Page 2

CHAPTER

TWO

Five hours before Theo Fairgood died, Kade was getting out of detention.

Trying to, anyway. If Coach Cheech had his way, Kade would be stuck here until graduation.

Kade slouched against the desk as he waited for Coach Cheech, asshole supreme, to deem his detention essay good enough to let him escape.

“Off,” Coach Cheech said, not looking up.

Kade straightened resentfully. He drummed a beat into his T-shirt, smack-dab in the O of SOFT . The stitching was coming apart. Soon it would say STAY SUFT. He’d have to fix that tonight. Then he’d get to the new patches he’d been planning on sewing into his favorite leather jacket. Or the circle scarf he’d promised his aunt as a late birthday present. Or the blanket he was crocheting, festooned with tiny skulls. Kade’s projects were vast and never-ending, most of them done in the dead of night when he couldn’t sleep. Luckily, Kade had a lot of trouble sleeping.

Coach Cheech sighed, scratching at one scraggly sideburn. He let Kade’s paper drop to the ground like it had personally offended him.

Kade grinned. “So? Do you set me free? Are my shackles falling from my slender wrists? Is the cage cracking open?

“This is the worst piece of shit I’ve ever read,” Coach Cheech said. “And I taught kindergarten.”

“I bet they loved you,” Kade whispered.

Coach Cheech picked up his terrible paper and threw it at him.

Kade leaned out of the way, giggling. “You gave me an hour, mate! How am I supposed to summarize all my complicated, tender feelings about the utter uselessness of friars in Shakespeare in an hour ? Come on, just let me go.”

“I hoped if he gave you a topic you could complain about, you’d actually try .” Coach Cheech groaned, rubbing again at his sideburns. Kade wondered if anyone had told him about worry beads. If anyone needed them, it was Coach Cheech. He was forty but looked older, on the constant verge of a heart attack. If you annoyed him enough his bald head would pop with a vein. Kade had seen that vein a lot in his two years at Lock High.

“Never mind.” Coach Cheech picked up the paper and threw it in the trash. To Kade’s surprise, it landed, circling the rim once before toppling in.

“Whoa,” Kade said. “Nice shot.”

“You continue to disappoint me,” Coach Cheech said. “And yourself, and your family, and this school, and the taxpayers that paid for this school to stay afloat.”

Kade tossed him a peace sign and skipped out. Properly skipped, just to hear Coach Cheech groan in annoyance after him. He was born and bred in Lock, but he reminded Kade of every teacher he’d had in the UK: rude, tired, and more suited to a job where you sat out the back and didn’t talk to anyone. But he apologized the one time he made Kade cry, which meant he wasn’t a total pile of shit. Just…mostly.

Kade was used to finding piles of shit in this town. He’d lived here for six years now, and it seemed like Lock was full of nothing but steaming piles of shit.

He turned into the hallway, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes when he slammed into someone.

Kade hit the ground ass-first, cigarette pack bouncing over the linoleum. He sat up snarling, shoulders hunched protectively. “Watch it, asshole!”

He stopped as soon as he saw who it was.

“Oof,” said Mr. Hawthorn, adjusting his glasses and politely pretending not to notice Kade swearing directly in his face. “That looked like a rough fall. Sorry about that, Kade! Let me help you up.”

He held out a hand. Kade had to stop himself from flinching. It’s Hawthorn , he reminded himself. Chill the hell out. He’s about the only person at school who wouldn’t laugh about knocking you over.

“Thanks,” Kade said as Mr. Hawthorn hauled him up.

“No problem. Are you alright?”

Kade made a show of brushing himself off. “No damage that wasn’t already there.”

“Ha, ha.” Mr. Hawthorn looked past him into the detention room. “Did they make you write an essay this time?”

“Yup.”

“Fun.” Mr. Hawthorn waved into the detention room. “Hi, Coach!”

Coach Cheech grunted. He didn’t like Mr. Hawthorn, which just went to show how much of a dick he was. Everybody liked Mr. Hawthorn.

Mr. Hawthorn bent down again, picking up Kade’s cigarette carton.

“These things will kill you,” he said with a wince.

“Fingers crossed, sir.” Kade stuffed the carton into his jacket and hooked a thumb down the hallway. “Well, gotta get back to the salt mines.”

He turned. Mr. Hawthorn stepped in front of him, and Kade had to stop himself from flinching yet again.

“Look,” Mr. Hawthorn said, so kind and understanding Kade’s stomach squirmed. “I know high school can be rough. But it’s such a small part of your life. Alright? You’re destined for great things, Kade. I know it. ”

Kade stared down at his shoes, feeling his cheeks heat. Mr. Hawthorn did this sometimes—gave him little pep talks when he sensed Kade was going through a particularly tough time. And he never made jabs at Kade’s accent, which was a rarity with people in this town.

Kade hated the pep talks. Kade also wished he did them every day.

He thumbed at the hallway again. “I still…I gotta…”

“Right.” Mr. Hawthorn raised a hand like he was going to give Kade a friendly tap on the shoulder. Then he dropped it. “Have a great night, champ.”

“Always do,” Kade mumbled. He strode off, chin still tucked into his chest to hide his red cheeks. Mr. Hawthorn was the only person in Lock, barring his aunt, who could get away with calling Kade champ without getting his head bitten off. Because Hawthorn wasn’t condescending, he wasn’t making fun of Kade. He was just that genuine and dorky. Like he watched Dead Poets Society too many times when he was getting his teaching qualifications.

A correction: Lock was full of steaming piles of shit, barring one history teacher.

Four hours and forty-five minutes before Theo Fairgood died, Kade met Felicity behind the science building and gave her a twenty-dollar bill .

“Ah-ah,” she warned when he reached for the paper bag in her hands. “Price is up. Fifty bucks.”

Kade laughed through a cloud of smoke. “ Fifty ? You’re joking.”

Felicity shrugged her slim shoulders and cocked her hip, all nothing-curves that once made her the best gymnast in town. Once she ran circles around everyone in track and did somersaults in the playground and placed silver in statewide gymnast competitions. Then she threw it all away to start modeling, a move that apparently made her mother foam at the mouth. Kade was half convinced Felicity spent so much time chasing her modeling career just to piss her off.

“Deal’s a deal,” Felicity chirped. “Take it or go shoplift from the liquor store. Ooh, actually you should . You know he keeps a gun under the counter, right? He could do us all a favor and take you out.”

Kade clutched his chest. “Is Felicity Sloan…making fun of me? Woe! Pain! How will I go on ?”

Felicity cackled. Over the years Kade had realized she enjoyed their interactions the way one enjoyed watching a suffering lion perform in a circus. She wanted to watch him bare his teeth and jump through hoops. Sometimes their interactions even bordered on friendly. Then she’d grin while he was getting whaled on, or hike up the price of her stolen booze, and Kade would remind himself that she still sucked.

She dangled the bag out of reach. “Fifty or eat buckshot, Monster. ”

For a second Kade considered shoplifting. But he’d promised his aunt he wouldn’t get arrested again, and the liquor store owner did shoot the last person who tried to rob him.

He sighed, shelling out another thirty bucks.

Felicity snatched it, showing off all her shiny teeth, whitened after she signed with the modeling agency. “Pleasure. I’ll let you know next time my mom stocks up. Thank youuuu.”

She flounced off, pale ponytail bouncing.

Kade flipped her off and unpeeled the brown bag. It was whiskey. Not his favorite, but it was better than the miniature schnapps she’d given him a few months ago. He’d drunk that whole tiny bottle and barely got a buzz. For thirty dollars . In comparison, a liter of whiskey was a steal.

He walked off with a skip in his step, a cigarette pinched between his teeth, whiskey clinking in his backpack, and a stubborn reminder in his head: all of this was backstory to his great adventure. No matter how bad the bullying got, how many people barked at him in the street or tripped him in the halls or told him to crawl into a dark hole and die—he just had to get through two more shitty years, and then he was out of here. Off to live his story, his real story, wonderful and strange and far away from Lock .

Three hours before Theo Fairgood died, Kade was drunk.

Not tipsy—drunk. Good drunk. Only a few shots from absolutely shitfaced.

He was blaring music in his room, jumping around and enjoying how his head spun, when a knock on the door broke his carefree haze.

“Shit,” he hissed. He raced to screw the cap back on the whiskey and tossed it under his pillow. Then he swished a mouthful of mouthwash he kept next to his bed for this very reason, running over to the window to spit it out.

He opened the door with a sunny smile and a casual lean, spinning a knitting needle. “Howdy, miss,” he said in a terrible cowboy accent. “You’re looking mighty fine tonight.”

His aunt, Sundance, snorted. She reached up as if she was going to tweak his hair, like she used to do when she was a kid. Then her stout hand faltered. Muscle memory didn’t catch up in time for her to remember he hadn’t had that big bush of black hair for a while now.

She rubbed her knuckles against his scalp instead. “So rough. Like a cat’s tongue.”

He bent down, butting his head into her cheek until she squawked and pulled back.

“You’re home early,” he said, throwing the knitting needle back onto this bed.

“Everyone got sent home. Sally burned her hand. It was pretty damn bad.” The tired look came back, the one she pretended didn’t exist and he pretended not to notice. “I’m gonna have to pull some extra shifts.”

“That’s fine. It’s fine ,” he repeated when that tired look only got worse. “I’m a big boy. Sixteen whole years old. I can reach the taps and everything. If I strain, I think I can even use the microwave.”

“Yeah. Well, not tonight.” She headed down the narrow hall toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the potatoes ready. You do the meat. I’ll even make us some fancy gravy, no packet needed. Sound good?”

Kade chewed his cheek. He had his heart set on a night of solitude, whiskey and Netflix. Then possibly some drunken sewing, which never turned out great. He wasn’t the best at changing tracks unexpectedly. But if he stayed home, she’d want to watch something, or talk, and he’d have to fake being sober. Another thing he wasn’t good at.

“Actually…” He bit his lip. “I’m going out.”

Sundance turned around, shock written in every wrinkle and gray hair he’d given her. “Oh? Does my nephew have a social life?”

“Ha, ha. I was surprised too.” He scratched at the badly painted doorway. His pinkie nail dented. A memory floated back: oh, no. Did you chip a claw?

“I’m going to the Founder’s Day party,” he said.

She blinked.

I’m as surprised as you are , Kade thought.

Sundance put a stern hand on her hip. “Don’t get into any trouble. No fights, no crazy drinking, and I do not want to get a call from the cops.”

“Got it.”

“Good.” She looked him up and down, giving him a sniff. Kade was glad he’d bothered with the mouthwash.

She leaned back, apparently satisfied. “Are you going to wear a nice outfit?”

Kade scoffed, motioning at himself. “Don’t I always?”

She smiled and ducked into the kitchen. He watched her go, his stomach twisting in a way that had nothing to do with whiskey. It might be nice, he thought. Staying home, eating dinner with her for once. I could even fix that shirt.

Then he closed the door and went to pick out an outfit.