My mind raced. The Order wouldn’t just end. We’d be in trouble. Police trouble. Destruction of private property. Trespassing. Worse. My mind had wandered these avenues at night. The secrets we had on the initiates wouldn’t protect us if they were under duress—questioned by the police, cornered by a suspicious parent. I had settled on a solution: insurance.
“She doesn’t have a death wish, figuratively speaking,” I said. “She won’t tell on us if it means taking herself down with us. We need proof that she’s involved, more than just us claiming it’s so. We can hang that over her head. She’d have to keep her mouth shut.” I stopped to collect my thoughts. “I’m not saying you should share her secret. It’s wrong. But I was already thinking about getting more leverage. We’re committing crimes. We aren’t safe unless Amanda and all of them believe their fates are tied to ours.”
I scooted closer. “But promise me you’ll think about it more, Viv. Sharing a video of a girl talking about sex only to embarrass her and get kids to call her slutty makes you a certain kind of girl. That’s not who you want to be.”
Her lashes brushed her cheeks for the barest second as she tipped forward, ashamed. I could see my eyes reflected in hers, the candle flame dancing in our breaths. There was nothing between us. She’d laid all her secrets bare.
I went home soon after, angry at everyone in the world but Viv. Graham, Harry, and I should have anticipated how far she’d consider going to hurt Amanda. We should have sensed how hurt and reeling she was. I believed Viv would decide on her own not to shame Amanda.
I knew Viv—didn’t I? Even at that late hour in October I experienced certainty in my bones. I knew her better than anyone, which I understand now is saying nothing at all.
Retrieved from deleted data of Graham H. Averbach III’s cellular phone
Transcript and notes prepared by Badge #821891
Shared Media Folder Titled: IV, Wed., Oct. 23, 11:52 p.m.
Video start.
G. Averbach sits inside. Shelves of books at his back. “I’ll likely delete this once I’m done. Some things have to be said. You can’t hold them in.”
He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just lied to you, Izzie. I texted you driving home from Trent’s. I said my theory was bunk. A lapse in judgment. Too embarrassing to share.” He points to his own face. “Liar.
“My theory panned out. They usually do. You’d call me arrogant right about now. Yeah. I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m not usually right.”
He raised a glass, ice tinkling as he swirled it. “I’m going to pretend I’m talking right to you. Get it out. Delete it. Move on. Here is what I know, Izzie. Have you ever noticed Conner’s bruises? For the last year I’ve been noting a correlation between days he has physical injuries and days he goes after Harry. He had a split lip the last time he hassled him about his lunch tray. He walked with a limp the last time he shoulder-checked Harry in the halls. Yesterday, Conner had bruises across the knuckles of one hand and his lower lip was swollen, and despite our truce, he baited Harry. They almost went at each other. I suspect that Sebastian Welsh hits his son. I think Conner’s older brother used to go after him too. Conner didn’t used to be a bad kid. Played fair. Was kind of quiet. I theorize that’s before the abuse started. And now, feeling maligned and like the victim brings Conner’s mean streak out, and wham, he goes for Harry.
“Sebastian Welsh.” He says the name slowly. “Abusive dick does not always a murderer make, I know. But then there was Conner’s secret. He ran away from home after his mom died. Camped up in the tunnel. And I got to thinking, didn’t his mom pass away in middle school? Wasn’t it at the end of sixth grade?”
He sips his drink. “I loosened Trent up with my flask and got him talking about it. Really, he likes the sound of his own voice as much as I do. So Conner’s mom died one month before your Goldilocks, Izzie. Trent seemed to remember it was a few weeks after Conner’s mom’s death that Conner told him he was running away from home. Trent was a good friend, kept his mouth shut as long as he could, but when Sebastian Welsh finally noticed his younger son was gone, he bullied Trent into spilling. Sebastian went up the hill to find Conner. Trent wasn’t allowed to see him for weeks, had the naive idea that Conner was sick or something, needed to stay in bed. When Trent finally got to go over, Conner had some stories about a group of girls who babied him up there in the tunnel. Kept him for two days like their pet, fed him, dried his eyes when he cried about his mommy. Trent thought Conner was full of shit.
“That’s what I know.” He slid his glasses back on. “Here’s what I suspect. Sebastian Welsh marched into that tunnel. He laid into twelve-year-old Conner with his fists. Goldilocks and her ilk saw. A couple days later, Goldilocks left at night, told the others she was going to the gas station because they’d try to stop her if they knew the truth. She was going to check on that poor little kid with the daddy who beat on him. Knows where he lives from spending all that time with him. She cuts through our neighborhood, maybe even makes it to Conner’s house to see if he’s okay. Sebastian Welsh chases her down in his German luxury vehicle. Hits her. Maybe he means to. Maybe he’s just trying to scare her and he goes too far. Regardless, she’s got to die when the car doesn’t finish her off. She knows who he is. The rest, we all know.”
He stares at the middle distance. A minute later he refocuses. “You don’t know how bad I want to tell you, Iz. Here’s your murderer. Your ultimate villain. But the other night, at my house, when you showed up all breathless and scheming, even without a plan fully formed, I saw it in your eyes. You’ll want to hurt this man who killed a girl. The Order has made it possible.
“I’m afraid you will hurt him. I’m afraid you’ll go too far or I’ll go too far because I’ll know it’s what you want.” He shook his head. “I’m frightened you’ll get hurt or do something you can’t take back.”
He drags a hand over his mouth.
“You used to say there wasn’t a line with all our dares. I pushed you. You pushed me. You think I don’t look when I jump. Maybe not. But I always look where you’re going to land. And this is the line.”
Video stop.
28
Look at that fascist,” Graham spat. One of the security golf cart squad deserted his vehicle to chase down a kid in a IV armband. During the first half of Wednesday’s lunch, we’d seen six other kids asked to shed apparel bearing the mark. Graham snapped a picture on his cell of the security goon hooking the kid by the neck of the T-shirt. “They’re just stoking the flames.”
“Two kids were pulled out of first period and sent to the office,” I said, snapping the lid back onto my untouched salad. A pressure built deep in my stomach. Anticipation. Hunger. Not for food.
“Armbands?” Harry asked.