- STEVEN -

"Whoa," Ahmed whispered. "That was insane."

"Yes," Prudence affirmed. "That it was." She turned to Ahmed and me. "Are you two alright? I hope he didn't frighten you too terribly."

"We're...I'm fine," I said, "but...who are you? And, and how did you know that guy?"

"My name is Prudence Darrow," she answered, "And I've known Detective Stapleman for a long time, though I can't say it's been a pleasant acquaintance. I met him and the other blue-eyed wonder boys in seminary, back before being black and a Christian was in style." She chuckled at herself for a moment, then stared into space:

"Jeremy was friends with your father, or at least he liked to think so. He never was one to assert himself; I suppose that's why he dropped out. There's nothing quite like not knowing who you are while all your 'friends' are growing up around you." She paused, exhaled. "I guess that's what he was hoping would happen to him as well—that he would grow up, feel like he meant something. Too bad all it seems to amount to these days is scrambling for the 'best' police cases and intimidating high-schoolers into fake confessions."

"What a low-life," I mused.

"Th—thank you, by the way," Ahmed stuttered, staring straight at Prudence.

"You're very welcome, darling." She turned to face him and donned a sweet smile. "Honestly, I'm glad I showed up when I did. Any longer, and Jeremy's two-inch power boner might've shot out in the middle of the hallway."

An involuntary chuckle escaped my lips. Okay, that was a good one.

Prudence smiled at me.

"Wait a sec," Ahmed began slowly. "How'd you know where to find us?"

"I'm in town visiting a friend," Prudence replied. "She told me Detective Stapleman was on the case, that he'd found a picture of some girl named Irina and was looking into leads."

What? I felt the air all around me suddenly grow stiff and cold. A picture of Irina? Why would—?

"But, wait," Ahmed continued. "How did you know we'd be here? At this hospital?"

"Well, when I heard about what happened to Dylan, I knew Detective Stapleman wouldn't be far behind. He's always chasing down any lead he can find, even the ones that don't belong to him."

I'm so confused. "Hold on," I cut in. "I'm still not understanding how you knew anything about this case in the first place."

"It was my husband. Deputy Commissioner Darrow. He got paged right after you placed the 9-1-1 call, and I warned him about Stapleman. He didn't want me to get involved, but I just knew Jeremy would be trying to bark up all the wrong trees. He always does."

"So where is he—your husband, I mean? Where is he now?"

Her eyes grew grave as she stared straight at me. "When I left him, he was at your house with a dozen other officers, taping off the crime scene."

"Oh," I mused. "I—I guess I should...thank you, then...for your help."

"Of course," she smiled. "Do you boys need a ride?"

"I, uh, actually biked here," Ahmed offered.

"Well, you needn't ride home on two wheels this late at night, especially with everything that's been happening recently. My car's trunk is big enough to fit your bike. I'll take both of you home, and I hope you'll get some rest." She walked to the nurse's desk to retrieve the purse she'd set there earlier, then strode to the double doors at the end of the hallway and held them open. "After you, gentlemen."

****

When I stepped out of Prudence's car, my house was surrounded by cops in dark blue uniforms, waves of static feedback echoing through pagers strapped to their waists. Some of them carried what appeared to be Ziploc bags storing evidence from the scene of the crime—my happy little home.

I felt like a stranger on my own lawn as one of the policemen escorted me to the front door, forging a path through a miniature horde of forensics personnel and special investigators. Walking inside, I spotted two men kneeling around a giant bloodstain crusted into the carpeted floor adjacent to the dining-room table.

That's Dylan's blood, the thought sprang into my head as my brain shot instantly back to what'd happened at the hospital...everything that happened at the hospital.

Was it Ahmed? Was he the reason that what Dylan said had made me so mad? But why should it have? Was I really so afraid that some chump freshman was going to come between me and my best friend?

Well, I guess he did...

I pounded my fist into the wall. Gah, I thought to myself, I feel more bipolar than Grace used to get on her period. I sighed, felt my eyes throb, then looked around, left to right.

My hand began slowly to descend into my pocket, retrieved my phone, tapped in Dylan's number. I heard it ring once, twice, thrice, then began pacing toward my dad's study at the back of the house.

Come on, Dylan, I silently begged, pick up.

His voicemail was the only answer to my prayers. "Hey, what's up? Dylan here! Leave a message," it sounded in my ears, followed by a long beeeeeeeeeeep.

I let out a heavy sigh. "Dylan, hey, it's Steven." I paused. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said. I really sucked as a friend today, and..." I trailed off, sighed again. "I get it if you're mad or if you don't wanna talk right now. I just—" I could feel the words catching in my throat—"I don't wanna lose you. It feels like...like I'm losing everything else." I shook my head. "I'm really sorry. I mean it." I gulped, swallowing back tears. "I'm really, really sorry, bud."

With shaking fingers, I reluctantly pressed the End Call button, finalized my recorded message, quivered as I gripped the phone before my eyes. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at my blank screen.

Maybe I was waiting for Dylan to call back, or maybe I just didn't know what else to do. It seemed anything I tried was destined to fall apart. Perhaps I was hoping to wake up from some horrid nightmare by standing there, still, silent, unmoving.

Then faintly, above the humming whisper of the house and the droning thuds of police boots on the front lawn, there was something else—something frantic...a voice?

"...course it wasn't at Ahmed's house!"

"I was just making sure, Marcus. The kid didn't suspect a thing."

Dad? Landon? I could hear their words echoing from my father's study:

"Landon, that's what you think," Dad barked. "Did you at least ask James?"

"Of course I did! For the love of all that's sacred and pure!—don't you trust me!? I told you Shelby and I could make it happen, and we did!" He sighed. "I still can't believe someone stole that file from Charity's house."

I froze, felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. Charity's house—the thought of it gave me fresh chills. I'd only been inches from Landon when he'd opened that secret compartment in the coffee table, when he'd screamed in fear at my dad over the phone, when whatever he was looking for had somehow mysteriously vanished.

"It shouldn't matter," my dad said lowly, hesitating slightly at his own words. "It shouldn't matter if we can count on James and Katherine."

"Well, James was very grateful," Landon replied. "He thought what Caroline wrote might've been the final nail in his coffin, but...it looks like that nail sealed her coffin instead."

I shivered, felt goosebumps pop and bunch their way across both my arms. What does that even mean? A horrifying thought crept into my mind: What if...what if Dad and Landon had something to do with...

No—there was no way. I refused to go there. Even if Dad was hiding something, there was no way he was a killer.

"Well," my dad said, "her passing at least proves one thing. Glenn's death was no coincidence. Whoever is doing this knows what happened twelve years ago...and that makes the both of us targets."

Targets for what? My head was spinning in thirty different directions.

"And so is Shelby." Faintly, I could hear Landon's pained exhale. "Marcus, I wish you hadn't brought her into all of this."

"She brought herself into it, Landon, and you know that. I'm a man...and she came to me at a vulnerable time."

"I know, Marcus. I get it. I'm not angry. I just—she's so innocent; she doesn't deserve to be wrapped up in all of this...killing."

A cold draft breezed beside me, ruffling a set of pages on the tiny desk stationed beside the door to my dad's study. I glanced at the desk as the pages splayed widely, held together by a single silver staple. But what caught my eye was the sheen of light reflecting off a glossy photograph paperclipped to the upper corner of the topmost sheet.

What the—? I moved closer, tiptoeing as I did, listening for Dad's voice and Landon's. I slid next to the desk, just as my father began to speak again:

"Well, whoever stole that file from Charity's house has to have copies of it. They'd be crazy to leave the original lying around for me and Evelyn to find."

My eyes grew wide, gaze fixed with new alarm at the pages spread on the desk in front of me. That's the file, the one Mom and Dad were reading the day I met Charity. I felt heat rush to my head—how ironic; maybe it could thaw the ice in my veins.

I skimmed over the words printed on the file, barely noticing any of them as my eyeballs shot across the page: left, right, left, right, words, phrases—anything, I was looking for anything...no, I was looking for one name, one name that I knew would be waiting at the page's end.

And there it was.

"Lane Martin," I mused no louder than a whisper.

Not knowing what else to do, I shakily pulled my phone from my pocket and navigated to the camera app. I snapped a photo quickly, then started tiptoeing away from the desk. The last thing I wanted was for Dad or Landon to hear me.

The footfall of policemen still pattered from every side of my house's walls. A few of them were drifting through the kitchen and dining area, some still kneeling, collecting whatever evidence there was left to find.

Phone clenched tightly against my side as I plodded, I staggered past a group of men crouching at the kitchen entrance. I tried keeping my face stoic, emotion free, even though every cell in my brain was flying at ninety miles per hour.

I trekked through the living room, made it to the stairs, breathing heavily now but refusing to look back. The policemen trickling inside droned on in the background as I shut my eyes to the noise, steeled myself to the fact that this psychotic world was somehow now my very own.

Drudgingly, I placed one foot on the bottom step, pulled upward, climbed away from the freak show steadily sinking its claws into my lawn, my house...my life.