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“It’s okay, Mary,” he said to the secretary. She huffed and went back to her seat.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, balling my fists at my sides.
McCoy picked a piece of lint off his sleeve. “What do you mean?”
“I know you’ve been calling Celia down to your office for the past four years. I know you’ve been working on some kind of plan with her mother. And I know you hate Miles. I know you’re trying to get rid of him because . . . because Celia’s mom said he’s an obstacle.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Ridgemont.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” I glanced out the door to make sure the secretary wasn’t listening. “I’m not crazy, all right? I know about Scarlet. I know about your obsessions. I’m not letting this get past me. And I’m not going to let you hurt Miles.”
McCoy rearranged the nameplate on his desk. “You’re mistaken. I don’t plan on doing anything to Mr. Richter.”
“If not you, then who? Celia?”
“I can’t say I know what Celia Hendricks has to do with it.”
“Look, psycho—”
“I realize you’ve had a difficult year, but are you sure you’ve taken your medication regularly?”
“I have, actually. You’re not my mother, so please don’t ask me that again. Now tell me what you’re going to do to Miles.”
“Again, Miss Ridgemont, I’m not going to harm a hair on Mr. Richter’s Aryan head.” He paused, and it took all my willpower not to look away from those searing eyes. “You should hurry back. It would be a shame if you failed your community service requirements right at the end of the year.”
I hesitated. If McCoy revoked my community service hours, I would definitely get sent away somewhere—Woodlands, or worse—and I would probably lose all class credit for this year. He had leverage; I had pieces of a story and a psychiatrist on speed dial.
He laced his fingers together with a benign smile. “I think we’re finally seeing eye to eye.”
No we’re not, you asshole. But I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anything if I wanted to get out of here in one piece. I stood on the other side of his desk, shaking with fury.
“Have a nice day, Miss Ridgemont.”
I trudged back to the gym in silence.
I couldn’t stop McCoy on my own, but if I told anyone about this, who would believe me? It might sound vaguely believable coming from someone like Tucker, but from me . . . There was no way. If I even breathed a word of something this big, my mother would have me committed before I could say just kidding.
I entered the gym on the other end of the bleachers, near the scoreboard. The bleachers had already filled with athletes and their parents. The members of the club were stationed around the room near the doors. Miles stood beneath the scoreboard, his back to me. Celia stood beside him, like she was on a leash.
McCoy was already there. He was already standing at the mic in the middle of the gym. Already talking.
But if he was here, who had I spoken to in his office?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I’d like to welcome you to our annual spring sports awards. We’ll begin with our league-winning baseball team, who’ve had a great season. . . .”
My shoe squeaked against the floor. Celia turned and saw me there; she was still crying, but harder than before.
Her mother was standing in the shadow of the bleachers on the opposite side of the gym, with her business suit and her long blond hair. But her face—I had seen her face before. In the newspaper. In the display cases outside this gym. In Celia’s own expression—because when they stood side-by-side, the similarities were unmistakable.
But Scarlet—Scarlet was dead. Scarlet had been dead for years.
“Remember, Celia,” she said, her voice filling the gym, “I’m doing this for you.”
Celia didn’t react.
“Richard and I have sorted everything out. It’ll be over soon.”
Celia didn’t react because Celia couldn’t react because Scarlet was dead.
“You can move on.”
The scoreboard gave an ominous creak. Scarlet smiled. McCoy spoke a little louder at his microphone when the scoreboard creaked a second time. No one noticed. I couldn’t be the only one seeing this. It was happening—it had to be—except Scarlet—Scarlet wasn’t smiling at Celia; she was smiling at me. And she lifted one pointed, cherry-red nail toward the scoreboard.
I looked up. Red paint dripped down the wall. Each letter was ten feet tall; the two words crunched the scoreboard between them like bloody teeth.
CRIMSON
FALLS
The scoreboard screamed too loudly for McCoy to cover it up. Celia jumped away, scrambling onto the bleachers. Miles turned to hiss at her.
The scoreboard’s supports snapped.
My feet stuttered; Scarlet’s high laughter pealed across the gym.
I shoved myself off the doorframe and slammed into Miles’s back.
Chapter Fifty-two
Here’s the thing about dying in a sudden and tragic accident, like getting crushed by a scoreboard:
You don’t expect it.
I expected it. So I think that’s probably why I didn’t die.
Chapter Fifty-three
I forced one eye open. Then the other.
My head had been caught in a vise. My mouth was lined with cotton. The light in the room was low, but enough for me to make out the ridge of my legs and feet underneath the covers of a bed and the dark alcove around the corner, where the door would be. A white-noise machine hummed in the corner, and a sterile smell crept up on me.
I was in the hospital. Bed. Bathroom. Machines hanging from the ceiling. Red-eyed camera by the door. No hallucinations here.
My body was still asleep. I flexed my fingers and toes to make sure I could, then looked around.
The curtains were pulled back from my bed. The bed next to mine was empty. On the other side of me, a figure swaddled in a blanket slept soundly in a chair that looked like it had been designed by a torture expert.
My mother.
I coughed to clear my throat. She jerked awake, stared at me blankly until she seemed to realize I was staring back at her. Then she was right in front of me, brushing my hair from my face.
“Oh, Alex.” Her eyes had already glazed over with tears. She held me carefully, like I’d break.
“What happened?”
“That scoreboard fell on you,” she said, sniffling. “Don’t you remember?”
