I bound myself to them, Em had said. The words stayed with him, crawling under his skin and scalp, all day. I’m changing. Putting you in danger. This will be over soon.
Her premonitions played and replayed in his mind all day long. Stuck on the idea of the “red seeds,” he was making his way through the school parking lot that afternoon when he heard someone call his name.
He snapped his head up and saw Crow leaning nonchalantly against JD’s Volvo. He looked like shit, all scruffy and sloppy, in a big gray T-shirt and ripped jeans. Even now that JD knew that Crow was most likely not responsible for wounding him at the Behemoth, he still hated the guy.
Anger flexed inside him. “Get off my car, man.”
“Listen, I don’t like seeing you any more than you like seeing me,” Crow said, straightening up. “I just came to talk to you about something.”
“By something, do you mean Emily? She has a name, you know.” He gripped his keys in his left hand, squeezing them so hard that their jagged edges pressed into his skin.
“You’re in over your head, Lover Boy,” Crow said in the same infuriatingly calm tone. JD could smell cigarette smoke on him, and sweat. “Don’t drown.”
JD took a step forward, so he and Crow were only a few inches apart. “Or what? You’ll start following me like you’ve been following Emily?”
“Whoa, whoa,” Crow said, holding up his hands. “Calm down, Romeo. You’re really bummed that Em and I have been hanging out, huh?”
“Oh, is that what they call stalking nowadays? Hanging out?” JD flashed back to Crow peering into the Winters’ dining room. “I saw you outside her house, spying on her—looking in the window.”
“Wow, man. Ladies and gentlemen, he’s cracked the case,” Crow announced loudly, holding his arms out and spreading his chest wide. “Or maybe, just maybe, Fount, you knew that because you were stalking her.”
JD’s head was spinning. Black was eating at the edges of his vision, anger pumping through his blood. “Don’t screw with me. I saw you on Thursday. I could have called the cops. I should have.”
“So I needed to talk to her,” Crow admitted. ?All traces of his smirk were gone. His eyes were just slightly unfocused. “But I wasn’t following her.”
“You’re a liar,” JD said.
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but I’m not a liar,” Crow pressed his finger into JD’s chest in response. JD pushed his hand away. “Jealousy must be messing with your head.”
“Jealous of you?”
“Sure.” Crow said. “I mean, I did make a move on your girl. But I don’t need to sneak around to make it happen. She’s willing to be seen with me in public.”
Something snapped inside JD. Em wasn’t his girl, and Crow knew that, and him saying it made the whole thing worse. JD barreled into Crow full-force, pinning him against the car with his forearm pressed forcefully against Crow’s chest. They were face-to-face, just inches apart. JD’s adrenaline was flowing hard; he had never hit anyone before in his life.
“Shut up,” he spit. “Stay away from Em. Stay away from me.”
“Back atcha, asshole,” Crow said, pushing back against JD’s weight. He was weaker than JD expected. “You’re going to mess things up. Stay out of this.”
“Or what?”
“You don’t want to find out.”
With disgust, JD let Crow go. They glowered at each other for a few wordless seconds, both of them breathing heavy. Then Crow stalked off toward his ugly pickup truck. JD watched him go. He got into his own car and sat there for a minute, shaking. Finally he turned the key and drove away.
On the ride home, JD was jumpy and wired. He’d never come that close to hitting another guy, at least not since he was four years old on the playground near Sebago Lake. It felt shitty, like he’d accomplished nothing. But a part of him liked it too, this feeling of blood rushing right below his skin.
There were two pieces of mail waiting for him on the kitchen table: the latest issue of Rolling Stone, and an envelope with a handwritten label and no return address. It had some uneven bulk to it, like there was something inside. He tossed the magazine on the counter and ripped into it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone sent him actual mail—even his grandmother had sent an e-card last year.
The handwriting was unfamiliar and boxy, and as he pulled the note out, written in a heavy hand on lined paper, he saw it was dated just yesterday. But the date wasn’t what threw him. It was the gold snake pin that came tumbling out of the envelope. And the sender.
Walt Feiffer.
The letter in his hand was from a dead man.
ACT THREE
WHAT LIES AT THE HEART
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN