"What rules?" asked Max. "You're freakin' me out, man."
"I have rules to keep me normal," I said. "To keep me . . . safe. To keep everyone safe. One of them is that I have to hang out with you because you help me stay normal, and I haven't been doing that. Serial killers don't have friends, and they don't have partners, they're just alone. So if I'm with you I'm safe, and I'm not going to do anything. Don't you get it?"
Max’s face grew clouded. I'd known him long enough to learn his moods—what he did when he was happy, what he did when he was mad. Right now he was squinting, and kind of frowning, and that meant he was sad. It caught me by surprise, and I stared back in shock.
"Is that why you came here?" he asked.
I nodded, desperate for some kind of connection. I felt like I was drowning.
"And that's why we've been friends for three years," he said. "Because you force yourself, because you think it makes you normal."
See who I am. Please.
"Well, congratulations, John," he said. "You're normal. You're the big freakin' king of normal, with your stupid rules, and your fake friends. Is anything you do real?"
"Yeah," I said. "I. . ." Right there, with him staring at me,
I couldn't think of a thing.
"If you're just pretending to be my friend, then you don't actually need me at all," he said, standing up. "You can do that all by yourself. I'll see you around."
"Come on, Max,"
"Get out of here," he said.
I didn't move.
"Get out!" he shouted.
"You don't know what you're doing," I said, "I need to—"
"Don't you dare blame me for you being a freak!" he shouted. "Nothing you do is my fault! Now get of my house!"
I stood up and grabbed my coat.
"Put it on outside," said Max, throwing open the door. "Dangit, John, everyone in school hates me. Now I don't even have my freak friend anymore." I walked out into the cold and he slammed the door behind me.
That night Crowley killed again, and I missed it. His car was gone when I got back from Max's, and Mrs. Crowley said he'd gone to watch the game. There wasn't a game that night foi any of his teams, but I drove downtown anyway to see if I could find him. His car wasn't at his favorite sports bar, or any of the others, and I even drove out to the Flying J to see if I could find him there. He was nowhere. I got home long patil dark and he still hadn't come back. I was so mad I wanted to scream. I threw my bike again and sat down on the driveway to think.
I wanted to go see what Brooke was doing—I was desperate to see what she was doing—but I didn't. I bit my tongue, daring myself to draw blood, but stopped and instead stood up and punched the wall.
I couldn't let the monster take over. I had a job to do, and a demon to kill. I couldn't let myself lose control before I did what I needed to do—no, that wasn't right. I couldn't let myself lose control at all. I had to stay focused. I had to get Crowley.
If I couldn't find him, at least I could send him a note. I'd gotten so distracted today, I hadn't prepared one yet, and I needed to let him know that even though I couldn't see it, I knew what he was doing. I racked my brain for something I could write with without incriminating myself. The mortuary stationery was out, of course, and I didn't dare go upstairs looking for paper in case Mom was still awake. I ran over to Mr.
Crowley's yard, nearly invisible in the darkness, and looked for something else. Eventually I found a bag of snow salt on his porch; he kept it there to salt his stairs and sidewalks for ice. It gave me an idea, and I came up with a plan.
At one in the morning when Crowley pulled in, his car swung around and stopped suddenly, half in and half out of his driveway. There in the headlights was a word written in salt crystals, each letter three feet long on the asphalt and shining brilliantly in the headlights:
DEMON
After a moment, Mr. Crowley drove forward and smeared the words with his car, then got out and swept away the remnants with his foot. I watched him from the darkness of my bedroom, pricking myself with a pin and grimacing at the pain.
13
"Merry Christmas!"
Margaret bustled in the door with an armful of presents, and Mom kissed her on the cheek.
"Merry Christmas to you," said Mom, taking a few of the presents and stacking them by the tree. "Do you have anything else in the car?"
"Just the salad, but Lauren's bringing it up."
Mom's jaw dropped, and Margaret grinned slyly.
"She's really here?" Mom asked quietly, poking her head out the door to look down the stairs. Margaret nodded. "How did you do it?" asked Mom. "I've invited her five times and couldn't get a yes out of her."
"We had a really good talk last night," said Margaret.
"Also, I think her boyfriend dumped her."
Mom looked around the room frantically. "We're not ready for four—John, run down and get another chair for the table; I'll set another place. Margaret, you're wonderful."