Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,10

in Brunswick, has provided logistical and material support to the investigation in order to locate the boat that Mission and Wislon were supposed to be on.

Wanda Mission and her brother, Jerome Craw, were questioned for background but neither is considered a suspect in the deaths at this time, according to sources close to the investigation.

seven

Justine bounced into the seat in front of him, the plastic bench squeaking in protest at the early morning activity. Her tank top, pink today, slipped down as always, exposing a matching pink bra strap.

Henry glanced up, but only for a moment before returning his gaze to her shoulder, unable, unwilling, to meet her warm honey eyes.

“Seriously, did you think to yourself, ‘Henry, it’s hotter than hell out there; today’s menu choices are black with varying shades of black in some sort of gothic monochromatic thing or well, damn, black it is.’”

She smiled; little white teeth, the very tip of a small pink tongue were surrounded by lips colored just a shade different from her shirt. His gaze returned to her shoulder, maybe her neck, anywhere but to those welcoming eyes and too-long lashes and that smile.

“Gothic?” he asked.

“That’s not the look you’re going for?”

“I’ve got a look?”

She smiled again. Most amazing of all, he smiled back. In his lap, his off-colored finger scratched along the scar on his left wrist; mint and shame wiped the smile off his face.

The bus pulled to a stop on Gloucester to pick up more students, and Justine turned to the window.

“Henry?” she asked, pointing toward one of the small tables in front of the sidewalk cafes. “Isn’t that your dad?”

The bus started pulling away and Henry pressed up to the glass for a better view, but all he saw was the woman the man was sitting with. He blinked and the bus turned the corner. Dr. Saville?

“Kind of looked like him, but … ” Justine shrugged.

Henry stared out the window, trying to count to ten, the numbers running together until he lost count. He took a deep breath. Another. His fingers ran over his scars and Justine reached her hand out almost far enough to touch his arm.

“Do they hurt?”

He froze, then raised his hand to rest upon the scar around his neck. He pulled his collar up to cover the line. Still, she smiled at him. He tried, but failed, to smile back.

“They itch,” he said. “Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“‘He jests at scars that never felt a wound.’”

“Wait, I know that,” she said, her hand in his face to keep him from speaking. “No … ” She lowered her fingers. “Can’t remember.”

“Story of my life. It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“The story of your life is a suicidal tragedy we were forced to study in English last year?”

“Not remembering is,” he said.

“You remember Shakespeare.”

“No, only one line; there’s a difference.” He smiled. “It’s everything else I forget.”

“You remember me, right?” she asked.

“You’re from after.” He turned away, looking out the window as they entered the parking lot of Brunswick High. “I don’t remember before.”

Justine was one of the first students to stand up when they finally reached the high school, but she stopped a few feet down the aisle. She turned around to look back at him where he sat, still staring out the window.

“Are you joining us for school today, Henry?” she asked when he didn’t stand up.

He shrugged. “I was thinking about it.”

“Don’t take too long.” She waved and walked away.

He waved back, but she was long gone. His answering smile melted away when he reached the school, and even the air-conditioning didn’t seem to help.

eight

The house was too quiet when Henry opened the door after school, missing the steady thrum of the central air fighting the good fight against August. No lights illuminated the dark foyer, only weak sunlight struggling through the lead-glass windows high in the walls. The air, thick, heavy, and wet, was difficult to breathe in the heat.

“Dad?” Henry said, still standing in the doorway, though it was hours too early for his father to be home.

Silence.

Henry closed the door, and the light was cut in half while the temperature spiked. The curtains, tattered and torn green fabric that might once have been serviceable, let in slanted rays of weak sunlight, bringing heat more than illumination.

He flipped the switch at the kitchen door. Nothing. He flipped it back and forth once more. Still nothing.

“Again?” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the house. He sighed. “Crappy fuse.”

In the kitchen he pulled open the drawers,