He never heard her call him “Jer.” Well, he never heard her say his name at all, except in sixth grade. He was momentarily distracted, and he thought in horror that his lips curled into a warm smile—an involuntary reaction only she could invoke. Because she was a wicked little witch disguised as an ordinary teen. Her magic ran in her veins where no one could see.
Regan wasted no time. She hopped up and tried for escape. The spell shattered at her sudden movement, and he caught her ankle before she could slip away. She tripped, falling face down, accidentally flinging the notebook in front of her. She stretched her arm, but it was out of reach. She felt him climb over her, keeping her pinned painfully, and watched helplessly as he plucked the journal off the ground. He rolled off of her and stood up.
“It isn’t Columbine at all,” he said evenly. “Don’t you dare compare me to those guys.”
She ventured a glance at his face and shuddered again. Darkness in his eyes—thick with revenge.
“You want to shoot people!” she screamed.
“You make it sound like I wanna bust up in the school and just shoot at random,” he replied.
“You wanna shoot my friends!”
He paused. “Well, I can’t argue there. I do wanna shoot your friends. Because they’re bad people.”
“Oh my God,” she breathed, unable to process what she’d just heard. “You’re crazy.” She looked at his face. “You’re crazy!”
“I’m not crazy!” he roared. “Never call me that!”
She curled into herself, pulling her legs up and burying her face in her knees. This is all a dream. A dream.
“I’m not crazy,” she heard more softly. “But they’re bad people, and you know it.”
“You don’t get to make that judgment call,” Regan said. Why? Why am I even talking to this guy? I gotta get out of here now. I’ve gotta get somewhere safe.
Jeremy dropped to his knees beside her and thrust his face in hers. She wouldn’t look at him, but she felt his lips close to her ear.
“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.