Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake #5) - Rachel Caine Page 0,59
I’m completely okay with that. They’re steady. They’re ready.
All of us are. I wait for the panic to grow inside me, but this time, I’m actually okay. Angry, but—like my kids—grounded.
“Any guesses about their identities?” I ask, and freeze the picture at the best moment to get a view of their clothes, the bandannas they’re wearing.
“Well, for a start, they’re from our high school,” Lanny says, and points to the taller one on the right. “See his sweatpants?”
I’d missed it. Her eyes are better, but when I grab my glasses, I make out a logo—black on dark gray—of a small stylized Viking’s head. Her school’s mascot.
“That could be a brand mark,” I say, but she shakes her head, grabs my laptop, and quickly navigates to the school’s website. She finds a shot of the boys’ track team.
Same logo. Same sweatpants. She’s absolutely right.
On-screen, the vandals finish up and run off into the dark, fleeing through a neighbor’s yard, and then out of sight.
“Well,” Connor says, “we know for sure they’re not on the track team.” We all look at him. He raises his eyebrows. “Come on. You saw them run. I could beat that time, and I’m kind of a nerd. But anyway, all the athletic teams get the same basic workout gear. We can find them, though. These idiots will be sharing this like crazy.”
“Go find them,” I tell him. “Just get their names. Let Sam and I take care of the rest. Clear?”
He and Lanny both nod, and they head off together. Little soldiers on a shared mission.
“They’re so strong,” I whisper. “Aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, and gets up to put his arm around me. “I was hoping you’d start to recognize that. Come on. We’ve got work to do too.”
We go outside, around to the side of the house, and Sam turns on the flashlight.
Bloodred paint in wobbly letters. From the difference in sizes and slants, one teen did the first word, the other did the last two.
PSYCHO’S LIVES HERD. I can only assume the writer meant here, but his graffiti penmanship is as bad as his grammar.
“Well,” I say, “we know they’re not on the honor roll.”
Before we start, I take photos, and a sample of the red spray paint—which, thankfully, has already dried. Then we silently, methodically, paint out the evidence. It takes four coats of thick masking paint and then two more topcoats. When we’re done, it’s a decent job. A little trim work, and we’ll be back to normal. It takes most of the evening, and by the time we’re done, I’m feeling every inch of the day that’s rolled over me hard.
We finish, put the paint and rollers away, and head to the bedroom to dump our sweaty, paint-stained clothes. Without discussion, we both get into the shower, and I lean back against Sam’s chest with his arms around me and let the hot water beat some of the aches out of my body. Sometimes—many times—this shower is our personal fun zone, but not tonight. Tonight it feels like shelter from the storm.
When the water’s running lukewarm, we finally shut it down, dry off, get dressed, and find the kids. They’re both in Connor’s room, cross-legged on his bed, both with laptops. Neither looks up at us as we enter, though Connor says, “I was right.” He keeps typing one-handed, and holds up his left; Lanny meets it for a high five with her right. A well-oiled machine. “I’ve got their names.”
“And I’ve got their address and all their social media accounts,” Lanny says. “They’re brothers, and they live two blocks over. Couple of total vacuum brains, by the way. I mean, they’re both on the baseball team and got a C in Prevention of Athletic Injuries. Who does that?”
“And how do you know their grades?” I ask her.
“Mom. How do you think? They posted about it. They were pissed that not showing up for class earned them a C. Should have failed their stupid asses, but a C is as close as it gets for jocks, I guess.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed. “And you know that this means—”
“Means we’ll be targets of all the best bullies now that the popular kids are on it? Oh yeah. We know,” my son says. “The flyers are all over the place. People are taking pictures with them and posting them on Instagram. We’re the hot meme. Want to see a photo of somebody taking a dump on one?”