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“I should have never allowed you to be a part of this.”
“Allowedme? Are you serious?” The Jeep squeals around a corner. “I’m already part of it. Someonethreatenedme—”
“Exactly! And now, a satanic deviant just saw you see him practically rape a woman. If Harris is involved with the letters and what happened with your mom, he now has even more reason to—”
“To what?”
Rhett roars with frustration. “Ah, fuck it.”
I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Listen, regardless of what happened, we now know that Dr. Harris Taylor is part of the sex club everyone’s been talking about. Him, and Gloria Lopez. I wonder—”
“No. No more wondering. You’ve got to stay out of this.”
I click on the turn signal to take the road that leads to my house.
“No,” he snaps. “Keep going.”
I swerve back onto the road. “Where?”
“Take me back to the construction site.”
“What?” My stomach drops to my feet.
“Take me to the damn construction site.”
The sting of rejection feels like I have been gutted. I am humiliated.
I feel sick as I drive to the construction site, reminded of how I felt in high school—and also in my own home. Wanting so badly for someone—anyone—to like me. For my mother to tell me she loved me, for my schoolmates to simply notice me. But no one cared about me. Hell, I wasn’t even good enough to be formally rejected.
Just dismissed.
By the time I pull up to the curb in front of the construction site I am fighting tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my voice quivering.
“It’s fine, Sylvia,” Rhett mutters as he climbs out of the Jeep.
He turns, braces himself on the top of the Jeep, peers into the cab. “This is it, okay?” He gestures between us. “No more. Thank you for everything, really, but this is done. I don’t want to see you anymore. You need to lay low until this whole thing is over.”
With that, he turns and disappears into the night.
Tears spill down my cheeks.
26
Three Days Later . . .
Rhett
Ilook up from the hole I’m digging as a gray dually with roof-top floodlights pulls up to the curb. Its ridiculously large tires glint in the single beam of sunlight that has escaped this cloudy, cold day. The truck is nothing short of absurd, especially considering Detective Stroud hasn’t been off-roading since he offered Sammie Richards a joint in exchange for a hand job at the end of Turtleneck Road his senior year. I’ve been away for a bit, yes, but some things don’t change. Pussies like Johnny Stroud are one of them.
Stroud was the type of guy dubbed studly by default. In high school, he’d catch a ride with the real badasses—teenagers with full-grown beards—on their way to a fight, or a bonfire, whatever, and by association alone, would get grouped into their badassery. He was a scrawny thing, tall and lanky. A pretty boy, not a single callus on his hands, or a spec of dirt under his nails. No one called him out on this, however, because the guy had a hell of an arm. Took Thorncrest to three state football championships. Threw the winning pass for one of them.
My guess is that Stroud would be diagnosed with Sociotrophy, an excessive need to be included and liked in social circles. Extremely sensitive to his reputation, Stroud’s entire life revolves around finding a way to fit in.
Had I realized this back then, I would have exploited it—along with Miss Richard’s bartering system.
Joke.
