There's Someone Inside Your House

  Matt approached with caution as he circled the wooden bench. Their face was still aimed at the floor. Matt kneeled before them, trying to get at eye level. “Do you need help? Can I help you?”

  The figure raised their head. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Matt frowned. It wasn’t Faith, it—

  The knife slid into his abdomen with shocking ferocity and immediately back out with equal vigor. Matt collapsed forward, knocking his head against the bench, while his mind remained a step behind. What just happened? Was that an accident?

  The figure stared down at him in hatred.

  Matt’s mind scrambled to make sense of it. He was half on the bench, half on the floor. He couldn’t find their name. “You. What the hell did you do to me?”

  The reply was swift—a powerful downward thrust into his skull. Matt screamed. His attacker yanked with gloved hands on the hilt until the knife tugged back out, and the rest of Matt’s body fell onto the hard ceramic tile. He was still conscious as a crumpled piece of paper materialized from the pocket of his attacker’s hoodie.

  The figure kneeled before him. Held out the paper in front of his eyes. Smoothed it down.

  It was an article that his mother had printed out several weeks ago. Matt had carried it around in his backpack for a few days before it had disappeared.

  His eyes widened with a deeper fear.

  The figure, content that Matt understood what he was seeing—the personal violation of it—returned the paper to the hoodie’s pocket.

  Matt wanted to speak. He couldn’t. The last thing he saw was an arm, splattered with his own blood, as the sawtooth edge of a large hunting knife carved around the circumference of his head. With a squelch that signaled the release of suction, it popped open like the lid of a jack-o’-lantern. His brain was slashed into mush. And then the top was placed back on.

  Nice and tidy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The cops were removing students from the classrooms, one at a time, for questioning. It had taken twenty-four hours for Haley’s memorial to appear, but the front corner of the school was already blanketed in fresh roses, poster-board collages, and footballs. Dozens of small red flags, normally affixed to cars and trucks on game day, had been planted in the ground and were flapping in the wind. Tonight’s game—the final game of the regular season—had already been forfeited. It was the first forfeit in team history.

  The entire campus was stunned with disbelief. Half of the students were dressed in school colors. Several openly wept. A dozen stuffed-animal lions had also appeared overnight at the memorial, because Matt’s team number was twelve and their mascot was Leo the Lion. Last year, the youth groups had protested to change his name—Leo was too astrological—but this morning, their most vocal objector had led a prayer by the flagpole while wearing a LION PRIDE sweatshirt.

  A custodian had found Matt’s body. The nearly two hundred mourners at Haley’s candlelight vigil had witnessed the cops and ambulances scream onto the scene.

  Makani had been home for less than an hour, the taste of Ollie still tingling on her lips, when the cavalry of lights zoomed past Grandma Young’s front window. It looked like every emergency vehicle that Osborne had to offer. The news hit social media first, as it always did: There’d been an accident at the high school.

  UPDATE: There was a body.

  UPDATE: It was a student.

  UPDATE: It was Osborne’s favorite student.

  The town climbed from local to statewide news, and the obligatory journalists had swarmed in, swelling their presence. Matthew Sherman Butler. Haley Madison Whitehall. When people died, the media turned them into three names. Makani had hardly known either of the victims. It felt wrong to have this much information.

  The reporters clustered along the perimeter of the campus, nabbing strays for exclusive interviews. Makani had bolted around the feasting horde, but plenty of other students were willing. One news crew even had the nerve to duck beneath the crime-scene tape to film the trash bins where Matt’s backpack and duffel bag had been discovered, presumably stashed there by his killer. Makani had heard the furious shouts of the police officers all the way from the quad.

  Haley had been murdered at home, and Matt had been murdered at school.

  Haley had been beloved in drama, and Matt had been beloved in football.

  One victim, two victims.

  These things made a difference.

  A rumor circulated about canceling school, but Makani assumed it didn’t happen so that the questioning could take place more easily. It seemed probable that the cases were connected; there were too many similarities. Everyone, including the teachers and administrators, would be required to face an officer by the end of the day. Students were called out individually. The order was supposedly random, but it was clearly alphabetical.

  Justine Darby, Oliver Larsson, Alexandra Shimerda, Makani Young.

  She would be the last to go.

  When Darby returned to their second-period physics class, he grabbed an empty seat beside Makani and Alex.

  Makani pressed him for details. “What kind of questions did they ask?”

  “Easy things,” he said.

  They didn’t bother to hide their conversation. Everybody else was already talking. Phones, normally forbidden, were on full display as students grieved and searched for new information. It was difficult enough to pay attention on an average Friday, but even the teachers knew that no lessons would be taught today as they adopted the dual roles of counselors for the students and secretaries for the officers.

  Mr. Merrick, the physics teacher, was engaged in a discussion with two football players whose heads were down. Breaking another school rule, he had a hand gripped on one of their shoulders. Comforting. Underneath Mr. Merrick’s bushy and uncultivated eyebrows, it looked like he was trying not to cry.

  “They asked if I knew the victims,” Darby said. “If I’d ever heard any rumors about them, if I knew anyone who might not have liked them, where I was last night between six and seven. That sort of thing. The officer was really nice.”

  “Did you get Chris?” Makani had glimpsed him in the hallway before class. With his pale skin and white-blond hair, it was easy to identify him as Ollie’s brother. Chris was a bit broader, though, despite being more slender and less muscular than most cops.

  “No, it was the lady. Officer Gage. Kinda hot, actually.”

  “And good at her job,” Alex said, not looking up from her phone.

  Darby waved a dismissive hand. He was a feminist, too. “You’ll be fine,” he told Makani, because her head was cowering and her elbows were burrowed against her sides. Unconsciously, she was making herself smaller.

  Makani hated the idea of talking to the police. Answering their questions. What if they looked into her record and discovered her expungement in Hawaii? She’d always dreaded that someday, something would happen that would prompt a closer inspection of her files. And this was it. Today was the day. What would her friends think of her?

  If Ollie were here, maybe his stillness would be a comfort. But they only had one class together and since the previous evening, they’d only spoken over text. Ollie had lain awake, afraid of getting a knock on the front door—the chief of police coming to say there’d been a third attack, and now his brother was dead, too. Chris hadn’t come home until after four in the morning. Ollie had slept in and barely made it to school on time.

  “Do you think the team will bow out?” Darby asked Alex.

  Makani realized they’d been talking for several minutes.

  “Of the playoffs?” Alex shook her head. “Their spot was already secure. And Matt wasn’t the only one being scouted. The team can’t stop playing—”

  “Because this is Nebraska.” Makani filled in the blank like a robot. Most conversations about football ended with that phrase.

  Alex loved playing the trumpet, but she preferred concert season to marching band. She nodded her displeasure. “The boosters sent out a text-blas
t this morning. We’re taking tonight off with the team, but practice resumes on Monday.”

  Darby glanced around to ensure their privacy. “I heard the coaches might be suspended, because they left school grounds immediately after practice. Someone was supposed to stay behind with the team. And if someone had stayed behind . . .”

  Alex grimaced. “Twenty bucks says the only coach suspended is the lowest-ranking assistant.”

  “I didn’t think Haley and Matt even knew each other,” Darby said, returning to the most baffling question. “Do you really think they were dating?”

  The tone of the rumors had shifted. Haley’s father was taking a backseat while the secret lovers theory came under scrutiny. Suddenly, their classmates swore they’d spotted Haley and Matt sharing a banana shake at Sonic or groping beneath the bleachers.

  “I mean,” Darby said, “Matt’s been with Lauren Dixon for two years.”

  “Which is why it was a secret.” Alex leaned in, wafting them with her favorite perfume. Her skin smelled floral and spicy. “Maybe Lauren found out and killed them both in a jealous rage.”

  “You seriously think a girl could’ve done that?”

  “Of course a girl could’ve done it.”

  Darby scowled at her. “I meant, physically. Matt was a big guy.”

  “You don’t think Lauren has bitch strength?” Alex asked.

  When Makani moved to Osborne, Lauren had been the first to ask: What are you? Makani gave an honest answer, and Lauren had laughed. So, you’re a mutt! She thought she was being cute, and everyone within earshot had laughed. Makani had despised her ever since. But even with their history, she was glad that Lauren had stayed home and would be spared—for a time, at least—what was being said about her.

  “Maybe the killer doesn’t even go here,” Darby said. “Maybe it’s someone from a rival team. Someone competing for the attention of the same college recruiters.”

  “But then why kill Haley?” Alex asked.

  He contemplated it for a few seconds. “Love triangle?”

  They startled as a voice in front of them laughed with condescension. It was Alex’s tempestuous crush. As Rodrigo turned around to face them, Alex glared at him witheringly. But her posture perked up.

  Rodrigo laced his fingers behind his head, cocky and relaxed. “Though, I suppose a love triangle is as likely as your secret lovers’ scenario.”

  “It is so”—Alex pointed at his chest—“not.”

  David, who was sitting beside Rodrigo, rolled his eyes. Makani understood. Their friends needed to get over themselves and suck face.

  “What about Buddy?” Darby asked. “In the love triangle?”

  Rodrigo’s expression grew even more skeptical. “Buddy Wheeler?”

  “No, the other Buddy who plays football,” Alex said.

  Darby ignored them. “Remember last year when his girlfriend dumped him, and he punched her locker so hard that his skin got caught in the metal grate? Shit required stitches. Now there’s someone angry enough to kill, and he’s Matt’s best friend.”

  “Buddy is too dumb to be the killer,” Alex said.

  “On that, alone, we agree,” Rodrigo said.

  Makani glanced at the classroom door. Would anyone notice if she left?

  “Are you gonna throw up?”

  Makani looked back to find David staring at her. He seemed more bored than interested, but that might have just been his face. It was long and plain with an odd swoop of sandy hair across his forehead. “You’re clutching your stomach,” he said.

  “I guess I’m just ready to talk about anything else.”

  He shrugged. “Is there anything else to talk about?”

  It was a valid question, but it made her feel even more alone.

  In addition to the most obvious—and outlandish—suspects, speculation about Ollie and Zachary was also on the rise. Ollie and Zachary. The loner and the asshole. The bullied and the bully. Plenty of people had noticed Matt messing with Ollie only two days earlier, and several others had witnessed Zachary taunting Matt last month after the announcement that Matt would be crowned Homecoming King.

  Makani had spent the homecoming game watching a werewolf movie in Darby’s basement. When the game ended and her duties to the band were over, Alex had joined them. None of them went to the dance the following night. They hadn’t been asked. Now the Homecoming King was dead. It was impossible to believe.

  “Who do you think did it?” David asked.

  Makani stared at the door. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the exit. “I don’t know. Maybe their deaths aren’t even connected.”

  Darby’s, Alex’s, and Rodrigo’s attention snapped back to her.

  “I m-mean,” Makani said, “of course they’re connected, but what if Haley and Matt were exactly who we thought they were? What if there’s no great conspiracy, and they were chosen simply because they were both popular?”

  Alex shook her head. “Haley wasn’t popular.”

  “She was well liked and respected. It’s almost the same thing.”

  “Okay,” Rodrigo said, “so your theory is that someone unpopular killed them? Someone jealous of their status?”

  Makani bristled. “I don’t have a theory. I’m just saying we don’t know.”

  “They wouldn’t have to be unpopular,” Alex said. “Just less popular.”

  “At least it means we’d all be safe,” Rodrigo said.

  Up until then, Makani hadn’t been sure if Rodrigo was aware that he wasn’t universally admired. It made her like him a little more. She would prefer to go unnoticed altogether. Unfortunately, the sharp end of her anonymity seemed to be rapidly approaching.

  The police came for her during the last period of the day. It was Makani’s only class with Ollie, but they’d hardly spoken before Señora Washington asked her to step into the hallway. The young, decidedly not Hispanic, Spanish teacher looked despondent with a touch of relief. It was the final name that she would have to call out.

  “Best for last,” the officer said as the door closed behind her. He wore a stiff, dark blue uniform, and his name tag read LARSSON.

  Right. Because it had to be him.

  Makani lifted a hand in acknowledgment. She was afraid that her voice might betray her nervousness, if her clammy skin didn’t do it first.

  “Hope you don’t mind that I requested your interview.” The grin was uncannily familiar. “I was curious who my little brother has a crush on.”

  She had no idea how to respond, so she didn’t. The word crush was an invigorating jolt. But this easily ranked as one of the worst ways to meet a potential boyfriend’s family. She’d been praying for any other officer.

  Chris—Makani decided to think of him as Chris rather than Officer Larsson, because it was moderately less intimidating—led her to an empty room filled with electric typewriters. It was the keyboarding classroom. Freshmen were taught on typewriters, because it was too easy to cheat on computers. Copy and paste. Chris gestured to the hard orange chair that was stationed beside the teacher’s desk.

  Makani sat down obediently. The buzzing fluorescent lights were so harsh and stark for a room that felt so neglected and out of time. They made her feel naked. She crossed her arms, worried that it looked disrespectful, and then sat on her hands instead.

  Chris rolled the comfortable teacher’s chair toward her and took a seat. He examined her appearance, not unkindly. “How’re you holding up?”

  Makani knew she didn’t look right. She looked twitchy and disturbed. It was better to admit it and hope that he assumed it was for normal reasons. “Not great.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. Everyone’s shaken up pretty bad. Even us,” he said, and she assumed he meant the police. “We’ve never seen anything like this in Osborne. Have your teachers given you the information about counseling?”

  Ollie had been so good with her grandmother, yet here she was, completely failing with his brother. She’d spoken two words and could barely look at him, and
he already thought she needed counseling.

  Still, all she could do was nod. At least it was true. Every teacher had given them the information. The counselors would be slammed for months.

  “Good. That’s good.” Chris removed a flippable notepad from his breast pocket and clicked a pen to the ready. “Now I just have a few questions. They’re totally standard. We’re asking everyone.”

  Another nod. Her hands began to sweat underneath her jeans.

  His voice remained friendly, though it grew a touch sterner. Cop voice. “I know you’re new around here, but were you acquainted with either of the victims?”

  It was a peculiar thing. Makani had lived here for almost a year—plenty of time to have gotten to know the victims—but in a town like this, she would always be made to feel like the new girl. “No,” she said. “I’ve never spoken to Haley.”

  I’ve never spoken instead of I never spoke. As if there were still a chance that they might bump into each other buying iced mochas at the gas station.

  She adjusted her verbs. “Maybe I spoke to Matt once or twice in government class, because he sat near me, but I’m not even sure. If I did, it wasn’t memorable.”

  The interrogation continued: Do you know anyone the victims might have had trouble with? Were they ever bullied? Did they ever bully someone else?

  Makani answered each question in the negative, wondering how many of her classmates had possessed the audacity to mention Ollie. They would have all known that they were talking to his brother—same last name, similar appearance, infamous car.

  Sergeant Beemer had interviewed Ollie during lunch. Ollie hadn’t told Makani much, only that it’d taken the entire hour. Everybody else’s interviews had taken just a few minutes. Was Ollie questioned about the episode with Matt in the quad? And had there been other episodes before it?

  “Sorry.” Makani shrugged at the industrial linoleum. “I’m not much help. I don’t hang out with either of their crowds.”