Page 8 of The Truths We Burn

The honking of a horn snaps my attention away like a rubber band against wet skin. I see Thatcher’s platinum-blond hair from a mile away, even in the dark. It’s a girl’s dream to have hair that natural blond color.

“Rosie, darling, if I promise to have him back in one piece, will you please return our friend for the night?” His voice is swift and clean like a scalpel against skin, slicing through the wind.

I hear soft laughter from my sister, and it’s almost strange because it’s like hearing my own real laugh, something that hasn’t come from my throat in a very long time.

“I saw on a crime documentary that psychopathy is genetic,” Lizzy says as we all watch him.

“The psycho gene is just a myth—it’s never been scientifically proven. It’s about your environment, the way you were brought up, and some mental behavior, but you can’t pass it on to your children,” Mary adds.

“And what do you think his environment was like, Mary? Hugs and family game nights?” I say, “Everyone knows Thatcher Pierson will be turning into daddy dearest soon enough. I’m just waiting to see if anyone catches him sparkling in the sun.”

They laugh loudly at my comment, knowing I’m right. I don’t believe serial killers pass anything on to their children besides trauma. But I know what’s it like to be raised like you’re a monster. Eventually, you give in and turn into one.

The windows of the next car in line roll down, allowing me to catch a glimpse of Alistair Caldwell in his driver’s seat.

“Shame he hates the world so much. He would have made the perfect trophy boyfriend,” I say with a shake of my head.I mean, his family owns most of the town—we would have been great if he wasn’t five shades of fucked-up.

“Because Easton Sinclair isn’t already perfect? Do you see the girls that swarm him like flies, ready to take him right off your hands?”

“Like you, Mary?” I arch a well-manicured eyebrow at her, and she turns her flushed face, trying to think of a way to backtrack and deny.

It’s not lost on me that Mary has been thirsting over Easton since preschool, and the moment we split, she’ll be there, legs spread, ready to pick up the pieces. Not like I care—Easton is there for the same reason they are.

Placeholders until I graduate.

“Kidding,” I add at the end, smirking a bit.

Then, like the explosion he is, Rook Van Doren slides his lean body through Alistair’s passenger window, hanging outside of the car as he sits on the doorframe,grinning widely, a match dangling from his pink lips.

“Romeo, Romeo, where art thou Romeo?” he chides. “You’ll see him tomorrow. We got some sketchy shit we need to take care of tonight.” His jokester voice rings in the air as he drums his hands on the roof of the car.There isn’t a single thing he takes seriously.

“Yeah, jackass, that’s definitely going to comfort her tonight,” Silas’s voice calls back.

“Sorry, was I supposed to lie? It’s not like we’re going to bake cupcakes.”

The streetlights bounce off his pale skin, the yellowish-orange glow warming his face. Industrial flames glow around him. Those pretty-boy features make him look so unassuming, that sorta wild hair and brazen look that reminds me of wild mustangs. Free, reckless, dangerous. I’ve heard at least five girls complain about how jealous they are of his long eyelashes that frame his hellfire eyes.

I’ve never seen them up close, but that’s what everyone calls them.

Hazel on anyone else, but his? They scorch you.

Something that I’ve always admired and simultaneously drives me up the wall about Rook is how unpredictable he is.

You never knew what you’ll get from him. A smile, a Molotov cocktail, a knife in the back, a laugh. The only boy in their group that you can’t prepare for is him. Everyone knows Thatcher is supremely intelligent and that, if given the opportunity, he might lock you in his basement and play Dr. Hannibal with your body parts.

God, and if you weren’t aware of Alistair’s anger issues, climb out from under the gigantic fucking rock you’re sleeping under and look at him. He’s practically bathing in wrath-scented cologne.

And of course, everyone is aware that Silas is the quiet one. The schizo doesn’t say much because he is too busy inside his own head.

He’s the one my sister was able to crack.

But Rook, he’s identical to the element he so fondly associates himself with. Nothing he does is deliberate; it’s always on a whim, probably based on whatever feels right at the moment for him. The boy has never thought twice about anything.

I admire it because he has the balls to do it. I find it stupid because he’s going to wind up getting himself killed, and being that crazy is only fun when you have the money and power to avoid the consequences.

The psycho.

The vengeful one.