Feral (30 page)

Rich stood framed by the jagged hole of the back windshield, a tire iron in his hand. “Is everybody okay?” he shouted. “Claire?”

Rhine raced across the lot, screaming at Rich, “Put it down. What are you doing? Put it
down
!”

Rich tossed the tire iron into the parking lot. “Something's wrong with Owen's car,” Rich yelled, pointing.

Owen finally wrenched his door free, and burst from the car, gasping. “Everything,” he said, pointing a wavering finger at his car. “Everything stuck. We were stuck in there, with the heat going up. And the air—it was like we were—we were
suffocating in there
!”

Chas let out a hoot as he threw open his own door, pointed at the busted back windshield. “Man, Owen's dad's going to skin you alive,” he told Rich, wheezing out a laugh. “But thanks. Seriously. I thought we were goners.” He stuck out his hand to shake Rich's.

Claire crawled across the back bench seat, trying not to put her hands on any of the glass that had sprayed through the inside of the car.

Owen shoved Chas as Claire pulled herself out. “You're so stupid. It's not a joke!” he screamed, still panicked.

“Me!
I'm
stupid? What about
you
?” Chas shouted back. “You're the one always messing around under the hood. And what happens? Complete and total electrical meltdown. Nice job, genius.”

“Leave him alone,” Becca shouted. “Isn't it natural to be afraid of something like that right now? Huh?” She shoved his chest, adding, “Why don't you ask
Serena
about how scary it is to suffocate?”

“Oh, get
off it
!” Chas screamed. “Enough with this Serena crap. She died. It's too bad. But it's over now. And
this guy
,” he went on, wagging a thumb at Owen, “has been acting weird for
weeks.
Months, even. Way before Serena.

“What the hell's changed?” he asked Owen. “Whatever's in your head, you're still Owen Martin—a guy with a solid 2.0 average, who's a half-assed halfback, who drives a now-banged-up car. You want to know why I went to Ruthie's? Because
you
sure as hell weren't around to hang out with. You stick your nose up at everything—even the shooting range last weekend. Nothing's good enough for you anymore. Not even your best friend. There's no
reason
for you to act better than anybody, you asshole. Because you're
not
.”

“You get your own ride to school from now on,” Owen said. “And the dance. And—”

“Screw you, Owen!” Chas shouted. “I'm not going to the dance, remember? How many times do I have to tell you and your girlfriend?
I'm not going to the dance.
And why would I
want
to ride in that thing, anyway?” he asked, pointing at the shattered back windshield. “Have fun freezing your ass off, buddy.” He grabbed his backpack and stormed off, while Becca watched, wide-eyed.

She reached out, put her arm on Owen's shoulder, but he lurched out of her reach. “Knock it off, all right?” he said. “Just—quit it. For God's sake.”

“Hey,” Rhine said, stepping in between Owen and his sister. “I think we all need to cool it. Had a little scare. Now Becca and Claire need to make sure they get all that glass off. They need to get to class. We need to get this thing out of the way so everybody else can park,” he told Owen. “I'll help you find some plastic bags in the kitchen. We'll cover that hole, till you can get the car out of here this afternoon. All right?”

Owen nodded, his eyes still wild.

“I'll go with you,” Rich told Claire, but Rhine caught his arm.

“Oh, no,” Rhine insisted. “I'm gonna get stuck having to write up an incident report, thanks to you. Which means you're going to help me. I've got to do this by the book.”

Claire and Becca headed for the entrance together. Claire tried to use the streams of students as an opportunity to slip away from Becca and any possibility of her hauling out an overly concerned hospital voice, after what had just happened. But Becca was having none of it. She grabbed Claire's wrist, forcing her to follow.

The glass brushed out easily enough, straight into the trash can in the women's bathroom. Becca's fingers felt soothing as she ran her hands through Claire's mane, helping her check one last time for anything sharp. But the feeling that had exploded into Claire's chest, right along with the flying glass, wasn't so easy to brush away.

Suddenly, as she went through her morning classes, it wasn't just the school basement that felt dangerous—not just the woods, not just the unfolding stories of Serena's and Casey's deaths. After what had happened in the parking lot, it felt as though everything had the power to inflict serious damage—even things that had previously seemed utterly harmless: the sharp corners of test papers, the electricity buzzing through wall sconces in Peculiar High, the tiny serrated edges of the butter knives in the cafeteria.

As she sat down at what had become her usual lunch table, Claire hoped she would pick up on something—some vibe that indicated everyone else fought the same fears. But no one spoke, not even Rich. They all kept their heads turned down, toward their plates.

Claire ached for someone to mention what had happened that morning—thought about trying to offer a “Jeez. Wasn't that insane?” But the mood was far too serious. And not serious enough at the same time.

They just think his car went haywire. They don't know how Serena is talking, trying to get my attention. Well, she's got it now. Why doesn't she just tell me what she wants?
She shivered; being the only person who knew that car had not simply malfunctioned made her feel exposed and vulnerable.

A chair scratched against the floor beside Chas, and Ruthie sat down. “I heard,” she announced, leaning forward, forcing the material of her blouse to tug against the buttons. “About what happened this morning. Are you guys okay?”

She stared with wide eyes at Chas, who only shook his head at her and angled his body so that the back of his shoulder turned toward her. “What? I can ask if you're okay, can't I?”

Chas slammed a fist against the table and thundered, “Don't start with that clutchy crap. I can't stand it.”

“Chas,” Ruthie protested.

But Chas ignored the wounded look on her face, grabbed his tray, and stomped off.

Owen shook his head, picked up his own tray, and followed after Chas as Becca lowered her forehead into her hands.

Claire glanced up at Rich, fearfully.
Temper
, she mouthed as she raised her eyebrows.

Rich clenched his jaw and nodded reluctantly.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

D
r. Cain texted Claire, requesting that she come directly home after school that day. Sanders had called to inform him of the mishap in the parking lot—and assured him of his daughter's safety—but the father in him needed to see her for himself. When she arrived, he hugged her like a parent who had just been reunited with his toddler after being separated from her in a shopping mall.

Claire honored his wishes, even though it felt to her that the clock was ticking increasingly louder. The time for finding the answers to Serena's death was passing quickly. Clues were disappearing by the minute—and were certainly not to be found on the Simses' old couch, beneath cushions loaded with long-lost spare change and ancient potato chip crumbs.

The next morning, shortly after the tardy bell announced that Thursday was officially in full swing, Mavis waved Claire to her desk. “I need a blurb on the incident in the parking lot,” she told Claire. “What happened yesterday. With Owen Martin's car.”

Claire bristled. “Why?”

“For our ‘Goings-On' section,” Mavis informed her. “It's a little column, highlighting stories too small to be features. We all take turns with it. And frankly, I need to see something from you. A reputation can only carry you so far.”

“But why
that
story?” Claire asked. The tone in her voice caused Rich to pull himself from his own seat and weave through the students all bustling about the classroom, working on their own projects, calling about ad space.

“I'm sorry—I thought you were there,” Mavis said, frowning at Claire behind her glasses. “Don't you know Owen? I'd thought it would be easy for you to get a quote. If I've got it wrong—”

Claire shook her head, took a step away. She couldn't write it, not even a little blurb—because she didn't have the whole story about the car. It was a sign, a clue—someone with an agenda had
made
the heat go haywire. She had assumed it was Serena, but couldn't it have also been Casey? One of—or worse yet,
all of
—the spirits in the town fog?

Claire knew firsthand that bad things happened to girls who turned in a story without knowing exactly who was gaining on her from behind. . . .

As Claire stared, Mavis reached toward a pile of papers on the corner of her desk. “Here,” she said, holding a previous edition of the paper toward Claire. “Here's an example.”

To Claire's dismay, the example was written by Serena Sims. Three hundred words on the exploding feral cat population that dominated the fields surrounding Peculiar High. The photo she'd included in the story was of Sweet Pea, the cat's tricolored, mangled face staring out from the tiny column. As Claire stared back, wisps of color began to shift behind the cat's face.

Wild creatures, all of 'em
, she heard, rattling around in her skull. Suddenly dizzy, she staggered on her heels, tossing the paper back on Mavis's desk.

“We'll work on it together,” Rich offered, putting his hand under Claire's arm. She took a deep breath, letting Rich steady her. But when she glanced up at him to smile appreciatively, the way he eyed her made her flinch. She didn't like the heavy concern tugging the corners of his mouth down.

“I can do it,” Claire insisted, finally hoisting a smile on her face just before she returned to her computer. But the blurb was proving to be an exercise in little more than staring into a blank screen. She really did try—to get Rich's alarmed stare off her, to appease Mavis—but getting words on a page felt more like trying to get three hundred winged insects to all stay put on the same sheet of paper.

“Did you ever finish it?” Rich asked that afternoon, after the final bell, as they headed for his truck.

“I never actually
started
it,” Claire grumbled, never anticipating he would take her arm and steer her straight back toward the journalism classroom.

“Come on. You can do this. Just don't overthink it,” he said as they moved like salmon against the stream, deeper into the school from which the rest of their classmates only wanted to escape.

Don't overthink it
, Claire thought sarcastically as she sat back at her computer.
Everything here needs to be overthought. Literally. Everything. Nothing is as it seems, not even the car, not even a heater. The truth of what is going on in this town is closing in, and no one recognizes it, and now even Rich is looking at me with concern. Will anyone listen when I uncover the full truth?

As her computer booted, her phone went off. Claire glanced at the screen:
U ok? PLS ANSWER
from Rachelle. She turned the phone off, tossed it into her backpack.

“All right. Let's do this,” Rich announced, cracking his knuckles and raising his eyebrows in a way that made her laugh. He talked her through the three hundred words, and a little over an hour later, he printed the finished article and placed it in the center of Mavis's desk. “She'll be impressed if it's waiting for her here first thing,” he promised.

But Claire only wanted to snatch that blurb right back, race away with it, tear it up. That story was full of lies.
An electrical malfunction caused quite the stir Wednesday morning in the Peculiar High parking lot, as . . .

Before Claire quite knew what was happening, the journalism door fell shut behind them and their feet were echoing through the stairwell.

Winter's early twilight had already begun to settle over Peculiar by the time Rich and Claire made their way through the parking lot.

Claire hoisted herself into Rich's truck, hugging her backpack against her chest as he cranked the ignition. But the dashboard lights only flashed dimly, and the engine coughed twice before sputtering to silence.

“Come on,” he growled, cranking the engine again. He cranked a third time, slamming his foot against the gas pedal. But the truck refused to start.

“Damn,” Rich cursed, slapping the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

He glanced about the lot, but everyone had gone—even Rhine. “Wouldn't you know? Dad's at church.”

“It's Thursday, though,” Claire protested.

“There's always something going on at the church. Tonight is grief counseling—an idea inspired by Becca's last visit, no doubt. Tomorrow, the quilting bee meets downstairs. What about your dad?”

“He was going to have to work late today,” Claire said, remembering the conversation she'd only half listened to during breakfast. “He didn't really want to, but . . . I think he's been cutting it short to make sure he's home when I am—I think he's probably way behind. I bet I'm going to wind up screwing up his entire sabbatical,” she admitted.

“Not your fault what's been happening,” Rich said quietly.

Claire nodded slightly. “So now what?” she asked.

“Now, we walk,” Rich told her, pointing toward the cluster of trees in the distance.

Claire felt as though the entire contents of her stomach had frozen, right along with Rich's engine. “Are you sure—maybe we—”