“Oh, I think I do get to make that judgment call. If anyone gets to, it’s me.”
She froze.
“Look at me!” he demanded, and she flinched, lifting her face.
He waved the book at her. “You read it! Don’t lie and say you didn’t. I know you read it all the way through. Don’t pretend you don’t know all the things that were said and done to me! You really want to sit there and tell me I can’t be an accurate judge of those people?”
She could say nothing.
“I am BROKEN because of them!”
Silence.
He had no intention of saying it. He wasn’t looking for sympathy or a kind word. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for.
Regan brought her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the involuntary sob. No use. It jerked and forced its way past her lips. And then another. And another, until she was crying outright. She cried for the revelation. She cried for her fear, her uncertain future. She cried for him.
“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me,” Jeremy whispered. The words were hardened and cold. Just like his heart.
She continued to sob, and he jumped up. A strong urge to hug her frightened him. He couldn’t handle his yo-yo feelings: one second angry at her and the next sympathetic to her plight. Her plight? What plight? Oh yes, the fact that she held absolute power to destroy his plan, his life. That plight. She must have known it—the reason she sat crying hysterically just now. She didn’t know what to do, what to believe. He would have to tell her—convince her with silky lies why she didn’t have to be afraid of him, why she didn’t have to say anything about his journal.
A sick fantasy. Yes. That’s how he would persuade her. It was all just a sick fantasy to help cope with the pain. It could work. It would have to.
“You had no business reading this.” He turned his face away. “I . . . I didn’t write it for you.”
First, he wanted to shame her—plant the embarrassment deep in her heart so that she would find herself apologizing to him.
Regan wiped her eyes. “I know.”
“Why would you do that to me?”
Humiliation twisted like a thick, meaty vine around her heart.
“I . . . I don’t know,” she whispered. “I was curious.”
“Yeah? I’m curious about a lot of things, too, but I don’t go invading someone else’s space,” Jeremy replied.
“I guess you’re better than I am,” she said bitterly.
“Right now I am,” he pointed out.
She bristled. “Oh yeah? You wanna murder people. What am I supposed to do with that information, huh? I should have told someone today—”
“So why didn’t you?” he asked. Feel her out slowly, his brain said. Tone down the aggression.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“That’s a lousy answer,” he replied.
“I don’t know! I guess I was afraid!”
“Of me?”
“Of the entire situation,” she said lamely.
He squatted beside her a second time. He exhaled slowly, trying to expunge the anger.
Soften. Tone down the aggression.
“Do you honestly think I’d shoot people?”
She crinkled her brow and studied him. “No?”
He tried again. “Regan, do you really believe I’d shoot people?”
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“Yes, you do,” he argued. “You know everything about me. You read my journal.”
He watched the contortions of her face—a visual of her working brain. It was working too hard, and he was afraid of what it told her.
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re right. I do know you. And you describe the day and time. In detail. You map out your route through the school. You list the guns you’d carry, and how you’d carry them. You note the amount of ammo you’d need if you had to shoot someone multiple times. You mark resting points throughout the halls. You describe your target practice. You explain—”
“Stop,” he said. Hearing her say it aloud—listing off the details in fast succession—really did make him sound like a lunatic. But he wasn’t! He wasn’t a fucking lunatic. He was organized. His plan made sense. It wasn’t needless killing. It was purposeful. It was just and right.
“You think you have the right,” Regan whispered, like she could read his thoughts. “You think you have the right to take someone’s life.”
She waited for his response. He knew what she wanted to hear. If he gave it to her, she would know he was lying. Better stick to the truth as much as possible.
“I do think I have that right,” he said finally, and she gasped. “In my fantasies.”
She relaxed some.
“I’m sure you have fantasies,” he said, trying to steer the conversation away from his journal.
She nodded. “I don’t fantasize about killing, though.”
“You’ve never wanted to kill anyone in your anger?”
“No.”
“I’m sure you’ve fantasized about hurting someone,” he suggested. “Someone who wronged you.”
She glared at him. “Yes.”
“He was mean to you? He disappointed you?”
“Yes.”
“So what did you wanna do?”
“Strangle him,” she said before thinking. She slapped her hand over her mouth.
“There,” Jeremy replied triumphantly. “Now, if you wrote that down, and I found it, do you think I’d believe for a second you really wanted to kill that guy?”
“It’s not the same thing at all!” Regan cried. “Mine’s a figure of speech! You go on for pages and pages—”
“Wake up, Regan!” Jeremy shouted. “I’ve been dealing with bullying for years! You don’t think that warrants a lot of goddamn pages?”
She flinched then opened her mouth to argue. But there was nothing to say because he was right. His experiences warranted more than “a lot” of pages.
Jeremy tipped backwards until his butt hit the ground. He groaned softly as he stretched his legs in front of him.
A long bout of silence. Rustling leaves. Some bird conversations. Honking horn.