Page 74 of Catcher

Then this morning, I thought about slipping out of bed before my alarm, trying to move like a ghost in the deathly quiet of my house. Catcher was still on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing slow and deep. For a heartbeat, I’d let myself watch him and acknowledge the way my chest tightened at the sight of him.

Then the nausea hit hard and fast, like my body wanted to remind me who’s in charge now. I clapped a hand over my mouth and made it to the bathroom just in time. I knelt on the cold tile, gripping the edge of the tub while my stomach turned itself inside out as quietly as it could manage. I kept thinking, Please don’t wake up. Please don’t hear this.

When the nausea finally eased, my eyes burned, and my throat tasted like pennies. I splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, and got ready for the day.

When I came out of the bathroom, Catcher was sitting up, hair mussed, phone in his hand, probably checking in with Riggs. He looked up at me and nodded once as if to say all was good.

The memory fades, and I’m back in my classroom, surrounded by small voices. Just then, the door opens.

“Ready to roll, kids?” Mr. Jenkins asks, leaning into the doorway with an easy-going attitude. He’s on afternoon pick-up duty this week. Mr. Jenkins is our PE teacher. He’s older than most of the teachers here—mid-sixties, super friendly, and has kind eyes. Everybody likes Mr. Jenkins. It’s impossible not to. The kids also love him. He’s also married to our principal, Mrs. Jenkins, which means he somehow manages to be both universally adored and permanently on his best behavior.

“Yep!” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. He steps fully inside and gives the room a quick once-over. “All right, kiddos. Follow our line leader, Daniel, out into the hall.”

Mr. Jenkins lowers his voice as he pauses beside my desk. “You hanging in there?” he asks because he knows how hectic things get toward the end of the school year.

I nod. “Just a long day,” I say. “You know how it is.”

“I do,” he says with a soft grin. “You’re doing great. We’re in the home stretch. Just one week left.”

I smile and follow Mr. Jenkins into the hall. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Bye, Ms. Starling!” The kids wave in unison.

I wave back, watching them funnel out of the building with Mr. Jenkins.

17

CATCHER

It’s late afternoon by the time buses line up, then roll out one by one, diesel fumes curling in the hot air. Kids pour through the doors, laughing, yelling, dragging lunchboxes and backpacks while teachers shepherd them with tired smiles and firm voices. Parents pull through the loop, waving, calling names, leaning over seats to open doors. Normal life moves in front of me like a film.

The noise slowly thins, the lot empties, and one by one, faculty cars leave, but there is still no Ruby.

I light another cigarette outside the car, keeping an eye on the entrance. A few more minutes pass, then I see movement near the doors. Not her yet, just another teacher stepping out. She glances my way, eyes lingering on me, on the cut, on the car, then gets into a compact SUV and leaves.

I check the time. Ruby should be out. My phone stays quiet—no text, no call, and my jaw tightens. I flick the cigarette to the ground and grind it under my boot, then climb back in the car. I’ll pull up to the entrance and wait for her there now that most people are gone. I put the car in gear and eased onto school property.

I’m halfway into the turn toward the front entrance when the world explodes sideways. Metal screams, glass bursts, the driver’s side takes the full impact, a violent slam that snaps my body hard against the belt and knocks the air from my lungs. The car spins half a turn, tires shrieking, something crunching deep under the frame before everything stops with a sick, grinding jolt.

For a second, there’s no sound, just high, sharp ringing. My vision blurs at the edges, and I taste blood. The windshield is spiderwebbed, the driver’s window is gone, and there is glass scattered across my lap, seat, and floor. Hot air rushes in where the side window used to be, carrying the smell of burned rubber, gasoline, dust, and busted radiator fluid.

My hearing comes back in pieces—horn blaring, the tick of a ruined engine, the hiss of something leaking, my own breath dragging rough through my chest. I look out the busted driver’s window at a black SUV, front end crushed into Ruby’s car, but there’s no movement inside.

My hand goes for my weapon as my brain catches up. I shove at the driver’s door, which is jammed, and the frame is folded in. Pain flares across my shoulder when I throw my weight into it and get nothing but metal groaning back at me. I unclip the belt and climb over the console, shoulder screaming, ribs tight, forcing myself out the passenger side.

My boots hit the pavement. I barely straighten before something cracks against the side of my head. White light bursts behind my eyes before the pain splits hot across my skull, and I stagger, one hand catching the roof of the car. Then a blunt hit drives into my kidney, hard and precise. My body folds before I can stop it, pain ripping through my side so sharp it steals my breath.

“Not so big now, are you, motherfucker?” A boot catches my ribs, and I hit the ground on one knee.

I spit blood onto the asphalt and push one hand under me. Another kick slams into my shoulder, knocking me sideways.

The man crouches just enough for me to see him through the blur, dark beard, scar near his mouth. “You and your club done fucked with the wrong people.” He kicks me again, this time in the stomach. “My brother’s in the hospital because of you.”

I cough, laugh low, even though it hurts. “You won’t be so lucky.”

The scarred man’s face twists before he grabs my hair and yanks my head up. “We’re gonna do to you what you did to him.”

I look at him and two other men through one eye, the other stinging from blood running down my temple. “You can try.”