The Escape. Part 11

"You grit your teeth when you're not telling me stuff."

"I don't-"

"Dad!" Avery rolled her eyes and Chief Templeton smiled.

"Very good, gra.s.shopper."

"So what aren't you telling me? Did Fletcher get a look at the guy? Do you have a suspect?"

"No. The a.s.sailant was gone before my guys were on the scene. No fingerprints were left behind. Nothing. But there was a significant amount of damage." He shook his head. "I don't know what kind of monster we're dealing with, Avy, but I want you to steer clear."

"Of the 'monster' or of Fletcher?"

Chief Templeton didn't answer.

Fifteen.

He should have been used to everyone looking at him by now. He had done two interviews for the newspaper and one for the local TV station-although that one was mostly cutaways of the forest and snippets of people talking about old cases. But Fletcher couldn't get used to kids paying so much attention to him.

Girls batted their eyelashes and threaded their arms through his, purring and asking him if he was okay. He couldn't get used to Adam's jock friends fist-b.u.mping him like they were old buddies or giving him that weird little head jerk of acknowledgment in the hall. He couldn't get used to the whispers, the ones that sounded so soft but rang out so clearly-killer...killer...killer. When he'd turn to see who was saying it, the kids around him would look at him, though their mouths never moved.

It was even worse today.

When he came downstairs, his mother's hands were trembling. "You should probably stay home today, honey."

Fletcher shook his head. The house now had a giant piece of plywood fitted over the broken window, which made it feel like a prison. Fletcher pushed away the slice of toast his mother set on the table in front of him.

When Fletcher saw Avery in the hall, her eyes went wide. The news of the previous night's attack hadn't spread yet, but he knew that she knew. She made a beeline for him.

"Hey, Fletch." She pulled him out of the flow of students. "You okay?"

"Did your dad tell you what happened?"

Avery looked around. "A little bit. Did he-" She reached out and touched his swollen cheekbone, her fingers so soft and gentle. "Are you okay?"

There was a crackling overhead and then the three chimes that signaled an announcement. Some kids stopped and c.o.c.ked their heads toward the speakers, but most just continued ambling through the halls.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Princ.i.p.al Corben's disembodied voice started, "there will be a memorial to celebrate Adam Marshall's life this Friday at noon."

The princ.i.p.al blathered on about the location and logistics, but Avery stopped listening. Her eyes were fixed on Fletcher, on his vacant expression. She watched him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. The color slowly drained from his face, and Avery remembered what she had felt when her mother died. The community had "memorialized" or "commemorated" her mother's life, which included people dressed in their Sunday best with handkerchiefs pressed to their eyes or noses, and giant sprays of ugly flowers with ribbons with meaningless phrases like "peaceful rest" and "heartfelt sympathies."

It was as if they were honoring someone else's life-not her mother's-because Avery had never seen half the people who attended. And her mother would have rolled her eyes at the cheesy, inspirational songs that were played, and the finger sandwiches and punch-two things her mother never touched-that were served.

The three tones sounded again at the end of Princ.i.p.al Corben's announcement, and Avery grabbed Fletcher's arm. "Do you really want to go to cla.s.s?"

Going to cla.s.s had been all he wanted, but now he just wanted to feel Avery's touch. He didn't mind when she looked at him. He liked her attention.

"Where can we go?"

Her blue eyes scanned the rapidly emptying hall. She pulled him along the wall and out one of the side doors. "Come on!"

She took off at a dead sprint, her backpack bobbing behind her. Fletcher ran to keep up, mildly surprised that Avery Templeton-search-party team lead, daughter of the chief of police-had a little bad girl in her. He was starting to like her even more.

"Okay," she said breathing heavily and slowing to a walk. "We're officially off school property."

Fletcher glanced around. "Isn't the student parking lot considered school property?"

She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow, and he recognized the expression as the same one the police chief made during interviews. But while the chief's look was pure authority, even with her hands on her hips and her legs spread slightly, Avery looked like a little girl trying to be big.

"Fine. We're officially off the learning part of school property."

"Ah, manipulating the scene. Very nice."

She rolled her eyes. "Did you drive?"

Fletcher felt his cheeks burn red. "Uh, no. My mom insists on driving me now. What about you?"

Avery jammed her hands in the pockets of her jeans and shrugged. "I don't have a car." She said something else under her breath and Fletcher leaned in to her.

"What'd you say?"

"I don't have a car."

"After that."

She looked away, tightened her ponytail, and hiked her backpack higher on her shoulders. "I don't know how to drive."

Fletcher felt himself smile. "Are you ashamed? It's not a big deal."

Avery looked stunned, her expression hardening to anger. "I'm not ashamed. What do I need to drive for anyway? There's nowhere to go in this stupid town anyway."

"I thought you were in driver's ed with Adam last year."

She shrugged him off. "Cars are death traps."

"You know what happened to your mom was an accident."

Avery's nostrils flared. "I know that."

Fletcher held up his hands, palms out. "Hey, I'm sorry." He stopped talking when Avery hitched her chin and started walking toward the edge of the lot. He jogged to catch up with her, and they fell into a companionable silence for several blocks.

"I can teach you, you know," Fletcher said finally.

Avery thought of the calm way Fletcher went about things, and her mind started to change about him-slightly.

She stopped and faced him, her expression a mix of indignation and a slight hint of curiosity. "I need coffee."

Fletcher wasn't the type to go out for coffee. He was the type to cut school, and he did that on a pretty regular basis, but not for the double latte whatever-and-ever that Avery sat in front of him. Hers was some chocolate-looking icy concoction with a swath of whipped cream and chocolate syrup, and she dove into it, sucking on the straw until her cheeks hollowed out.

He just moved his straw around and swirled his finger through the rings of condensation on the table. He liked to think that the feeling of excitement he felt was from sitting across the table from a girl as pretty and cool as Avery Templeton, but he knew the tension in his stomach wasn't that.

"So, has your dad talked to you about Adam's case?"

Avery's eyebrows disappeared into her hair and she put her drink down. "What do you mean?"

Fletcher shrugged and took a big sip of his coffee, the cold making his head hurt. "Brain freeze," he said, trying to change the subject.

Avery smiled but kept her gaze steady. "What do you mean? He doesn't tell me all that much. He's big on confidentiality and not jinxing an open case." She took another swing of her drink. "Or maybe it's that he's too busy bugging me to finish my homework to tell me anything interesting. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing. I was just"-he paused and took another sip of the drink he really kind of hated-"making conversation."

"Have you remembered anything?"

That caught Fletcher by surprise, and he held the coffee in his mouth for an extra beat before responding. "Not really."

Avery scooted her chair over so they were shoulder to shoulder rather than face-to-face. She brushed up against him, and he cursed the heat that washed over his cheeks. "How about the blackouts? Are you still having them?"

How did she know about the blackouts? He racked his mind, trying to remember when he'd told her, what he'd told her.

"I haven't had them too much more lately."

"And is your memory still...blocked?"

Immediately, flashes of that day snapped through his mind: running up the trail behind Adam, slugging a bottle of water so fast it dribbled down his chin and shirt, his hand clenching a fistful of Adam's shirt.

His jaw tightened so hard that his teeth ached. Why would he remember grabbing a fistful of Adam's shirt?

"Fletcher?" Avery waved a hand in front of his face, her drink forgotten. "Fletch?"

"I-I remember grabbing Adam by the shirt." The words were out before he could filter them, before he could figure out what was going on. He could suddenly feel the ache in his forearm as he pulled Adam. It was as if he could feel the soft flannel fabric of Adam's red-and-black-checked shirt.

Avery's eyes were wide. "Really? Why were you doing that?"

Fletcher saw blood spurting. Heard screaming-his, Adam's. Terror had overtaken him, made him leave his body. Adam lying p.r.o.ne, a soft, primitive moan escaping his parted lips. Fletcher on the ground, unable to move, powerless to help his dying friend.

I was awake while Adam was dying.

He could have helped Adam. He could have. His stomach quivered. He stood, a bead of sweat rolling down his cheek.

"I have to go."

"Hey, Fletch-wait!"

He could hear Avery yelling behind him, the confusion and surprise evident in her voice. But Fletcher was running. His thighs ached and his calves burned, but the pain was good. He had to get away-from everyone who was watching him, from Avery, from everything.

He didn't stop running until he got home.

Avery blinked at Fletcher's empty chair and forgotten drink. What the heck?

Her reverie was cut short by the two college kids behind the counter and the volume on the overhead TV ratcheting up.

"They're talking about that kid who died in the woods."

The Dan River Daily News anchor was perched on the edge of a mustard-colored couch, her too-red lips pursed as she nodded at the woman across from her. That woman was Adam's mother. A news ticker cut across the bottom of the screen: Dan River Police Admit No Leads in Child Murder Case.

Avery listened to Mrs. Marshall.

"I just don't think the police department is doing all it can to find my son's killer. And that's putting every child in our community in danger."

A flare of anger coursed through Avery. Mrs. Marshall hadn't had to eat a silent dinner every night. She hadn't seen Chief Templeton's exhaustion, the vacant expression as he chewed, the slow way he plodded up the stairs as if his whole body were weighed down by Adam's case.

"I just think there are a lot of avenues they aren't exploring," Adam's mother went on. "What about the other child my Adam was with?"

"Fletcher Carroll?" the news anchor asked.

Mrs. Marshall pressed a handkerchief to her nose and nodded primly, a fresh wave of tears flooding her eyes.

"Is Mr. Carroll a suspect?"

Avery's stomach dropped.

She remembered Fletcher in the hospital. Saw the way he moved, protecting his broken limbs. She saw the fresh cuts and bruises.

If so, then who hurt Fletcher?

Avery grabbed her backpack and made for the door, pa.s.sing the counter and hearing a snippet of conversation on her way.

"I thought that other kid was weird," the barista was saying. "He totally could have killed Adam."

Sixteen.