding against his chest as if it’s trying to scream at me in morse code. I’m ashamed that I forgot how loved I am. After a couple more minutes of silence, Dad grunts and gets back to his feet. “You know, this makes you the bravest person in the house now? Coming in here, for something other than to clean.” He clears his throat. “Maybe you can do something about that?” He gestures across the hall towards Dev’s room. I raise an eyebrow, not sure what he’s talking about at first. Then I hear it. A soft, rhythmic melody. Maybe from a neglected alarm or a malfunctioning electronic. I’m surprised no one has mentioned it before. Then I remember how carefully both of my parents have been avoiding the room. My grief has made me blind to theirs. “Yeah, yeah I can—I can get that.” Dad squares his broad shoulders and shuffles from the room. “Thanks, bud.” No one has called me that since that night. I hide my face, waiting for him to leave. He hesitates at the door. “You know, that’s what I used to call Devlin. When we first brought him home.” his tone is dark, thick like syrup. “He was just a scared kid back then, and some counselor told me it would make him feel comfortable and safe, at least until he understood we were

only ever there to love him, you know? When we brought you home, all alone, a few years later, the first thing he did when we put you in his arms, all wrapped up like a burrito, was start calling you bud.” The heaviness inside lifts a little with his words, with the memory of that nickname, with another memory of Devlin. He leaves. I want to let the tears come; I beg them to, but they refuse. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I cry? I hop from my spot and walk to the hallway, not giving myself time to rethink it. I open Dev’s door. He’s always smelled good. Even when teenage boys, myself included, usually go through that phase of being impossibly disgusting, not knowing how to use deodorant, he always smelled like pine trees. I know that’s a strange way to describe your brother and I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that’s what comes to mind, but when it hits me as the door swings open, it’s all I can think about. The room is tidy and dark. I cross to the head of his bed and throw open the curtains, blinking at the sudden light. The shelf of trophies to my right seems to reflect the sun back at me with a vengeance, and I read the titles on the tiny placards the same way I did when I was little. I used to love to count off the many ways that my brother was the best. The first is for soccer. He led his team to the championship four years in a row. Next football. Then there’s one for archery, I think from summer camp. College swimming, he held a state

record in three events. The last and most proudly displayed is an acrylic, eight-inch-high number one with silver writing circling the stand. It says World’s Best Brother. Mom helped me get it made when I was eight. The melody digs its way into my ears again. The sound. I remember why I’m here and shallow my breathing, trying to pinpoint the melody’s origin. There it is, softly tinkling through the stale air. It’s definitely near. I think if I listen hard enough, I can tell it’s coming from his desk, so I step closer, cocking my ear toward the sound. I move things around, searching for it. Finally, I move the computer monitor and locate a small wooden box in a crevice between the desk and wall. The lid is slightly open. I bring it to my ear, only to hear the high, sweet song clearly for the first time. My brain is telling me to open it fully, but the rest of me wants to let it finish. I shake my head. Why would I even think like that? I flip open the top and the music stops. In my hands the box seems to expand; it’s larger than I remember, a litter of papers tossed every which way inside. I shake my head again. Being in this room is making my head spin, making me imagine things. For a second I can hear Dev admonishing me for getting into his stuff, and I have the urge to drop the box back behind the computer and run out of the room. I resist it. Instead, I pull out what I now see are letters, one, two, four, eight. The first seven are short and written in flowing cursive. I try to read them, but my eyes go blurry when I focus on the words. The only legible part is the signoff: Love, K.T. I set them aside. My head aches trying to make sense of them. The last card is different. It looks like an acceptance letter, one from a school I’ve never heard of. I open the letter, slowly, as if the spirit of Dev will hear me. Unfolding it I stare at the perfect handwriting before me. It’s a much shorter acceptance letter than any I’ve ever seen. To be fair, I haven’t seen many. Any. I haven’t seen any.

The word aye is circled in gold ink as if the option has already been chosen, a soft indentation of a design overlaid on the print. Had Dev planned to go to this school? He accepted the invitation, right? He’s already graduated college. He was only home this summer while he saved up for his own place. Is this that old? I run a finger lightly across the words. To my surprise, they sparkle at the touch. My mind races as I touch them again, an unmistakable glow radiating from both words. I swear under my breath. Without thinking, I place the tip of my finger to the word; I press down firmly on the word AYE. At first, nothing happens. The word glows, a few weird circles appearing behind it in a gold tint, and then it disappears. The rest of the words in the letter fade away and replace with something else. A new text prints itself on the paper.

I sit down heavily on the computer chair, the wheels squeaking with my weight, and I lean back, rubbing my curls. I press my thumb and index finger to my closed eyes, wondering what just happened as I throw my head back and take a deep breath. What the hell is going on? With a sigh, I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Just over my head, there are four evenly sized circles, each with a complicated design within its borders. They look just like the ones that were in the letter. I jump up and peer at them quizzically. Most of my life I’ve been trying to shy away from reality by reading books about random items that sparkle and disappear.

Could I be so weak that I’m losing my grasp on reality? I’m left in a haze of uncertainty. I shake my head and stand up on the computer chair, reaching up to touch the symbols. A rush of energy, excitement, and fear wash over me. A single touch of something so mysterious sends a jolt straight to my heart. I need to know what this is. Another thought hits me. Devlin was into something, something that could very well have gotten him killed, and I need to know what. I gather the letters and the box and take one last look at the ceiling before making my way back to my room. Whatever was plaguing my brother in his final days, I think I’ll find it at Breywood. I start to pack.

My mother’s arms tremble as she holds me on our front porch. She buries her head in my neck, trying to hide the tears she’s been choking back all morning, coming up for air only when I pull back ever so slightly. “Let him breathe, Nadine,” my dad admonishes her. Behind his graying beard, I see his lips tremble. Before last month, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad cry. I wish I could forget the strangled sobs he released when he arrived at the gas station that night.

Four

I can’t blame either of them for the way they’re coping with today, or in this moment, at least. I’m the only child they have left. Now I’m asking them to let me go, too. Mom squeezes me one more time. She gives Dad a disdainful look and pulls my arm to her. “I’m still so shocked you managed to hide an acceptance letter from us for this long. What school was it again?” I can tell she’s racking her brain for the name I gave them just ten minutes earlier. “It’s, um, Breywood Academe,” I say, hoping they won’t push too hard with the questions. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Breywood. I hope it’s a nice school, but considering they had the sense to accept you, I’m sure they’re top notch.” She pulls me back into the vice grip of death again. I’m can practically taste blood. Dad shakes his head. “Nadine.” “It’s fine, Dad,” I say. Through gritted teeth and sheer determination, I give Mom a small squeeze of my own. Praying to God she doesn’t see it as a challenge to hug me tighter. My poor ribs can only take so much. She smiles at me and I return the smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. We all stare down the paved road silently, eyes fixed on the cross street that leads to the subdivision where our mid-sized suburban home stands. I try to focus on the sound of kids shouting and playing at the park down the block, the dogs greeting each other through shared fences, the lawnmowers growling to life as gardeners begin their work for the day. Maybe if I listen hard enough, I’ll be able to hear my ride as it takes that last turn off Cherry Street. Mom bends down to tug the small square envelope from the front pocket of my half-packed duffle bag on the curb. “Are you sure this is the pickup location? I wish this school had a website, a contact number, something! What if it’s a cult?” “It’s probably, most likely, definitely, not a cult,” my father retorts, and my mother nods her agreeingly even though she doesn’t understand what he’s saying. “What? No, I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. I’m just doing what the letter says.” It’s scary thinking about going off on my own. “It says to be ready to depart at eight a.m. sharp. Besides,

I don’t think a big private school would care how many followers are on their social media accounts.” “True. Well, what time is it now?” Mom’s foot begins the little tap of impatience that I’ve learned to fear as a kid. “Eight o’clock.” Dad feigns a look at his watch, although I know that he, like me, has been keeping track of the time since we gathered here on the curb. I check the watch around my wrist to be sure. Before Mom can get out another snide remark, the sound of an engine rumbles in the near distance, cutting cleanly through the sounds of playing and meowing and barking. Turning the corner we see it, sleek, shiny and definitely out of place in this neighborhood, a classic luxury limo. Mom’s slaps me on the shoulder. “Holy hell. Do you think that’s for you?” I don’t know what to say. “Well, it sure is—and excuse my French—a nice-ass car, isn’t it, Dave?” she stutters. Dad nods. “Looks like you’re riding in style, bud.” His voice lightens just a tad. Seeing that I won’t be taking a rusted-out 1986 Dodge Caravan to my new school seems to calm him. He steps up next to Mom and me and hoists the duffle bag onto his shoulder, giving the driver a short salute. “Thanks, Dad,” I say, shrugging Mom off to take a step into the road as the limo pulls to a stop in our driveway. The windows,