Savage Delight
Page 32
“What was that all about?” He asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t say anything. You always say something.”
“Ignoring him is the best way to get him to back off,” I shrug. “I’ve had enough, I guess. It’s just boring, now.”
Kayla narrows her eyes. “That sounds like bullshit to the max.”
“You’d rather I fight him like I used to? Didn’t that like, end in tears? And a broken head? Let’s not go for a repeat performance just this once, okay?”
Kayla and Wren look at each other, but don’t press it. And I’m grateful. The last thing I need for them to know is what I know. Because I know a lot. And it hurts my head. And possibly my heart. If I had one.
“Did you see his face?” Kayla asks as we walk together to our next class.
“Whose?”
“Jack’s. It was all bruised up. His lip was busted and scabbing. And that was a mean bruise on his cheekbone.”
“Probably got in a fight with the mirror when he saw it was prettier than him.”
“Isis, I’m being serious!”
“So am I!”
“Look, I know you have like, amnesia about him and your feelings for him are all mixed up or whatever –”
“Feelings? What is this foreign word you speak of?”
“ – but you don’t have to be such a f**king jerk about it. He’s a person too, okay? Not just some part of your past that you can cut out and put back in whenever you want.”
The words sting, mostly because they sound too much like what Jack himself said. Kayla’s too pissed to talk to me anymore, so I spend the period doodling exploding things on my worksheet.
Wren and I have Yearbook together, so it’s the perfect time to show him. I print out the email picture and pass it to him over the computers. There’s a beat, and then;
“What is this, Isis?”
“What does it look like?” I singsong.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone sent it to me. Over email. That’s Jack’s lovely hand, isn’t it? Holding that bloody bat, and standing over that guy who looks very much dead.”
I can see Wren’s hand on his mouse, and it’s shaking.
“What interests me wayyyy more,” I press. “Is the fact the quality is shit. Shit enough to be in a sewage pipe. Or my makeup collection. And see the way the pixels are a little off? Like they’re wavy? It’s almost like someone took a screenshot of a video –”
“What’s the email address?” Wren interrupts.
“Just random keysmash. [email protected]. Nobody either of us would know just from the address. You can’t even say it. Ickwajihuk? Ikewjahooookk?”
I hear Wren typing, and sigh.
“Trust me, I’ve already looked. Google’s got nothing. I’ve dug in fifty-two pages and a lot of backlog. Ickwajhuk doesn’t exist anywhere else on the internet.”
“Isis, listen to me,” Wren looks at me from between our computers, expression serious. “Whoever gave you that picture is dangerous. Block the address, and don’t correspond with them.”
“Why?” I laugh. “What’s he gonna do, send me an unsolicited dick pic?”
“That’s the video I took from that night,” Wren murmurs. “I gave it to the federal investigator who questioned us.”
“This fed sent me the picture?”
“He turned it over to the bureau’s vault. He died five years ago of a heart attack. So it couldn’t have been him. Whoever sent you this picture – they either work there, or hacked into it. If they work there, they aren’t good news. And if they could hack something that secure, they are really, really bad news.”
“This is ridiculous –”
“Trust me, Isis. Wipe your computer. Wipe the entire hard drive. Don’t take any chances. And don’t ask any more questions.”
“So that’s it? I’m just supposed to forget I’ve ever seen this? Sorry, I have a better memory and more self-respect than that.”
Wren sets his jaw. I lean in and whisper.
“I saw Tallie, Wren. I met her. I know where she is and who she is. And I know that’s what happened that night. Sophia lost her. And you all saw it. And you buried her together. And maybe you buried other bodies too. I don’t know. But I won’t stop until I do.”
Wren clenches his fist, and stands from the chair.
“Then you leave me no choice.”
He says something to Mrs. Greene and strides out the door. I try to follow, but Mrs. Greene harps with her shrieky voice.
“Where do you think you’re going, Blake?”
“The South Pole?”
She frowns.
“Nicaragua?”
She frowns harder.
“Okay, fine, the poop palace.”
“No. Emily left with the bathroom pass. You’ll have to wait till she gets back.”
“But what if I shit my pants? Do teacher salaries really pay enough to replace student underwear? I’m wearing very expensive underwear.”
This is a bluff. My underwear are blue and three years old. We both know I am not That Girl.
“Sit. Down. Ms. Blake.”
I cross my arms and flop in my chair with considerable grumpy pizazz.
***
For the first time in nearly five years, Wren walks up to me. He peeks into study hall, finds my table, and walks over, looking me in the eye as he does it, too.
This is my first indication that something has gone very wrong. He’s cowardly. He’s hesitant. And he’s carrying years of guilt on his shoulders towards me. He would never approach me this boldly unless something dire was happening.
He slides a paper across the table. It’s a print out of a picture, of a very familiar bloody baseball bat, and my hand, and a dark shape in the background I know all too well. I see it each night my brain decides to grant me a nightmare.
“Isis had this,” Wren says, voice strong but low. My lungs splinter with ice at her name, but I quell the pain and quirk a brow.
“And?”
“You know what it’s from,” he hisses. “Someone sent that to her in an email.”
“Did she say what the address was?”
“[email protected]. All in lower case.”
The letters are simple to memorize. I sit back in my chair and struggle to look casual. “Sounds like a trash-byte spammer.”
Wren leans in, now closer to me physically than we’ve ever been in five years. His green eyes are dark behind his glasses.
“I know you know more about computers than I do, or anyone in this school.”
“Correct.”
“And I know, god - the whole school knows - you like Isis.”
I have to force the chuckle, and it comes out bitter. “Really? Fascinating. I love hearing fresh gossip.”
“It’s not gossip, Jack, and it’s sure as hell not new - it’s the goddamn old truth and you and I both know it.”
He’s breathing heavily, his face flushed. He’s frustrated and flustered, not angry. Wren never gets truly angry. I give him my best glare.
“Didn’t you see her in the cafeteria? I don’t exist to her. She clearly has no concern for me. Why should I care who she’s emailing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t say anything. You always say something.”
“Ignoring him is the best way to get him to back off,” I shrug. “I’ve had enough, I guess. It’s just boring, now.”
Kayla narrows her eyes. “That sounds like bullshit to the max.”
“You’d rather I fight him like I used to? Didn’t that like, end in tears? And a broken head? Let’s not go for a repeat performance just this once, okay?”
Kayla and Wren look at each other, but don’t press it. And I’m grateful. The last thing I need for them to know is what I know. Because I know a lot. And it hurts my head. And possibly my heart. If I had one.
“Did you see his face?” Kayla asks as we walk together to our next class.
“Whose?”
“Jack’s. It was all bruised up. His lip was busted and scabbing. And that was a mean bruise on his cheekbone.”
“Probably got in a fight with the mirror when he saw it was prettier than him.”
“Isis, I’m being serious!”
“So am I!”
“Look, I know you have like, amnesia about him and your feelings for him are all mixed up or whatever –”
“Feelings? What is this foreign word you speak of?”
“ – but you don’t have to be such a f**king jerk about it. He’s a person too, okay? Not just some part of your past that you can cut out and put back in whenever you want.”
The words sting, mostly because they sound too much like what Jack himself said. Kayla’s too pissed to talk to me anymore, so I spend the period doodling exploding things on my worksheet.
Wren and I have Yearbook together, so it’s the perfect time to show him. I print out the email picture and pass it to him over the computers. There’s a beat, and then;
“What is this, Isis?”
“What does it look like?” I singsong.
“Where did you get this?”
“Someone sent it to me. Over email. That’s Jack’s lovely hand, isn’t it? Holding that bloody bat, and standing over that guy who looks very much dead.”
I can see Wren’s hand on his mouse, and it’s shaking.
“What interests me wayyyy more,” I press. “Is the fact the quality is shit. Shit enough to be in a sewage pipe. Or my makeup collection. And see the way the pixels are a little off? Like they’re wavy? It’s almost like someone took a screenshot of a video –”
“What’s the email address?” Wren interrupts.
“Just random keysmash. [email protected]. Nobody either of us would know just from the address. You can’t even say it. Ickwajihuk? Ikewjahooookk?”
I hear Wren typing, and sigh.
“Trust me, I’ve already looked. Google’s got nothing. I’ve dug in fifty-two pages and a lot of backlog. Ickwajhuk doesn’t exist anywhere else on the internet.”
“Isis, listen to me,” Wren looks at me from between our computers, expression serious. “Whoever gave you that picture is dangerous. Block the address, and don’t correspond with them.”
“Why?” I laugh. “What’s he gonna do, send me an unsolicited dick pic?”
“That’s the video I took from that night,” Wren murmurs. “I gave it to the federal investigator who questioned us.”
“This fed sent me the picture?”
“He turned it over to the bureau’s vault. He died five years ago of a heart attack. So it couldn’t have been him. Whoever sent you this picture – they either work there, or hacked into it. If they work there, they aren’t good news. And if they could hack something that secure, they are really, really bad news.”
“This is ridiculous –”
“Trust me, Isis. Wipe your computer. Wipe the entire hard drive. Don’t take any chances. And don’t ask any more questions.”
“So that’s it? I’m just supposed to forget I’ve ever seen this? Sorry, I have a better memory and more self-respect than that.”
Wren sets his jaw. I lean in and whisper.
“I saw Tallie, Wren. I met her. I know where she is and who she is. And I know that’s what happened that night. Sophia lost her. And you all saw it. And you buried her together. And maybe you buried other bodies too. I don’t know. But I won’t stop until I do.”
Wren clenches his fist, and stands from the chair.
“Then you leave me no choice.”
He says something to Mrs. Greene and strides out the door. I try to follow, but Mrs. Greene harps with her shrieky voice.
“Where do you think you’re going, Blake?”
“The South Pole?”
She frowns.
“Nicaragua?”
She frowns harder.
“Okay, fine, the poop palace.”
“No. Emily left with the bathroom pass. You’ll have to wait till she gets back.”
“But what if I shit my pants? Do teacher salaries really pay enough to replace student underwear? I’m wearing very expensive underwear.”
This is a bluff. My underwear are blue and three years old. We both know I am not That Girl.
“Sit. Down. Ms. Blake.”
I cross my arms and flop in my chair with considerable grumpy pizazz.
***
For the first time in nearly five years, Wren walks up to me. He peeks into study hall, finds my table, and walks over, looking me in the eye as he does it, too.
This is my first indication that something has gone very wrong. He’s cowardly. He’s hesitant. And he’s carrying years of guilt on his shoulders towards me. He would never approach me this boldly unless something dire was happening.
He slides a paper across the table. It’s a print out of a picture, of a very familiar bloody baseball bat, and my hand, and a dark shape in the background I know all too well. I see it each night my brain decides to grant me a nightmare.
“Isis had this,” Wren says, voice strong but low. My lungs splinter with ice at her name, but I quell the pain and quirk a brow.
“And?”
“You know what it’s from,” he hisses. “Someone sent that to her in an email.”
“Did she say what the address was?”
“[email protected]. All in lower case.”
The letters are simple to memorize. I sit back in my chair and struggle to look casual. “Sounds like a trash-byte spammer.”
Wren leans in, now closer to me physically than we’ve ever been in five years. His green eyes are dark behind his glasses.
“I know you know more about computers than I do, or anyone in this school.”
“Correct.”
“And I know, god - the whole school knows - you like Isis.”
I have to force the chuckle, and it comes out bitter. “Really? Fascinating. I love hearing fresh gossip.”
“It’s not gossip, Jack, and it’s sure as hell not new - it’s the goddamn old truth and you and I both know it.”
He’s breathing heavily, his face flushed. He’s frustrated and flustered, not angry. Wren never gets truly angry. I give him my best glare.
“Didn’t you see her in the cafeteria? I don’t exist to her. She clearly has no concern for me. Why should I care who she’s emailing?”
