soon as he saw that Chelsea and her father were the only ones working in the restaurant.
What if Sparks was sent ahead to check out the place for the other three guys?
That would explain why he hurried out so quickly.And why the kids had appeared a short while later.
It canât be possibleâ
can
it? Chelsea asked herself.
Well, if he
is
one of them, heâll never come back.
He knows if he comes back, he could be caught.
Her mind spun faster than the images of the MTV video. She suddenly felt as if her brain were about to burst. She shut her eyes tight, the sound of the video throbbing in her ears.
What if he
does
come back?
What will I do?
chapter 6
Â
I t was cold by the river, but pretty.
He liked cold weather. He liked the sharpness of wind that cut right through him. He liked the heaviness of it in his nostrils and against his forehead.
The morning sun was still low over the trees. Droplets of cold water clung to the shock of curly black hair protruding from under his wool ski cap. The wind gusted past him, then calmed.
The river was wider than he had imagined. He liked the cold, trickling sound it made as it moved past. Standing in the tall grass, he stared motionless into the bubbling brown waters for a long time, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.
The wind swirled and returned to blow the grass almost flat against his ankles. It felt good. Goodagainst his face too. His face was burning, burning. He needed the wind to cool it.
The river was called the Conononka. Thatâs what the sign had said. It was probably an Indian name. What did it mean? Small, muddy river?
He chuckled to himself.
Across the river, wooded cliffs rose. He could see a road winding up them to the top. River Road it was called. He had read his map, studied it carefully.
He pulled off the wool ski cap and jammed it into his jacket pocket. It was keeping him warm. He wanted to feel cold. Especially his face. His face always felt so hot, as if he were under a burning sun, as if he were sunburned. The air was so cold, so sharp. But still it didnât cool his face.
He started walking again through the tall grass, his boots making squishing sounds in the soft ground, his cuffs soaked through from the morning dew.
Shadyside wasnât a bad town, he decided.
Heâd made a good choice.
It was a pretty town, for the most part. And the river was nice.
He liked looking at the big houses in North Hills with their big, clean front yards, their tall hedges and perfectly trimmed evergreens. Of course, he could never fit in there. He didnât belong, and he knew it.
He liked the Old Village too, a more friendly part of Shadyside, more comfortable, more familiar.
Not a bad town, he thought, picking up a large, flat pebble from near the shore and trying to skip it across the rapidly flowing water.
It sank out of sight.
Of course, there were girls in this town who needed to die.
Girls just like you, Mom, he thought, jamming his hands back into his pockets.
He felt the anger begin again.
It always started in his stomach, then worked its way up his back until his neck muscles tightened. Then his head started to throb, throb with pain, throb from the anger.
And his face felt so hot, so burning hot.
The cold, trickling water, the cool, gusting wind, the damp, swaying grass at his feetânone of it helped.
None of it could stop the anger once it started.
And once he started thinking about his mother, the anger always came.
Some girls need to die, Mom. Just like you.
He had felt the anger for so many years. Since he was four.
Since his parents divorced.
Since his mother went away and took his big sister to live with her.
Since he was left with his father.
You knew what you were doing, Mom, he thought, heaving another stone into the river, heaving it with all his might, with all his anger, not trying to make it skip, trying to bury it deep, deep in the murky, brown waters.
You knew what you were
What if Sparks was sent ahead to check out the place for the other three guys?
That would explain why he hurried out so quickly.And why the kids had appeared a short while later.
It canât be possibleâ
can
it? Chelsea asked herself.
Well, if he
is
one of them, heâll never come back.
He knows if he comes back, he could be caught.
Her mind spun faster than the images of the MTV video. She suddenly felt as if her brain were about to burst. She shut her eyes tight, the sound of the video throbbing in her ears.
What if he
does
come back?
What will I do?
chapter 6
Â
I t was cold by the river, but pretty.
He liked cold weather. He liked the sharpness of wind that cut right through him. He liked the heaviness of it in his nostrils and against his forehead.
The morning sun was still low over the trees. Droplets of cold water clung to the shock of curly black hair protruding from under his wool ski cap. The wind gusted past him, then calmed.
The river was wider than he had imagined. He liked the cold, trickling sound it made as it moved past. Standing in the tall grass, he stared motionless into the bubbling brown waters for a long time, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.
The wind swirled and returned to blow the grass almost flat against his ankles. It felt good. Goodagainst his face too. His face was burning, burning. He needed the wind to cool it.
The river was called the Conononka. Thatâs what the sign had said. It was probably an Indian name. What did it mean? Small, muddy river?
He chuckled to himself.
Across the river, wooded cliffs rose. He could see a road winding up them to the top. River Road it was called. He had read his map, studied it carefully.
He pulled off the wool ski cap and jammed it into his jacket pocket. It was keeping him warm. He wanted to feel cold. Especially his face. His face always felt so hot, as if he were under a burning sun, as if he were sunburned. The air was so cold, so sharp. But still it didnât cool his face.
He started walking again through the tall grass, his boots making squishing sounds in the soft ground, his cuffs soaked through from the morning dew.
Shadyside wasnât a bad town, he decided.
Heâd made a good choice.
It was a pretty town, for the most part. And the river was nice.
He liked looking at the big houses in North Hills with their big, clean front yards, their tall hedges and perfectly trimmed evergreens. Of course, he could never fit in there. He didnât belong, and he knew it.
He liked the Old Village too, a more friendly part of Shadyside, more comfortable, more familiar.
Not a bad town, he thought, picking up a large, flat pebble from near the shore and trying to skip it across the rapidly flowing water.
It sank out of sight.
Of course, there were girls in this town who needed to die.
Girls just like you, Mom, he thought, jamming his hands back into his pockets.
He felt the anger begin again.
It always started in his stomach, then worked its way up his back until his neck muscles tightened. Then his head started to throb, throb with pain, throb from the anger.
And his face felt so hot, so burning hot.
The cold, trickling water, the cool, gusting wind, the damp, swaying grass at his feetânone of it helped.
None of it could stop the anger once it started.
And once he started thinking about his mother, the anger always came.
Some girls need to die, Mom. Just like you.
He had felt the anger for so many years. Since he was four.
Since his parents divorced.
Since his mother went away and took his big sister to live with her.
Since he was left with his father.
You knew what you were doing, Mom, he thought, heaving another stone into the river, heaving it with all his might, with all his anger, not trying to make it skip, trying to bury it deep, deep in the murky, brown waters.
You knew what you were
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