Page 31 of We’re All Going to Die Tonight!

I exchange a glance with Caulder. Does he think something’s off the way I do? If he does, he doesn’t say it out loud. He just nods.

“Let’s go outside,” he says. “Any chance there are umbrellas in one of those closets in the entryway?”

We go to look and find two. I hand one to Caulder, then grab the other. As I do, though, I realize it’s soaking wet.

Someone’s already been outside.

One of the teachers? But wouldn’t we have seen them come downstairs? Plus, whoever used this brought it back. I glance at Emerson, who’s holding his hand out impatiently. I still can’t shake the feeling that his smarmy, smirking face is hiding something.

I pull the umbrella away from him and offer him my own smirk.

“Sorry,” I say. “Looks like there’s only two.”

His eyes narrow. He knows I’m not fucking sorry, and I half expect him to push me on it. But he doesn’t. Just grabs a random jacket from the closet and throws it on, then heads for the door.

I want to tell Caulder about the wet umbrella, but the telephone box is the most important thing right now. So, as we head out into the cold, rainy night, I tuck the information away for later, and I follow Caulder and Emerson around the side of the house and find the breaker box easily.

“Should we check it just in case?” Emerson asks. “In case someone flipped something?”

I see in Caulder’s face that it’s a waste of time to check—the power’s on, after all—but because he pops it open to check anyway to appease Emerson, I step closer to shine my flashlight over the box so he can see.

“As we thought, nothing’s been flipped,” he says. “So we can check the telephone box next. It should be over here somewhere.”

We find it a few paces over. Caulder bends down, examining it, while I stick close to him.

“That’s weird,” Caulder says. “Looks like the box has already been opened. And the wires—”

“What’s wrong with the wires?” I ask.

“Can you give me some more light?” Caulder asks. “I’m trying to see what’s going on.”

“Emerson,” I say, casting a feeble ray over his shoulder. “Get your flashlight over here.”

But he doesn’t respond. At least, not with any words I recognize.

“Emerson,” I snap. “C’mon, man. I don’t want to leave the girls alone for too long.”

Still, he only mumbles. This time, one of the words is audible enough that I can make it out.

“Jay?”

I turn around, wielding my flashlight so it shines on Emerson’s face. His eyes are wide, and he’s holding his hand out, aiming his light at a lump in the dark. At first, I don’t realize what I’m seeing, but then I see a mop of dark, curly hair and a Coastal Canyon Debate hoodie that’s covered in mud.

No.

Not mud.

“Holy shit.” Emerson’s mumbling becomes clearer. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

Caulder and I are rushing forward at the same time, then dropping to our knees next to Mr. Jay, holding our flashlights so they immerse him in light.

But as soon as we do, I wish we hadn’t.

He’s covered in blood, but it’s mainly on his head and his neck, because it’s draining out of his skull. As soon as I see it, I know that there won’t be a pulse here. I know that no one, not a single soul, could be alive when their head is smashed like that.

He’s dead.

And we’re outside with his murderer.