Page 66 of The Blood we Crave

My grasp on the phone stiffens, threatening to demolish it between my fingers.

“Put me through to the warden.”

The mob of people seems to detach from me, creating a route for me to stride through. Their fear rolls off them in waves, a pheromone only I can detect. The hysteria of finding a limb on campus lingers, building higher as the whispers grow louder.

The Butcher of the Spring has returned with a gift.

Or someone pretending to be him.

And everyone’s prime suspect is walking among them.

A few of them are bold enough to stare at me; others are too afraid of what would happen if they gawk at me a little too long. I can feel how strict their spines are, hear the murmurs of theories.

They all think I’m responsible for this. As if my ego needed to be stroked so much, I’d resorted to this gaudy public display.

It doesn’t bother me, their rumor mill that would spin with my name as the primary source. Whatever resolution their narrow minds are drawing is the least of my concerns at the moment.

Let them fester, let their minds run around until the thought of my very name makes them quiver. I have no problem being their boogeyman.

“He isn’t accepting phone calls. Can I leave a message?”

God must be real. It’s the only way I can explain how lucky this twit on the other side of the phone is that I’m not standing in front of him.

“Yeah, tell him that Thatcher Pierson is calling regarding Henry Pierson, an inmate we pay a large amount of money to keep there,” I reply swiftly, letting my feet carry me across campus with heavy steps.

“I-I—Mr. Pierson, I apologize. I had no idea—”

“Spare me,” I snap. “If you want to keep your job, send me through to the warden. I won’t ask again.”

The line is mute for only a short time before another voice greets me on the opposite end.

“Mr. Pierson, what do I—”

“Where is my father?” I don’t have time to rub elbows, a task I’ve prided myself on becoming an expert at faking.

I race past the school grounds and into the tree line behind the Rothchild District, where I know I’ll find my darling phantom hiding away, locked in a decaying crypt. The only comfort someone so linked to death could find is among the silence that comes from where the dead rest.

I can hear the rustle of paper just before the warden of Rimond Penitentiary replies, “Where he has been for the past several years, sir? His private room in solitary. Why? Are you requesting us to move him?”

“Since when? When was the last time someone laid physical eyes on him?”

There is a tightness in my chest, an overwhelming sort of uncomfortable pain as my question swings in the air. Branches snap beneath the weight of my steps as I delve deeper into the forest behind Hollow Heights.

“We did cell checks about fifteen minutes ago, Mr. Pierson. Everyone, including your father, was cleared. Is there a problem?”

I know the probability of Henry escaping a maximum-security prison is slim, and I despise the reason I needed to call to check was because of Lyra.

“No, but I’d like you to post extra guards in solitary for the next few weeks. I want a list of all his visitors in the past two years, and call me if anyone requests a visit from this point forward,” I tell him hastily before ending the call.

He may still be inside, but my father would never miss a chance to make a scene. We are unfortunately similar in that way.

This could easily be someone unrelated, using what the media published of his killings to spook the people of Ponderosa Springs, a copycat working for this outrageous Halo who is using my father’s legend as a weapon against us.

But just in case Henry has rubbed his nose in my current business and found himself involved, I want to know.

I look down at my phone, and my thumb lingers over Alistair’s name, ready to call him and jump down his throat, gripe about how I knew this would happen. How I warned them that if we poked into the missing girls and the Halo, they would retaliate.

And I’m the one that would get screwed.