In the Blood (Entangled Teen) Page 3

  “Sorry, I didn’t notice him. I was thinking about the letter Dad sent me,” I say, intentionally drawing my thoughts away from my feelings for Summer, which really need suppressing. Because no good can come of them, however much I dream of a future with just the two of us, away from this hellhole.

  “Oh.” In an instant, her expression changes to one of concern.

  “Yeah, it’s ‘oh’ all right,” I say, stopping and looking directly into her eyes. “For the first time ever, he mentioned what he did. Sort of admitted it.”

  Summer’s eyes widen. It’s like I can almost see her thoughts processing. “But didn’t he plead not guilty?”

  It hits me without warning that I’m not ready to discuss this. Not with Summer or anyone. There are so many crazy ideas careering through my head about this it feels like my brain’s gonna burst.

  “You know what, I can’t talk about it. Sorry, Summer. I’ll run with you another time. Right now, I need to be on my own. Sorry.”

  I take off without waiting for her to reply. She’ll understand. She’s that type of girl. She understands everything. I just hope she doesn’t get fed up of me and all this, because then I’d be totally fucked.

  I’d already lost my dad, and my mom’s now a walking zombie. I can’t lose Summer, too.

  I quicken my pace until I’m running so hard my chest is as tight as the skin on a drum. I run like this for a while, ignoring my surroundings just concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other, until I start to gasp for breath and eventually have to slow down to a jog.

  I’d forgotten his plea, until Summer mentioned it. Maybe it wasn’t an admission and I got it wrong. Because surely the police would’ve read the letter and used it as evidence, if they’re allowed to. The law and evidence is crazy, if the TV shows are anything to go by. I really don’t know what to think. What else could his words mean? And it’s not like I didn’t already know he’s guilty. The hair belonging to those boys sealed it.

  I swallow hard, remembering... I was standing in the doorway of Mom and Dad’s bedroom when the detectives excitedly found his “souvenirs.” I’d crept back in, even though we were told to wait outside during the search. I was so angry with the police for barging in and pointing the finger at him, and I wanted to be there when they came up with nothing. I wanted to accuse them of being so stupid that they should resign and leave the policing to those who knew how to do the job.

  What an idiot I was. The feeling of absolute horror that engulfed my body when his trinket box of different colored hair was found will stay with me forever. A DNA test wasn’t needed for me to know the truth. None of the hair matched mine or Amy’s.

  And when they showed Dad what they had, his face paled, and his body went like stone. Mom and I stood there in silence, staring at him (luckily, Amy was playing in the den) but he refused to look at us.

  They took him away and I never saw him again.

  Chapter Nine

  I wake with a start, my breathing heavy and labored. Blinking furiously, it takes a few seconds before I realize, with relief, that I’m in bed. That I’d been having a nightmare. A fucking disgusting nightmare.

  It was the most sickening and scariest thing ever. I was in my dad’s head while he went child hunting. He stood behind a tree, watching boys in a playground. And all the time he was fixated on a small boy with blond curly hair, who looked about six. And I could hear all his thoughts. Except they didn’t seem like normal thoughts; they were like sound-bites:

  Come to Daddy, little boy, it won’t hurt a bit.

  You know you want to.

  You’re making…

  STOP.

  I shake my head to bring myself back to reality. I spit into a tissue the bile that had shot into my mouth as I was reliving the dream and wipe my lips over and over, to try and rid the foul taste of the whole experience.

  It’s revolting.

  He’s revolting.

  How could he do those things to such poor, defenseless kids?

  Does he feel no shame?

  Does he justify it to himself?

  I don’t understand.

  I. Do. Not. Understand.

  But I want to. I need to.

  Up until now, I’d been too scared to find out more. But after what Foster said, and now Dad’s letter, I have to. I throw off the comforter and head to my desk where I open my laptop and Google the word “pedophiles,” determined not to move until I know everything there is to know about them. All about their lives, their backgrounds, their families. Anything that will give me a handle on what makes someone act so inhumanely.

  Pacing up and down my bedroom floor, I glance across at my laptop, appearing so innocuous as it sits open on the desk. Except it’s anything but. Since early this morning, I’ve been flicking from one screen to another. Reading several times all the cases, tabloid speculation, and research, that I’d saved in both date and context order for future reference. Paying particular attention to pedophiles who are also serial killers.

  Trying to make sense of everything.

  Trying to make sense of what Dad did, and why he did it.

  It’s so scary. It really is.

  Pedophilia isn’t a curable condition. Once a pedophile, always a pedophile, whatever type you are. And, believe it or not, there are different types of pedophiles. My dad is the worst kind. A “sadistic pedophile:”

  Will travel far to gain access to his victim. Check.

  Intelligent. Check.

  Middle class. Check

  Ruthlessly abuses and sometimes kills his victim. Double check.

  And let’s not forget the OCD tendencies? They’re common among all types of pedophile. And Dad certainly verged on OCD, that’s for sure. Just like me. But just because I’m similar in that respect doesn’t mean I’m going to turn out like him. No way is Foster right about that.

  Oh, and get this, it’s common for them to hold down a really good job, so no one suspects them. How accurate is that? Dad was a pharmaceutical sales rep with a big company. The perfect job for a sadistic pedophile because he was away from home so often and he was very hard to keep track of. And he earned good money, had a big car, expense account, all that crap. And also true to type, he did a lot in the community. He was always first to volunteer down the homeless shelter or offer to help out if someone was having problems. Everyone’s friend. As normal as the next guy.

  Normal. What a fucking joke.

  I can’t believe we were all so dumb that not one of us knew, or even suspected that my dad was a textbook pedophile.

  Without warning, scalding tears burn the back of my eyes, and a couple force their way out despite trying to stop them. It feels like my head’s gonna explode. Why did this have to happen? Nothing’s ever gonna be the same again. I drop to the floor and rest my head on my knees. After a few seconds I angrily wipe the stray tears from my face with the back of my hand, annoyed with myself for acting like a girl, then jump up and lunge toward my closet.

  Opening the door, I fumble around in the corner until I find the bottle of vodka that I bought a while ago, using my fake ID. I haven’t drank much yet as I prefer beer. It’s strategically stashed under several layers of clothes strewn along the bottom. In a way, it’s good that Mom doesn’t come into my room anymore, because if she saw the mess in my closet, she’d know it was there for a purpose. I’m the tidiest person on the planet; no way would I normally have a closet like this. It took a long time for me to suppress the urge to tidy it every time I opened the door.

  I unscrew the cap and take a large swig. It burns my throat on the way down, and I start to cough. Glancing up at the clock, I realize it’s only ten in the morning, no wonder it’s hard to swallow. Urrgh.

  “Jed,” the sound of Amy’s voice causes me to quickly screw the top on the bottle and throw it back into the closet.

  “In here,” I call.

  I hear her tiny footsteps as she runs along the hall, and a feeling of despair engulfs me. She’s so innocent,
but how long will that remain? How long will it be until she is faced with the reality of our situation?

  Chapter Ten

  “Hey, dude,” Troy says as we meet when walking from the parking lot into school after lunch.

  Amy’s school called earlier because she was sick, and I had to collect her and take her home. It seems they’d tried Mom, but she didn’t answer. She was there when we arrived and said she didn’t hear her cell or the landline. Amy was already feeling a lot better by that time, so I left her in front of the TV watching cartoons. I almost didn’t come back to school, then changed my mind at the last minute. Mainly because I’d promised to give Summer a ride home.

  “Hey. How did it go yesterday?” I ask.

  Troy’s one of our top tennis players and should make state finals. We play together sometimes, but it’s crazy. He serves at over a hundred miles an hour. Which can be very dangerous when you’re facing him. Not to mention the potential damage he could cause your junk.

  “No contest,” he says, grinning. “Nicole and I are going out to Luigi’s tonight to celebrate. Do you and Summer want to come?”

  Summer and Nic are friends, so going out as a four will be good. No awkward questions. Troy and Nic just treat me the same as they always have.

  “Sure. I’ll text you later after checking with Summer.”

  I turn right and head down the corridor to math class. As I push open the door and step inside the class, someone pushes me from behind.

  “Move it, perv.”

  It’s Foster.

  Refusing to let him through, I stand my ground and turn to face him, crossing my arms so they’re inches away from his chest. My fists clench as anger courses through my veins. What is it about this guy that even his breathing annoys me to distraction?

  “Or what?” I snarl.

  The constant buzzing of voices gradually stops and there’s silence as everyone stares in our direction waiting to see what’s gonna happen next. Foster is flanked by two of his groupies who both stand a good head taller than him.

  “Or I’ll make you.” A smug expression crosses his face, and he looks from side to side as if he’s desperate for recognition from his friends.

  What a fucking idiot.

  “Yeah right. You can’t do a thing without your two bridesmaids here. You’re pathetic, Foster.”

  I start to turn and head for my seat at the back of the class when, suddenly, he grabs my arm. “What did you say?”

  My insides clench. What is it with this guy that he gets off on pushing me as far as he can?

  “You heard. You’re pathetic. You wanna fight? Well, outside now. You and me.” I lock eyes with him and notice the panic cross his face. He’s scared. The pathetic bastard is scared. Well, let’s see him try and worm his way out of this.

  In my peripheral vision, I notice others in the class drawing in until they’ve almost formed a circle around us.

  “Later,” he says. “We’ve got math now.”

  I burst out laughing, and so do lots of others. He can’t be serious.

  “Later,” I mimic. “We’ve got math now.”

  That seems to do the trick, because Foster draws back his fist and goes to punch me, except he’s way too slow and I block it, and return with a sharp jab to the end of his nose. It makes a satisfying crack, and he squeals like a pig and then lashes out, except he doesn’t connect with any part of me; it’s like fighting a girl he’s so useless. I haven’t boxed since Dad took me for lessons in eighth grade. He boxed when he was a boy and wanted me to, as well, but I didn’t enjoy it, even though I was good. Suddenly, I feel sick as I wonder if he used any of his boxing skills on his victims.

  “Foster. Franklin. Principal’s office NOW.” Mrs. Archer, the math teacher, hollers.

  Within seconds, the crowd that had gathered around us disperses, leaving Foster and me standing there.

  “I said NOW,” she hollers again, her hands on her hips, glaring at us.

  You don’t mess with Mrs. Archer. Not if you value your life. She’s a first class bitch.

  I push past Foster, and he lands a sly punch to my side, which makes me catch my breath, but it doesn’t hurt. I hurriedly make my way out of the class. The principal’s office is at the other end of the school, so I head in that direction, taking long strides so that Foster doesn’t catch me. I have no desire to be within a mile of him at the moment.

  The farther I walk, the more my heartbeat goes back to normal. The adrenaline has now dissipated, and I’m cursing myself for getting involved in a fight. Especially with that asswipe.

  What is it with me? Is there any aspect of my life that I have control over, or is it all out of my hands? Screw the principal. There’s nothing he can do to me that’s gonna make my life any better, so why should I stay?

  Instead of turning left toward his office, I keep on walking.

  “Hey, Franklin, where are you going?” Foster yells from behind me. “Principal’s office is this way.”

  “Send him my best,” I call over my shoulder. “I’m outta here.”

  I jog to the end of the hallway and out through the double doors onto the practice field. Then I make my way to the back of the bleachers and drop down onto the ground. I grope in my bag until finding what I’m looking for. The can of beer I hid in there this morning, in case of an emergency. I must have had a premonition.

  As my fingers curl around the can, a feeling of excitement floods through me, the anticipation of the first swallow overriding everything else that has happened. As I wrench the ring-pull there’s a loud hiss and beer froths over my hand and onto the ground. I lick the beer from my fingers then lift the can to my lips and allow the liquid to pour into my mouth. It might be warm, but it still tastes good as it tickles on its way down my throat into the pit of my stomach.

  I breathe in deeply and relax. I’d totally crack if it wasn’t for the beer and liquor. It’s the only thing that makes my life even remotely bearable. Especially school. God, I hate this place.

  You know, maybe I should leave school and look for a job. It’s not like I’m gonna go to college. Not now. As soon as they find out who my dad is, they’ll find some reason to reject me. Just like half the kids at school did when the whole story with my dad came out. Except what should I do? There’s nothing I want to do. Until it all happened, I’d planned on becoming an engineer, something to do with designing bridges. Couldn’t get enough of them when I was a kid. I’ll never forget when we went to San Francisco and Dad took me over the Golden Gate Bridge. Fuck, that’s a bridge and a half. Right now, though, the only thing I want to do with a bridge is jump off of one.

  The way my future’s mapped out, the whole study thing seems like such a waste of time. I could get a job in a garage. Then again, do I need to work? Mom’s got enough money to support me. I bet if I stopped going to school, she wouldn’t even notice. And I can intercept any emails that the school sends as she never checks them, so she won’t find out. Unless they call. Though she rarely answers her phone, anyway. I’ll have to go somewhere during the day so she doesn’t suspect. I could always sit in the park and drink beer.

  Thinking about the beer prompts me to lift the can. Only a few drops left, so after finishing, I squash the can with my foot then throw it back into my bag. Why didn’t I put two cans in there this morning, because I could really do with another? I don’t want to get out of it, just want enough to relax and think clearly about the trial on Monday. The pull to go is so strong that no one’s gonna stop me. The thought of actually seeing him, though… Fuck, it’s gonna be so hard. Especially when I think about my research into pedophiles. Everything I found out about them and how it all relates to Dad and what he did.

  And the question I keep coming back to is why didn’t he lay a hand on me? Didn’t he get the urge, or could he control his urges, sort of? The police thought he’d been abusing me. When he was arrested, I told them he didn’t do anything, but they wouldn’t believe me until finally, after I’d been seen by
three police offers, two psychiatrists, and a social worker, they were convinced I was telling the truth and not trying to protect him from even more trouble. Protect him? Ha. That’s a fucking joke. There’s nothing I’d do to protect him.

  Then they wanted to question Amy. Well, not question her like they questioned me, more get her to play and see if she did anything suspicious. Again, nothing. The disgusting monster, aka my father, was a regular dad. Go figure.

  I want to know if he took even the briefest amount of time to think about the impact of his behavior. On his victims, their families, and us. His own family. Did it even register with him that our lives would be destroyed, as well? I know it’s not the same as for his victims, of course. But living through this hell, day after day… There are no words.

  …

  “There they are,” Summer says, pointing to a booth at the back of the restaurant. “Come on, let’s go over.” She slips her arm through mine and pulls me past the other diners in the direction of Troy and Nic. I didn’t realize Luigi’s got so busy mid-week.

  After my run in with Foster, I’d decided to tell Troy we couldn’t make it and not even mention it to Summer. Except Nic got to her first and made the plans. So I didn’t have a choice. I guess it’ll be okay. Summer was her usual chatty self in the car, so I didn’t mention what happened earlier.

  “Hey, guys,” Nic says as we get close. She jumps up and gives us both a hug.

  I nod in the direction of Troy who stays seated, and Summer leans in and hugs him.

  After sliding into the booth I pick up the menu from the table. Just reading it causes my stomach to grumble.

  “You must be hungry,” Summer says, smiling, her eyes bright.

  Thinking back, I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. All I’ve had is the can of beer under the bleachers.

  “I missed lunch,” I say.

  “Let me have a look,” Summer says, leaning against me so she can see the menu. The warmth of her body sends a tiny shiver through me. “Mmmm. I think I’ll have fettuccini. What about you, Nic?”