She didn’t seem depressed. The opposite. She seemed out for blood. Maybe her grades weren’t as good as she claimed in Mr. Caras’s class. Maybe she just wanted to stir up trouble for him. Maybe she was simply being a drama queen.
Vonda made a note to check her transcripts, to speak to Mr. Caras to get a peek at Hannah’s grades. Get the skinny on this hooded avenger.
They’d have a good laugh about how sensitive the girls were these days. The whole thing would blow over. The student would thank her in the long run. Even if her story checked out for the most part, pursuing it wouldn’t be worth the hassle. It was a harder, slimier game than they all thought—the he says/she says tug-of-war.And there were much better games to play than dragging some poor professor through the mud over silly accusations.
Hannah wouldn’t be the first student she’d saved from such nonsense.
When she finally left work, Vonda was feeling good. Even slightly smug about the favor she’d done for the girl.
But fuck if the way life had been treating Vonda lately didn’t snuff out that sense of satisfaction within a matter of minutes as, driving down Broadway, she noticed a truck, a blue Ford with a black topper, looming behind her. She vaguely remembered seeing one like it a few days ago on her street. And she was positive she’d seen it pull out behind her as she’d left the college parking lot.
Chill,she told herself. ThiswasSoCal. Think how many thousands of trucks like it were cruising the streets of the greater LA area right that minute. The whole area was crawling with vehicles, like insects, at any given moment. She was paranoid because of this stupid sketch business. When she got home, she’d delete those emails. Wouldn’t even waste time answering them.
Sure enough, when she got home, she didn’t see any sign of the truck. And she followed through—opened up her computer and purged her inbox of every last sketch-related message.
Such a relief.
After she changed into old khaki shorts and a T-shirt and went outside to garden, she noticed the sky had turned an ugly skim-milk color. The temperature had dropped. She went in and grabbed an old cotton sweatshirt, then a rake to take care of all the cherimoya leaves that had fallen onto her patio and part of her lawn.
When she bought the house, the Realtor told her that the cherimoya was a tree native to Ecuador, not California. As if she cared. Now she wanted to get all these irritating broad leaves off her patio and the tiny yard.
While she raked, she came upon a dead robin. Its bill and head were bloody, as if it had flown beak first into something hard. She turned to look at her kitchen window, and sure enough, a splat, like a Rorschach test, bloomed on the center of the glass.
Stupid bird,she thought as she raked it away with a pile of crunchy leaves.Away you go.
Her shoulders ached. She thought about going back inside, maybe having another of the edibles she’d grabbed before coming out. She left the pile of leaves and the dead bird beside her patio and decided to pick a few weeds around her sunflowers.
She looked up at the sky and squinted. Even though it was overcast, the sunlight still pierced through and felt like a hot iron pressing on her shoulders. “Goddammit.” She peeled off her sweatshirt. Probably would have to put it back on in another sixty seconds when the sun disappeared again.
Everything seemed to aggravate her lately. She thought again of the hooded girl in her office. Of the other girl in the hospital. Reminded herself to google her when she got inside. What was her last name? Somer what?
And what the hell, she’d also check to see if there’d been more hoopla with this sketch business.
She pulled weeds until her knees ached. But right as she decided to quit and scooped her last handful into her gloved hands, she heard a scuff behind her.
Before she could turn, her head was yanked back. Something cold and sharp pricked her neck.
“You move and you die,” a cold voice said. The voice surprised her, but only for a second before terror rushed through her in a wave. She froze, afraid to move with a blade pressing right into the nape of her neck, her skull cradled in the crook of someone’s arm.
“You know why this is happening?”
She was too freaked out to answer, but she managed to get anoout. But a big part of herdid.Oh Jesus. Oh God.Maybe it wasn’t some social media game. “The drawing?” she got out.
“Why didn’t you confess? You don’t think you’ve done anything wrong?”
She couldn’t breathe. She dropped the weeds she was holding, started to bring her hands up to pull the knife from her throat, but she felt the sharp metal pierce her flesh.
Oh God, was this real?
Was this happening?
It all felt so otherworldly, but the tight grip around her head and neck felt more authentic and focused than anything ever. This was no joke.
“I can confess now,” she blurted, hearing her own breathiness. “The referrals? I mean, those were just ... I mean, what he did with them, that wasn’t my call.”
The voice in her ear said, “Fuck you. It’s too late.”
She felt an excruciating pain slice through her throat and a flood of blood gurgling up.
