Fiery Crash Shuts Down Cleveland-Hopkins Airport
Cleveland. They were going to leave from Cleveland. She might have told Patrick that, too. But when a picture of her brother came up on the screen, followed by each of her parents, with their names under the heading Deceased, a howl of despair tore up from her belly. The hard, racking sobs left her throat jagged and raw. All her doubts, all her sorrow balled up in one huge boulder of grief and demanded a release. And when it was over, when she’d cried herself dry and could produce nothing more than a whimper, she lay crumpled on the floor, her face pressed to the gritty boards, the sense of desolation overwhelming.
“That’s good. It’s best to let grief out, so it doesn’t fester. That’s healthy.”
She’d forgotten the freak. He was still out there somewhere. Watching her breakdown with the same cold scrutiny he’d probably had when observing her practicing naked. That’s what she was left with. Only him.
“This is your home now. I’m the only family you have remaining. Our connection was so quick. So strong. You already feel like my daughter, and if you let yourself, soon you’ll feel the same way about me. Why don’t you try? Call me Daddy.”
An hour ago, she would have laughed at him, at least in her mind. Been repulsed by the obscenity of his suggestion. But now she felt nothing. There was only emptiness and a yawning sense of despair. Because he hadn’t lied. It was true, all of it. Her family was dead. She wanted to be dead, too. Instead, she was alone. At the freak’s mercy. And even that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing did.
“Daddy,” she repeated dully.
Janie Willard
November 6
3:48 p.m.
She’d sneaked into the bathroom for a quick smoke before showing up to suspension, which under the circumstances was probably smart. Janie had initially planned to use the time as a study hall. They didn’t get much for homework over the weekend, but she had an AP physics test Monday because Fredericks was a sadist. And her government project was due in a week. She had to work Sunday, so it’d be nice to have everything done before then.
It’d taken less than ten minutes, however, to discover that nothing productive was going to occur in suspension. Once she’d given up, she’d started a long e-mail to Alyvia updating her on “the experience in captivity,” as her friend had put it. Alyvia had been wildly pumped about the whole Heather Miller fiasco. Janie suspected missing the scene had been a major disappointment for her friend.
Her laptop pinged quietly, signaling an incoming e-mail. She read the name, studiously avoiding looking at the sender, who was seated two rows away. Instead, Janie stared hard at Mike Humphries, the supervisor, who was tipped back in his chair behind the desk in the front of the room, buried deep in the sports pages of the Cincinnati Daily News. He’d looked up only once since they’d filed in to take attendance and issued a warning against talking and cell phone use before retreating behind the wall of newspaper. The man wasn’t a teacher but did some assistant coaching and study hall supervision. If he had another job outside the school she’d never heard of it. From the looks of him, he spent his other waking hours working on his heavily muscled gym-rat physique.
Her laptop pinged again. Same sender. Just like the last five e-mails. She reached out to tap the key that would mute the computer.
“No cell phones, guys.” Humphries didn’t even look up as he turned a page. Neither did four of the other occupants of the room. One boy was asleep, slouched low in his chair, his head tipped back, jaw gaping. Two others were amusing themselves by rolling tiny spit wads and attempting to throw them in the dozing boy’s mouth. The floor around her desk was littered from the bombardment they’d aimed her way earlier. She was glad they’d turned their juvenile attentions elsewhere.
But it was the final guy in the room who was proving to be the biggest source of annoyance. Cole Bogart. He’d just moved to their school last year. Janie knew him only by sight, but she’d heard of him. Everyone had. He’d gotten caught hacking the school’s server last winter and been kicked out for his efforts. Apparently, he was back this fall. She’d never exchanged so much as a glance with him. Which made the barrage of e-mails he’d been sending to her school e-mail since she’d sat down hard to explain. Janie hadn’t opened any of them. She knew just enough about him to be certain she had nothing to say to him.
She was just about to push “Send” when the content of her message to Alyvia blanked. Words began to appear in the empty space.
Why are you ignoring me????
What the hell? Janie stared at the screen, dumbfounded.
We have a common nemesis. You should read my messages.
She looked over at Cole. He never glanced up, his head bent over his computer. When she returned her gaze to her laptop, another message had appeared.
Heard about you punching Heather Miller in the face.
The line of words was followed by an animated graphic of a champagne bottle’s cork popping off and liquid bubbling down the side of the bottle.
“Knock it off, assholes!”
Janie started. The dozer had awakened and was scowling at his two tormentors. Humphries lowered his newspaper enough to glare over it. “That’s enough! I said no talking!”
Unable to restrain herself, she typed, How are you doing this? Somehow he’d gotten inside her e-mail and was using it like an Instant Messaging system. She would have sworn it was impossible if she wasn’t watching it happening in front of her.
This?
A moment later, Humphries’s face appeared on top of a baboon’s backside. She ducked her head to hide her smile.
Nice trick, she wrote.
I have a lot of them. Unfortunately, I got caught practicing mine. Shit happens. But not to everyone, ever notice that? Some people get away with far worse than changing grades online. Check out the last e-mail I sent you.
She hesitated, glanced at the clock. Another hour left. Dozer appeared to have gone back to sleep. The other two jerks were engrossed in what appeared to be a rousing and totally silent game of flick football. Janie went to her inbox. Scrolled to the last of the half dozen messages Bogart had sent. Opened it.
Her heart did a slow free-fall. Hastily, she closed out of the message, but the image in it was burned into her brain. A teenage girl, clad only in a thong, arms crossed over her bare chest, shooting a sultry look over her shoulder.
And not just any girl. Heather Miller.
Is that how you get your kicks? She returned to the message page, typing furiously, fueled by an irrational rage that had nothing to do with Heather. Splicing pictures or whatever the hell you did. It’s cyberbullying, and you’re an asshole. You should have been kicked out for more than a semester.