Page 11

Alex

I smile to myself as I slide my phone back into my pocket because I know exactly where Dallas’s brother is. But my amusement is short-lived because she sounds freaked the fuck out, asking me to come over but not tell Colson about it.

Stepping through the glass door back into Aiden’s living room, I glance over at Colson next to Aiden at the sideboard. Aiden pours him a generous glass of Scotch and then proceeds to do the same for himself. Colson heads over to the oversized black sofa, where Mason lounges in the corner, scrolling through Aiden’s phone trying to find music for the sound system. Linger by the Cranberries comes over the speakers, filling the room with its lilting string melody.

“Change it,” Aiden calls from the sideboard, sliding the bottle of Scotch back into its place.

“Why? I like it,” Mason whines with irritation.

“Because it’s not yours, ” Aiden replies, his tone sharper than a razor’s edge.

Mason rolls his eyes and continues scrolling, finally settling on In This Moment instead.

Gazing aimlessly around the room, I start running scenarios through my head. I planned on staying here the rest of the night, likely crashing in the same spare room I’ve stayed in for years. And, every time, it’s cleaned and straightened by the next time I come back, regardless of what happens in there or what shit gets left behind.

People who set foot inside the Raffertys’ house, whether to cook, clean, or do business don’t ask questions. And that’s also how I’ve decided to run my own life for the past four years—I don’t explain anything to anyone. And it usually works.

“Fuck,” I mutter down at my screen.

“What?” Mason tosses Aiden’s phone onto the coffee table and leans back, tipping his glass to his lips.

“Adrian.” I give a shake of my head. “Shit’s missing at my house. It’s probably Luca, I have to go.”

It’s not a lie, per se, it just happened this morning instead of right now. But they also don’t question me whenever I utter Luca’s name. Probably because they know I’ll never say his name unless absolutely necessary.

“Did he hear you’re shipping out and decide to go thrifting?” Aiden quips as he saunters over to the sofa.

I crack a smile at his perpetual saltiness regarding my post-graduation plans. I should probably start emptying my room anyway, either selling stuff or bringing anything of value over to Aiden’s for safe-keeping. There’s still stuff Luca could steal, but I’ve hidden the irreplaceable things—the ones that are left, anyway.

“I’ll go see what happened and come back if I can,” I say, swinging my arm out above Colson.

He catches my hand and I lean over the back of the couch to wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“Go beat some ass if you have to,” he says, giving my arm a squeeze.

Less than a minute later, I’m climbing into my SUV parked in the turnaround in front of Aiden’s house. I thought the three of them would put up more of a fight, but I did make it seem like Luca’s the reason I had to leave, and none of them want to delve too deep into that dumpster fire. I’m still not sure what exactly I’m going to do, though. The Lutz’s house might be empty except for Dallas, but eventually Scott and Christy will come home. And, more importantly, Colson might come home.

There’s a pull-off about a hundred yards past the Lutz’s house that leads to an access road in the woods behind the water tower. No one’s ever there, and it’s mostly hidden by honeysuckles. I park my SUV next to the thick brush and walk along the road until I can cut across their vast lawn that leads up the hill to their house. The driveway is still empty, so I just stroll up to the front porch and ring the doorbell.

I hear a couple heavy steps and then softer ones as they cross the hardwood. The bright yellow door opens and Dallas appears, peering out from behind it apprehensively.

“Hi,” she says softly and then moves to the side to open the door wider.

“Hey,” I step into the entryway, “what’s going on?”

Dallas shuts the door and locks it before motioning to me. I follow her across the living room and up the stairs, making my way through the dark hallway to her room, which is a blinding shade of Pepto Bismol pink. She shuts the door behind me and locks it, too, before turning around. And when she does, she looks like she doesn’t know where to begin.

“I didn’t know you wear glasses,” she suddenly says, eyeing mine, which also happen to be a similar style of thick black frames.

“You probably just weren’t paying attention,” I smile, throwing her own words from the other day back at her.

Dallas lets out a faint laugh and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. She looks tiny on the cloud-like comforter that pops against the rest of the room. I tilt my head, studying her face as her eyes dart back and forth between me and random places across the wall.

“Dallas,” I say, trying to get her attention, “what’s wrong?”

Still not responding, she looks down and starts wringing her hands in her lap. After a few seconds, I decide we’re not getting anywhere and change my approach. I kneel down in front of her and clasp my hands over hers so she stops fidgeting.

“Tell me,” I say softly.

Dallas eyes me apprehensively. “Colson’s such a dick, ” she scowls.

I press my mouth together in a desperate attempt to stifle a laugh. That’s an understatement…

“What’d he do now?” I ask, releasing her and resting my hands on her knees.

She shifts her gaze to the side. “He came in here, shoved his phone in my face, and tried to tell me that the guy he got in the fight with at Evie’s funeral is the one who killed her,” her chin starts trembling, “and then he said that he’s going to come after me, too.”

Shit.

Leave it to Colson to say whatever he wants, whenever he wants, with zero tact whatsoever. Even if he’s right, this is hardly the way to deal with the situation, by terrifying his other sister who has no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

“Sorry,” Dallas creaks out, reaching up to wipe a tear from beneath her glasses.

“It’s fine, Dal,” I smile, “stop apologizing to me for having feelings.” Then I give her knees a jiggle before standing back up.

To my surprise, she returns a faint smile. “Evie calls me that, too.”

“Good,” I keep talking, just like in the cafeteria stairwell, “then maybe you can just go back to acting like you usually do when I see you in this house—so busy with your phone and your music that you can’t be bothered to acknowledge anyone.”

Her jaw drops with offense. “That’s not what I do!”

“No?” I ask. “You didn’t even know I wear glasses.” Then I turn and start meandering around the room, examining the items on her shelves. “Mostly at night, though—” I cast her a glance over my shoulder, “chronic dry-eye.” When I get to the giant flat screen mounted on her wall, I nod at the gaming consoles flanking the left side. “What are you playing right now?”

Dallas draws one knee up inside her oversized black t-shirt until only her toes with their sparkly purple polish are showing. Then she tucks her other leg underneath of her.

“ Witcher 3, ” she replies, “but I’m not really feeling that one anymore.”

“I can see how that would start to bore someone who can get through Sen’s Fortress in 10 minutes,” I smirk.

“Whatever,” Dallas mutters with a roll of her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching with amusement.

I continue along the wall, glossing over her double monitors on the desk and the giant basket of worn stuffed animals and assortment of blankets in the corner. I’ve walked past this room countless times, but I’ve never actually looked inside. All I knew was that it was pink. Very pink. And now that I’m standing inside, it’s kind of weird, like I’m not supposed to be here.

Maybe because I’m not.

Dallas notices me eyeing the knob dubiously. “It’s locked,” she volunteers, “but even if my parents come home, no one will try to come in.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my mom’s the one who told me to lock it at night.”

“Why?”

“To keep Colson out,” she replies with nonchalance.

As soon as she says it, I go still, unsure of how to respond. She must realize how it sounds, what reasons might exist to lock your older brother out of your room at night, and she quickly starts shaking her head.

“Sorry, that sounds weird. It’s because of what happened last week after he and Mason found—” her voice catches and she pauses momentarily to steady her voice, “after they came out of the woods.”

“What happened?” As much as I don’t want to bring up anything upsetting, I have to know what Colson did that warranted Christy telling Dallas to lock her door at night.

She looks up at me with her doe eyes. “You can sit down,” she says softly.

I suddenly realize that I’m towering over her small frame as I stare down at her suspiciously. Her invitation breaks my concentration and I sink down to the edge so that we’re eye-level.

“OK, why do you have to lock Col out of your room?”

“We were playing— I was playing Witcher 3 ,” Dallas corrects herself, “and we both fell asleep. I woke up because he was dragging me across the room. He was having a nightmare or something, and he thought I was Evie. Scott had to kick down the door and Colson tried to shoot him and my mom with an imaginary gun.” Then she pauses. “It was a lot like how he was today in the cemetery.”

This story is utterly terrifying, mostly because I know what Colson’s like when he’s awake, and the thought of him going on an unconscious rampage in the dead of night is the stuff of nightmares.

“Did he hurt you?”

“He doesn’t remember any of it,” she replies, not really answering my question, “so, if you say anything to him, he won’t know what you’re talking about. And I’d like it to stay that way.”

I hesitate, but then reluctantly nod in agreement. “OK,” I exhale, then turn my attention back to the flat screen on her wall, “so what are you playing instead?”

“What?”

“You said you’re not feeling Witcher 3 anymore,” I clarify, “so, what are you in the mood for?”

Dallas tilts her head in consideration. “ Tomb Raider. ”

“ Tomb Raider? ”

She untucks her legs and slides off the bed, approaching the shelves next to the TV. After a few moments, she plucks a game off the shelf and turns the case toward me— Tomb Raider III.

“I’ve already beat it a few times, but I think it’s my favorite because it’s the one I taught Evie how to play,” she explains while loading it into the console.

“She any good?” I ask.

“Yeah, she’s alright,” Dallas muses as she loads the game, “she’s used to playing Call of Duty or Halo , but so much of those are just a bunch of mouth breathers in a micro-dick competition.”

I notice she’s only used present-tense when referring to Evie. I also can’t help but appreciate Dallas’s extreme opinions on game preferences. There has to be a story there, which I plan on finding out about later.

“So, you’re an RPG kind of girl, huh?”

“Yes,” she says resolutely, “and I know that Tomb Raider’s not, but it still has some RPG elements, so it’s a good compromise. And I like the story,” she adds with a smile.

Dallas starts crawling back into the middle of the bed with the controller, but then hesitates for a moment before looking up at me. “This one’s not multiplayer, though,” she squints, “sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I kick my boots off at the end of the bed and take a seat on the bed, leaning back against the wall. “What else do I have to do tonight?”

“Where’d you come from, anyway?” she asks as she starts the game.

“Aiden’s house,” I reply with a side-eye, “Col was there, too.”

She whips her head around. “ Nuh-uh. ”

“You could come hang out there with us,” I tease.

“I hate Aiden,” she snaps, whipping her head back to the TV.

Damn.

“Why?”

Not that it’s a surprise. There are three kinds of people; those who are in love with Aiden, who he summarily ignores, those who despise him, and us. There’s usually no in-between. But Dallas’s quick and definitive response catches me off-guard.

“Because he does things just to be creepy. Like jiggling my doorknob whenever he walks by my room.” That sounds like Aiden. “And ever since third grade, every time he sees me, he comes up behind me, grabs my face, and kisses me on the cheek.”

That one gives me pause. “Really?”

Although menacing, it also sounds completely unlike Aiden. If anything, he would ignore someone like Dallas. I also give pause at how unsettled it makes me that he touches her like that, but I don’t know why.

My eyes drift over the vibrant pink walls to the photo frames on her shelves. A silver one engraved with her name in curly cursive lettering catches my eye. She’s standing among three other girls, all of them scrunched together smiling at the camera. Dallas’s crimson grin spreads across the entire lower half of her face and it’s clear from the pointed ears and literal black catsuit that she’s dressed as Cat Woman. One of her friends is dressed like Poison Ivy and the others as Lynx and Harley Quinn.

“Why’d your parents name you Dallas?” I ask as she pops off a couple shots at a jaguar that lunges at her as she sprints through the jungle.

“It means from the valleys, ” she replies. “My dad picked it. His house in Colorado is in a valley that’s covered with wildflowers in the summer. They’re all over the hillsides and it looks like some psychedelic trip when they’re all blooming at once.”

All I know about Dallas and Colson’s father is that he’s a cattle rancher and they go out there to visit him once a year on either Christmas or Easter. Colson always looks forward to it because there are real mountains with wilderness instead of the vast expanses of cornfields here.

“So, it’s got nothing to do with Texas?”

“No,” she smiles, “have you ever been to Dallas? It’s hot and it sucks.”

“No,” I chuckle, “but a lot of my family’s still in Texas. You know, the parts that didn’t used to be Texas.”

“Are you from there?” she asks, leaping off a riverbank and swimming into an underwater cave.

“No, I was born here. But my grandmother still lives there, and if I want to talk to her, it has to be in Spanish.”

“I’m terrible at Spanish,” Dallas says wistfully.

“I can help you out, you know.”

She shoots me the wildest side-eye I’ve ever seen. “Like I’d ever ask you.”

“Why not? You asked me to come here, ” I argue, “that’s a bigger deal than conjugating verbs. Besides, you’re probably not as bad at it as you think.”

“Mrs. Johnson thinks so,” she mumbles.

“What do you mean?”

Dallas purses her lips with a huff. “I bombed one of her Spanish quizzes and when she handed it back to me, she asked why I wasn’t as good of a Spanish student as my brother.”

“ What? ” I scoff.

“Everyone heard it,” she adds softly.

Fucking cunt…

The last thing anyone with the name “Johnson” needs to be doing is ridiculing someone for how quickly they learn Spanish.

“Sounds like she’s just a shit teacher,” I shrug, “you’d be way better off if I was teaching you.”

“Yeah, OK, ” she snickers, deflecting my response. “So, do you really just live with your brothers?”

“Yes,” I reply, letting her change the subject, “Adrian, my oldest brother, is 25, he runs my dad’s business, he’s a workaholic, will probably be riddled with arthritis by the time he’s 30, and thinks I’m the biggest disappointment on the planet. My other brother, Luca, is 22, and may or may not be part of a gang, on drugs, or both.”

A wide smile slowly spreads across her face, “You all sound like the Curtises.”

“Who the hell are the Curtises?”

Dallas erupts with the cutest flutter of giggles I’ve ever heard. “From The Outsiders. It’s a book,” then she shrugs, “and a movie.”

Pausing the game, she raises up on her knees and reaches up to the shelf beneath the photo frames. She plucks out a small book and hands it to me. The cover is worn, but still a shiny dark blue with the illustrated faces of a few mean-mugging boys on the front.

“Darryl Curtis is the oldest,” she explains, “and he’s a roofer that works all the time to take care of his two younger brothers so they don’t get sent to a boys’ home after their parents die. Sodapop is the middle brother who dropped out of high school and works at the gas station. A lot of times he ends up being the mediator between his brothers. And Ponyboy is the youngest who’s in high school and still has some shred of whimsy, but he tries hard to be a tough greaser.”

“Sodapop…” I glance between her and the book cover, “and Ponyboy? ”

“Yes,” she replies.

I shoot her a dubious look, but settle back onto the pillows and open the book. It’s not very long, and before I realize it, skimming the first few pages has turned into a few chapters. Dallas continues playing, the sounds of Lara Croft’s expedition punctuating the silence.

“Wait,” I finally say, sitting up a little straighter, “there’s a guy named Dallas in here?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, not looking away from the screen.

I crack a smile. “Is that why Col calls you Dally?”

“Yes,” she replies with more of an edge.

It makes total sense now. It also makes sense why Dallas gets so bent out of shape about it. This dude, Dallas Winston, is a cold motherfucker with platinum blonde hair who has no respect for anyone or anything. Basically, the antithesis of Dallas Lutz.

I hesitate, debating whether to ask what I’m about to ask. “Is that why Aiden calls you Dally, too?”

Dallas casts me a sideways glance. “At least that’s all he does anymore, since Sydney moved here.”

And what a shit show that turned out to be.

“I almost feel bad,” she chuckles, “like he should keep bothering me instead of her. At least I’m used to it. Why won’t he leave her alone?”

“He loves her.”

Dallas freezes, then turns to me with eyes wide. “ What? ”

I crack a smile. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

“But…”

I don’t give her a chance to finish. “You should probably keep that one to yourself.”

Dallas doesn't know Aiden like I do, and that's not something that can be explained in a matter of minutes. I could tell Dallas exactly why Aiden is doing what he’s doing to Sydney, but the danger of that cannot be overstated. There’s a reason that I’m the only one who knows what Aiden found out before Sydney ever set foot in Dire Ridge and why no one else can know as long as she’s still here.

As much as I want to tell Dallas everything, I can't tell her about the night I went into Aiden’s house and heard Sydney's screams echoing through the corridors. I can't tell her about running through the house, searching for Sydney, and nearly coming to blows with Aiden before he told me why Sydney was locked in his closet. I can't tell her why, afterward, I promised to do whatever Aiden asked, no matter how much Sydney fought him...or me.

I’m still debating how to respond to Dallas’s question when my phone vibrates with a text.

COLSON (9:52PM): Wells and his minion showed up here and took Aiden to Canaan to be questioned

I set The Outsiders face down on my leg and glance at Dallas, who’s still engrossed in her game.

ME (9:52PM): For what?

His response sucks all the air out of my lungs when I read it.

COLSON (9:53PM): Murder