“Does moving the glove move the glass?”
I propped the phone so it was standing against the water faucet. Delicately I pinched the fabric near the glass and pulled up. I cried out.
“Affirmative. Shit,” he said. “How deep do you think it is?”
“Deep.”
“Bend your fingers.”
“Can’t.” With my good hand, I reached under the sink. “There are lots of towels.”
“At least you won’t bleed to death.”
“How comforting.”
“Be careful not to break off the tip when you pull it out.”
I gave my head a shake; even the small reverberation stoked the pain.
“Okay,” Graham said, maddeningly calm. “Do it fast. Pull the glass. Rip the glove off. Stop the bleeding. It’ll be easy. One, two—”
“Three,” I whispered, wrenching the glass. The wound spurted blood. I panted at the pain shooting up my fingers. I dragged the glove off and dropped it with a wet thump in the sink.
“Let me see.” Graham’s voice came from down a tunnel. I couldn’t keep the phone steady as I held him up. “Put pressure on it. Izzie. You hear me? Put pressure on it. Now.”
With a bath towel and my hand clutched to my chest, I curled up against the bathtub. I tried to focus on slow breaths in and out. Graham sat near my shoulder on the tub’s ledge; he appeared to be perspiring.
“Distract me,” I whispered.
“Tell me”—a pause as he stalled to figure out what to say—“Pendleton, would you smile or frown in your mug shot?”
My laugh turned into a blubbery cry.
“It’s your left hand, right?”
I grunted.
“You’re going to have near identical scars on both hands. The stories you’ll be able to tell. All that character. I just may copy you.”
We said good night, and I fell asleep on the cold tile floor. Five years after the girl with the glass in the Ghost Tunnel, there I was, another piece of glass, another scar, all in the name of Goldilocks.
Retrieved from the cellular phone of Vivian Marlo
Transcript and notes prepared by Badge #821891
Shared Media Folder Titled: IV, Wed., Oct. 23, 2:07 a.m.
Video start.
V. Marlo is in her bedroom. Sirens can be heard in the background.
“I, Vivian Marlo, belong in a Greek tragedy. I have a fatal flaw.” She takes a deep breath. “Once upon a time, despite everything Amanda Schultz had done to me for eons, I was willing to let it go and be her friend.” Her eyes close for a beat.
“In the sixth grade Izzie and Graham pretended they had chicken pox. They were home from school recuperating”—she makes air quotes—“for a week. I put the sugar water on myself too, but when the mosquitoes started landing, I jumped into the pool.
“Don’t get me started on what a nightmare PE was. I had no one to block me in the locker room while I changed into my sports bra. Humiliating. I told my mom I was achy, and she wrote a note excusing me from participating.”
She cups her chin with her hand. “Amanda was a sickly worm in sixth grade. A mental patient. She lost it over her parents’ divorce. I mean, hello, parents get divorced—not mine, obvi, but it happens—and not everyone goes bald. She always sat out PE. At first we didn’t even look at each other even though we were a foot away. But then Emerson Talbott got her PE shirt hooked on her braces and she couldn’t get loose. Hysterical. Laughing led to talking.
“Amanda and I had tons in common and it was supernice to talk about clothes and boys with another girl who cared. And don’t you dare roll your eyes, Izzie, ’cause you know you’re not into that stuff. Amanda said I could come to her birthday mani-pedi party and we were making all these plans.
“But then I was in the bathroom on Friday at lunch—in a stall—and I heard Amanda tell a bunch of other girls, I can’t believe her mom’s only going to have one boob. And one of them asked if it would grow back.” Her eyes tear up. “And Amanda said, ‘You should ask her.’ Then they all laughed and talked about how desperate I was for Amanda to like me. She told them I’d begged her to be invited over her house and to her mani-pedi birthday.
“I told Amanda my biggest secret like a brainless loudmouth and she blabbed it. She laughed about it.” She wipes away the mascara under her eye. “Remembering makes me want to shove a hat pin in her heart. It makes me sick that I trusted her and that I was such a desperate moron thinking she’d be my friend.
“But my god. Tonight, when I thought everything was going to hell and that maybe we’d get caught, I realized exactly what I need to do.”
Video stop.
Retrieved from the cellular phone of Harrison Rocha
Transcript and notes prepared by Badge #82827
Shared Media Folder Titled: IV, Wed., Oct. 23, 5:04 a.m.
Video start.
H. Rocha’s face is shadowed. “I slept like crap.” His voice froggy. “I just convinced Simon to go back to his own room.” He sniffles. “I’m a horrible big brother. I didn’t think about how scared Simon would be when he heard the sirens. Or how he’d look out his window and see blood. And that it would remind him of Dad’s attack and visiting the hospital.” He shakes his head slowly. “There are other kids on this street. Littler than Simon. They didn’t deserve to be punished.
“I can hear Graham—I can hear you, bro—in my head saying collateral damage. Telling me it’s not worse than anything kids see in comics. I’m pissed about Goldilocks too. That girl—she should be alive. Someone should pay. I’m not saying that assholes who hear a girl crying for help and don’t do shit don’t deserve it. They do. Worse.” He groans. “The Order, its power, it’s a high. I feel it. But it’s also like this shadow I keep seeing out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head and it’s gone. It’s there. Dark. Waiting.” Another shake of the head. “I’m rambling. Just tired is all.
“I should be figuring out an embarrassing rite to give Conner. The others all gave out a funny one already, but everything I come up with is too sadistic. Or dangerous. The problem is, I don’t want to embarrass Conner. I want to take him apart.”
Video stop.
26
I didn’t wake up until half past six in the morning. My legs straightened and kicked the vanity cabinet, my head pinned between the toilet and tub.
Gingerly I peeled the crusty towel from my hand. Dried blood marbled my skin. Afraid to twitch my fingers for the pain it could bring, my hand stayed an arthritic claw. The wound was a black divot. Deep. Hadn’t even scabbed. Likely needed stiches. I dabbed a damp washcloth around it to remove some of the blood. I placed a large square bandage over it, like the one I’d had on the opposite hand a couple weeks before. I flipped the lid off the aspirin bottle using my teeth and swallowed three.