Redemption Prep - Samuel Miller Page 0,38

working.”

“I think it’s just making you focus on doing more Apex.”

Twenty minutes before nine, they loaded a few notebooks, a Polaroid camera, and the bag of Apex into their backpacks and slogged across the back lawn. It had rained off and on since morning, so there was standing water on the court and it was weighing down the ball more with every dribble.

“You didn’t need to bring that, you know,” Peter said, nodding to the basketball.

“Gotta blend in,” Aiden said, stroking a shot from the baseline, through the chain-link net.

“Blend in with what?” Peter asked. “Besides, we’re not actually meeting anyone. We’re hiding.”

He pointed to the end of the stands that ran alongside the court, where a huge gap in the wood was blanketed by darkness. Aiden followed as Peter crawled his way in and swung himself up into the metal bracketing.

Once they were seated, Aiden pulled out his notebook. “I made a list of a few theories, based on what you told me earlier.” He stretched back the binding of his composition notebook and held it to Peter’s face. He’d spent hours filling in the document, using the terms he remembered from watching Law & Order with his dad.

“We’ve got to establish motive and opportunity for any potential perps.” He turned the notebook to Peter. “Theory one, Evan Andrews; his motive is getting the drug. Theory two, someone else at the school; their motive is getting the drug. Theory three, someone outside the school, their motive—”

“Wouldn’t everybody’s motive be getting the drug?”

“Theory four,” he pressed on. “The school found out about it. And did something to her.”

“Wow,” Peter said. “And you said I was being paranoid—”

A hundred feet away, they heard the fence rattle. Someone was moving for the gate. Aiden checked his watch. It was eight forty-five.

The grinding of the fence got louder as the person struggled. From where they were sitting, they could see the entrance, but not the figure behind it. The rattling stopped, and the fence was still closed. It was silent.

Aiden craned his neck, sticking it outward through the hole in the bleachers. It looked like the hooded figure had disappeared from the entrance. But as he exhaled, he heard a soft crunch, then another, then another. Footsteps, getting louder as they got closer, making their way along the fence. They were slow and uneven, kicking up mud around them, snapping twigs as they got closer.

Aiden swallowed, watching as a hand, translucent in the light, slid along the fence toward them, its owner blocked by the bleachers. It sounded like they were mumbling, groaning under their breath.

“Shut up,” Peter whispered, crouching farther back into the darkness. His leg was bouncing uncomfortably against the bench, making a metallic click.

The figure passed through a break in the bleachers, and yellow light found its face.

“Eddy?” Aiden asked.

As soon as Eddy heard his name, he stopped.

“What are you doing here?”

Aiden stood, but the noise must have frightened Eddy because he spun immediately, running off-balance in the opposite direction.

“Eddy, what are you . . . ?” They watched him go to the other side of the fence, disappearing down the nearest path toward the school.

“Fucking weird, man,” Peter whispered under his breath. “Well, write it down, I guess. Who knows what’s got him all fucked up.”

Aiden stared after the spot where Eddy had disappeared. “He freaked out last night, remember?”

“Yeah, I doubt he’s forgot either, the way you fucking railed him.”

“Somebody had to stop him,” Aiden snapped back.

“Yeah,” Peter muttered. “Tell yourself that . . .”

They were interrupted by the bottom of the fence sliding against the concrete. They both readied themselves, ducking to get a look at the far end of the court. It was another hooded figure, this one in blue jeans and black hoodie, the hood fully drawn over its face. It ambled to the center of the court and stopped in the middle circle.

“It’s them,” Aiden whispered.

“You got the bag ready, just in case?”

Aiden held it up.

They didn’t have to wait long—two more people showed up, also wearing black hoods and moving slowly. One was short, and taking slow, purposeful steps, and another was thick. They didn’t say anything as they followed in the same path to the center of the court.

“Fucking hell,” Peter whispered. “They’re not even talking to each other.”

Three more people showed up in the exact same attire, walked the exact same path, and took their place around the rim of the center circle. None of them interacted. None of them looked