Page 33 of Paranoid

ony that helped convince the judge that you weren’t responsible for Luke’s death. She provided one of the reasons for “reasonable doubt,” though the case never went to a jury.

A new sadness chased away her anger at Cade. It was true. Violet, deeply myopic and not wearing glasses in the dark cannery that night, had sworn she’d seen a flash from a gun’s muzzle just before Luke fell, and the flash had been near Rachel but not from her own gun. Violet’s shaky testimony coupled with the fact that there was no gunshot residue on Rachel’s hands or clothes had helped her defense.

Some people thought she’d somehow washed her hands clean on the way to the station, that with her father’s help she’d twisted the evidence to her advantage, which was wrong. She’d been numb after Luke had collapsed, yes, and had been grateful that her father had been first on the scene. But as much of a kaleidoscope of blurry, painful images and emotions as that night had become, she hadn’t cleaned up. Those tissues her father had given her, to wipe her eyes and blow her nose . . . they hadn’t been treated, and even so, they wouldn’t have destroyed the gunpowder residue.

But then, what did she really remember?

Don’t go there.

Not now.

Not ever.

It serves no purpose.

Just get through this miserable day.

* * *

Blam!

The back of Dylan’s head slammed against his locker and his teeth rattled in his jaw.

“Just do it,” Brad Schmidt ordered. His face was pressed nose to nose with Dylan’s, his strong fingers holding Dylan’s shoulders in a death grip, his beefy body nearly on top of him. The rest of the hallway was deserted except for Dash Parker, the lookout, standing at the juncture to the science wing.

“I can’t, man.” Dylan’s back was pressed up against his locker.

“You have to!” Schmidt’s pupils dilated. His breath smelled of pizza and the pores on his nose seemed enormous. “You promised.” He gave Dylan a shake for emphasis. In a letterman’s jacket, black T-shirt, and camo shorts, Schmidt was furious, the nostrils on his nose flaring, his skin turning red.

“I’ll get caught.”

“Then find a way to not get caught. Okay? You’re a smart little shit. You’ll figure it out.”

“No, I think . . . I think my mom is on to me.”

“Then be fuckin’ careful, got it?” Another hard shake and it was all Dylan could do to stand his ground, to not pee his damned pants. Schmidt had a temper, a legendary temper that had only helped him become an all-conference tackle on the football team. “We had a deal.”

“I’m telling you, I can’t.”

Brad’s thick lip curled over his teeth and his dark eyes narrowed. “Who’re you more afraid of, Ryder? Me? Or Mommy?”

“She can be pretty badass.”

“Not as badass as me, I’ll bet.” The thick fingers dug deep into Dylan’s muscles. “Remember that.”

“Hey! Schmidt!” Parker hissed, his head whipping around. He was tall and lean, a defensive end in football, third base in baseball, an all-around jock, and a sycophant to Schmidt, which made him worse in Dylan’s opinion. “Walsh is coming!”

“Sheeeit.”

Marlene Walsh was a no-nonsense vice principal. Dylan had been busted by her on more than one occasion for cutting class. So far, nothing more serious. But Parker and Schmidt, who both, it was rumored, had scholarships to local colleges, couldn’t afford trouble. Or so Dylan hoped.

“This isn’t the end of it,” Schmidt growled. He pushed Dylan hard against the locker again, then took off at a dead run, with the faster Parker leading the way to the staircase at the far end of the hall.

Damn it, Dylan thought, caught between the ends of the hallway, one with the stairs at the front of the building and Schmidt, the other with the ever-approaching Walsh. He heard the steady click, click of her heels as she headed this way. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, turned, and opened his locker. Then, thinking about what was inside, he grabbed his algebra book, slammed it shut, and turned, facing the corner just as Walsh appeared.

“Well, Mr. Ryder,” she said on a sigh and glanced at her watch. “What’re you doing skulking around the halls when you should be in class?” She was a petite woman with gray streaks in her short blond hair, rimless glasses, and a perpetually benign expression. Today, she was dressed in a red blazer with black pants and a white blouse.

Dylan wasn’t fooled by the smile that rained on him right now. Rumor had it that she’d earned a black belt in tae kwon do. He believed it. Beneath her harmless facade, there was an inner toughness; he could feel it.