me. I walked out to check that the deadbolt and chain on the door were secure before sliding back into my bed.
What was Brian doing in Elton? Elton was an hour’s drive from Francine Frances. Was he from Elton? I had so many questions. Did he register at my school before or after we met? Did he have any idea I was a student here? He looked too old for high school. I hoped Pixie was right before and he thought I looked older, too. I liked the idea that I could pass for college age. It’d make getting along next year easier if I didn’t look like a child.
I combed through our conversation from the flea market. We had talked about coffee addiction and how I didn’t sleep. I honestly couldn’t remember him saying anything too specific about himself, and he had asked very little about me. We talked and walked and laughed. He bartered with an Amish woman over the price of her pies. He lost, but he still bought one. What would he do with an entire pie?
He rode a motorcycle. Shiny, blue, and mildly intimidating, but not a clue to his deep, dark secrets. No one had been with him at the coffee shop. I still wasn’t sure if he had gotten there before or after I arrived. Though he said he saw me arrive, I hadn’t seen him. He didn’t talk to many people at school either. He could be shy like me, but that didn’t align with the confidence he’d shown in Elton. What else did I know about Brian? He had commented on some art from Germany at the flea market. Maybe his family traveled. He had mentioned the Peace Corps, but I couldn’t remember why. Very little of what he had said meant anything. I rubbed my arms as a chill slid over them. He was big enough to be dangerous. If he was following me … I swallowed hard. No. Brian wasn’t the bad guy. There was no bad guy. I hoped.
The apartment creaked and settled around me. Pixie was sound asleep, along with everyone else in the time zone.
I booted up my laptop. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d get a jump on our Sociology assignment. I was about to type Gabriella Smith in the search box, but instead I searched the local news site for references to a serial killer in the area. One small article reported that the FBI had contacted local police regarding a serial-killer case. The details were minimal at best, limited to names I didn’t know and the date and time of the contact. Whoever had started the rumor at school had either misread the article or intended to scare the rest of us with the news. I shook my hands at the wrists, utterly tense.
I opened a new window and typed Brian Austin into the search engine. Pages of hits came back. I clicked on the one from D.C. first. I loved D.C. All my memories there were happy ones. We lived there until my mother died. After that, Dad avoided big cities at all costs, as if people in small towns never had car accidents.
The Brian Austin in D.C. was in his nineties. I giggled. The article was an obituary. The smile fell off my face. A small write-up in the local paper covered his lifelong career in the military and dedication to his country and community. I read a few words about his sons and grandsons who “followed in his endeavor to protect and serve our country.” The article was mildly engaging but useless. It was a little interesting that someone with his name had lived in D.C. with me when I was a kid.
I looked for another Brian Austin until nearly dawn. Nothing came up matching a high school guy. Not even a Facebook profile. I expected to find a newspaper article with a photo of him on his teammates’ shoulders somewhere. He looked like an athlete, a star, someone who could do anything. Another shiver passed over me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Chapter Six
I fell asleep at my desk and woke to the sound of my alarm clock for the first time in years. Sleep time: one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Didn’t matter. I was amped. My heart rate spiked at the idea of intrigue. Brian could be another guy like Davis, new to
What was Brian doing in Elton? Elton was an hour’s drive from Francine Frances. Was he from Elton? I had so many questions. Did he register at my school before or after we met? Did he have any idea I was a student here? He looked too old for high school. I hoped Pixie was right before and he thought I looked older, too. I liked the idea that I could pass for college age. It’d make getting along next year easier if I didn’t look like a child.
I combed through our conversation from the flea market. We had talked about coffee addiction and how I didn’t sleep. I honestly couldn’t remember him saying anything too specific about himself, and he had asked very little about me. We talked and walked and laughed. He bartered with an Amish woman over the price of her pies. He lost, but he still bought one. What would he do with an entire pie?
He rode a motorcycle. Shiny, blue, and mildly intimidating, but not a clue to his deep, dark secrets. No one had been with him at the coffee shop. I still wasn’t sure if he had gotten there before or after I arrived. Though he said he saw me arrive, I hadn’t seen him. He didn’t talk to many people at school either. He could be shy like me, but that didn’t align with the confidence he’d shown in Elton. What else did I know about Brian? He had commented on some art from Germany at the flea market. Maybe his family traveled. He had mentioned the Peace Corps, but I couldn’t remember why. Very little of what he had said meant anything. I rubbed my arms as a chill slid over them. He was big enough to be dangerous. If he was following me … I swallowed hard. No. Brian wasn’t the bad guy. There was no bad guy. I hoped.
The apartment creaked and settled around me. Pixie was sound asleep, along with everyone else in the time zone.
I booted up my laptop. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d get a jump on our Sociology assignment. I was about to type Gabriella Smith in the search box, but instead I searched the local news site for references to a serial killer in the area. One small article reported that the FBI had contacted local police regarding a serial-killer case. The details were minimal at best, limited to names I didn’t know and the date and time of the contact. Whoever had started the rumor at school had either misread the article or intended to scare the rest of us with the news. I shook my hands at the wrists, utterly tense.
I opened a new window and typed Brian Austin into the search engine. Pages of hits came back. I clicked on the one from D.C. first. I loved D.C. All my memories there were happy ones. We lived there until my mother died. After that, Dad avoided big cities at all costs, as if people in small towns never had car accidents.
The Brian Austin in D.C. was in his nineties. I giggled. The article was an obituary. The smile fell off my face. A small write-up in the local paper covered his lifelong career in the military and dedication to his country and community. I read a few words about his sons and grandsons who “followed in his endeavor to protect and serve our country.” The article was mildly engaging but useless. It was a little interesting that someone with his name had lived in D.C. with me when I was a kid.
I looked for another Brian Austin until nearly dawn. Nothing came up matching a high school guy. Not even a Facebook profile. I expected to find a newspaper article with a photo of him on his teammates’ shoulders somewhere. He looked like an athlete, a star, someone who could do anything. Another shiver passed over me. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
Chapter Six
I fell asleep at my desk and woke to the sound of my alarm clock for the first time in years. Sleep time: one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Didn’t matter. I was amped. My heart rate spiked at the idea of intrigue. Brian could be another guy like Davis, new to
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