“Better make some room in that basement.” He ends the sentence with his signature high-pitched laugh. It reminds me a lot of how Papaused to laugh when I was a kid.
Both of them look alike too. Black hair, blue eyes. My eyes are green and brown. My short hair’s light brown, just a shade darker than Ma’s blonde.
“Hide-boy,” Jett keeps nagging, being his usual impatient self. “Or are you Mask-O today?”
Fuck him and fuck his insults. They don’t touch me. I’m not ashamed of the mask I wear so often.
It’s my trophy. One I found in a bag that used to belong to a person who came to Colbert and didn’t leave, along with a small green charm attached to their key ring.
The mask itself is made of latex, with straps that tie around the back of the head. By now, after years of use, it’s old. The surface is dull, yellowed, and a little creased, but I don’t care.
These two items, for some unknown reason, called to me.
They’re perfect.
Mine.
“Helloooo?”
I rise and cross the floor to the worktable where the walkie sits. Unfortunately, I have to talk to him, or he’ll come banging on my door. Lord knows I hate visitors.
On my way there, unease stirs beneath my ribs. A wrongness I can’t put into words.
This isn’t Jett or the incessant itch to get out of this place, I’m sure of that.
Maybe it’s the thought of the last people I’ll ever tan that makes something unfamiliar coil in my stomach.
No, not that either. There’s more to it than just finality.
By the time my hand closes on the walkie, the feeling has sharpened into a sense of curiosity. Like my body’s telling me it wants to see who these people are. That they matter, for a reason I can’t wrap my head around.
I’ll have to break into Jett’s laptop after we’re done talking. See what this is. See why my chest feels so raw at the idea ofthem.
“I’ll be ready,” I say. Then I feed him a lie to get him out of Colbert so I can do my research uninterrupted. “But since I’m running low on oil for this last hide, you’re going to have to swing by town. Bring me twenty bottles, minimum. Not the cheap shit.”
“Will do, later.”
“Jett, I’m busy. What I’m doing, it can’t wait. Later won’t work for me. Now.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll get going.”
“Son.” I hear Papa, who must’ve grabbed the walkie from Jett. “Knox.”
I used to grimace at the sound of his commanding voice when I was a kid. I haven’t for years.
“Still here.”
“Ma asks if you’ll be joining us for dinner?”
Not if it were up to me. They eat greasy foods and pies that make my skin crawl.
Thing is, if I say no enough times, they’ll suspect me. Might start looking closer at what I’m doing. Might not take the pills I’ll smash into their iced tea when the time comes.
Might force my hand to hurt them so I can get out of here alive.
I don’t want to have to kill them unless I really have to.
“I’ll be there.”
