Page 43 of Motion to Dismiss

Cindy Kline left a “So sorry, I can’t handle this pain anymore, I love you Mom and Dad” note in her locker, hours before police found her hanging in her aunt’s closet.

While Tom Raider provided snacks for her funeral, everyone in town whispered and wondered what “pain” she could’ve possibly been talking about. What could she have possibly been going through at such a young age?

I knew then and there that there was only one way to make his victim count zero.

And it wasn’t by snitching.

He’d just donated fifty thousand dollars to the law enforcement fund and committed to keeping their snack pantry full for five years.

Well, or so he thought.

“Mr. Raider?” I knocked on his door on a Sunday, right in time for the “boy” part of his pattern. “Are you in there?”

“Who is it?” he called out.

“It’s James from right next door!” I said. “Do you have any new ice cream today?”

“Always, always!”

“Can I climb through the basement?”

“Of course you can! Come up and meet me in the kitchen, okay?”

Okay. Perfect.

I climbed through the window in a pair of oversized boots, then walked to the corner where I’d hidden one of my father’s old handguns and tucked it into my pants.

Letting out a breath, I braced myself.

I knew he wasn’t in the kitchen.

I knew he was going to lure me to the bedroom, and today was going to end in one of two ways: the police would show up and find him in bed, the victim of an apparent suicide.

Or, they would discover it was me, and I would say he tried to touch me and get all the neighborhood kids to finally fucking say something.

“Are you here, James?” he called from his bedroom as I ascended the steps.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m here.”

“Come check out something in here for a second.”

“Gladly.” I moved closer.

He was standing in front of a mirror, wearing nothing but a pair of ugly fish-print briefs.

“You’re growing up to be so tall and strong.” He smiled at me. “You’re destined to be at least six feet tall.”

And you’ll be at least six feet under.

“I hope so,” I said. “If writing doesn’t work out for me, I can keep playing basketball.”

“It’s usually the other way around for the other boys around here.”

“Yeah, well…” I stalled as he pressed a hand against my cheek.

“I have something else you can taste before the ice cream,” he said. “After you lick it a few times, you can take as many bars home as you like, okay?”

“Okay. What is it?”