Page 4 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Somebody fucking HELP ME!”

He expected porch lights. A dog. A curtain moving. Anything. Nothing happened. Behind him, he heard footsteps. Not hurried. That was somehow worse. Mason looked over his shoulder. The masked man was walking. Just walking. Mason faced forward and ran harder. His lungs burned. The street blurred. He reached the next corner and turned so sharply his shoulder clipped a brick wall. Pain exploded down his arm, but he didn't stop. Another intersection. Another empty street. He looked behind him. Nobody. Mason slowed just enough to breathe. His chest heaved. Sweat chilled beneath his shirt. He searched desperately for somewhere occupied. Every house looked asleep. Then he saw the narrow pedestrian path between two buildings. He took it without thinking.

The instant he reached the other side, Mason realized what he'd done. Saint Augustine's Park.

“No.”

The church rose beyond the trees, its stone bell tower cutting a black shape against the sky. A weak security light illuminated one side of the building. Everything else was darkness. Mason turned around. The path behind him was empty. He could go back. He should go back. He took one step. The masked man appeared at the entrance. Mason stumbled backward.

“No.”

The figure entered the park. Slowly. Mason retreated.

“Listen.”

The man continued walking.

“If this is about that kid, it was a fucking joke.”

Leaves crushed beneath Mason's shoes.

“He knows that.”

The mask drew closer.

“He was drunk.”

Closer.

“Everybody was drunk.”

Mason's back struck the trunk of a tree. He flinched. No more room. The masked man stopped several feet away. Mason swallowed. His mouth had become so dry that his tongue stuck against his teeth.

“I deleted the video.”

Silence.

“I swear.”

The figure reached into his jacket. Mason's heart slammed once against his ribs. A gloved hand emerged. Holding Mason's phone. Mason stared.

“No.”

The cracked screen illuminated the porcelain from below. The man tapped it. A video began playing. Mason recognized the party immediately. Music. Laughter. A circle of students. The freshman standing on the coffee table. Mason heard his own voice behind the camera. Come on. Louder. The freshman shook his head. People laughed. Don't be fucking boring.

“I deleted that,” Mason whispered.

The video continued. The freshman's face was red. Humiliated. He tried climbing down. Mason's recorded voice became sharper. Sit your ass back up there unless you want everybody seeing the other video too. More laughter. The freshman sat. The video ended. The park became silent again. Mason stared at the glowing phone.

“I deleted it.”

The masked man slipped the phone into his pocket.

“I fucking deleted it.”

No response. Mason's thoughts collided with one another. Someone had sent it. Someone had copied it. Someone at the party. That meant this person had been there. Maybe Mason knew him. Maybe he'd talked to him. Maybe he'd bought him a fucking drink.

“Who are you?”