In the Blood (Entangled Teen) Read online

  I smile inwardly. Maybe it was a good idea to come out tonight. It’s good to be with friends and not worry about everything for a while. To feel like a normal person again

  “Troy and I are sharing a pizza.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Summer says. “Forget the fettuccini. Wanna share a Meat Lovers pizza, Jed?”

  I can’t help grinning, as Summer is notorious for changing her mind many times, especially when it comes to food.

  “Sure. Meat Lovers would be good. Make it a large one.” Now that I’ve remembered about not eating, I’m starving.

  “Or what about a Hawaiian?’ Summer asks, biting on her bottom lip.

  “Whatever you choose is okay with me,” I say.

  “Heard about Foster today, dude,” Troy says, crashing into my good mood.

  “What?” Summer asks, looking up from the menu and glancing from me to Troy and back to me again.

  “Just his usual,” I say, shrugging. “You know what he’s like.”

  I really don’t want to rehash everything here. It’s not gonna change what happened; all it’s gonna do is make me mad.

  “What did he do?” Summer persists.

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk about it.” My muscles tense.

  “He’s a jerk,” Nic says. “I’ll never forgive him for telling the teacher I copied his work in fifth grade and getting me in trouble. When it was him copying me. So screw him.”

  “I don’t like him, either,” says Summer. “So, yes. Screw him.”

  I laugh. Troy laughs. And then we’re all laughing.

  They’re right. Screw him.

  Chapter Eleven

  P.E.D.O.P.H.I.L.E.

  The word stares back at me from the page where I’ve written it. We’re in math and meant to be working on a geometry problem, but I can’t focus.

  “Jed.”

  I start at the sound of my name and look up to see Mrs. Archer standing next to me, peering over the top of her gold half-rimmed glasses, her arms folded in front of her.

  “Yes.” I move my hand so it covers my doodling of the word “pedophile.” If she sees it, she might think I’m condoning what Dad did and then send me to the counselor, who’ll want to sit me down and talk it all through quicker than you can say lock him up.

  “Principal Gates wants to see you in his office. Take your books, you could be a long time.”

  I let out a long sigh. Being summoned to his office is hardly a surprise, after I disappeared yesterday. I bet Foster laid it on thick and made out like everything was my fault. I glance across to where Foster’s sitting with a smug expression on his face. He flips me the bird. Yeah, he definitely dropped me in it with the principal. But who the hell cares? What can he do to me that’s gonna make the slightest impact on my life?

  Nothing.

  I grab my books and head out of the class, stopping at my locker to leave them there. We’ve got math homework tonight, but I don’t intend to do it, so no point in taking the books home.

  “The principal will see you shortly,” Miss Smith, his assistant, says as I walk into her office before I have a chance to say anything. “Sit over there,” she says, nodding to the chairs against the wall before going back to collating sheets of paper on her desk.

  I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Checking my phone for the tenth time, I decide that I’ll give it one minute more, which will take it up to fifteen minutes since I sat down. Miss Smith left her desk a few minutes ago so, if I run, she won’t try to stop me.

  Counting down the seconds, I’m just about to stand when the principal’s door opens and he strides out.

  “Jed, come on through.”

  Following him into his office, I’m impressed by how tidy it is. I’d forgotten. You can count the number of times I’ve been in his office on one hand. Despite my recent behavior, I’m not one of those kids who are always being sent to him. I used to be a model student. Well, not a total nerd. I just didn’t get into trouble. He gestures for me to sit on one of the four easy chairs which surround a low coffee table and he sits opposite.

  “You were meant to see me yesterday with Darren Foster. What happened?”

  “He asked for it,” I mutter, slouching in the chair, resting my hands in my lap.

  “I’m not referring to the fight. But that doesn’t mean I’m condoning it, even though I know how difficult Darren can be. I’m talking about where you went, instead of coming to see me.”

  “Home. I went home.” I strum my fingers on my leg and focus on the blue flecked carpet.

  “Jed,” he says, clasping his hands together and leaning in toward me in the classic I’m here to help pose.

  Really, sir? Here to help? And how much help can you offer the son of a pedophile, whose life, next week, is once again going to be in the spotlight?

  “I realize things are tough, especially with the trial coming up,” he continues, in that soft, kind tone. “Couldn’t be tougher. But you need to keep it together. Is there anything we can do?”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do,” I mutter.

  I hate all this do-gooding crap. He can’t change anything. He can’t make it all go away. So what’s the point?

  “Try to distance yourself from it and concentrate on yourself and your future,” he continues, totally ignoring what I just said. “We want to help you, but we can’t if you’re not prepared to help yourself.”

  Christ, could he come up with any more clichés? And how the fuck can I “distance” myself from everything? That’s like expecting the President to duck out to the supermarket unnoticed.

  “I’m okay.”

  I deliberately look at the floor. Can’t take the pity in his eyes. It’s almost as bad as the disgusted looks that some of the kids here give me.

  “You don’t have to cope on your own,” he says, yet again totally ignoring what I just said. “I understand you’re taking responsibility for your younger sister. If you need time off for any reason, you only have to ask. Just don’t disappear without permission. Likewise with homework. If you need extra time, you only have to ask. But don’t forget to do it or it won’t look good on your record if you let things slide.”

  Listen to him. He just doesn’t get it. What planet is he on if he thinks everything can be made right by having a good report card? That’s the trouble with teachers—they live in their own little school bubble and can’t see beyond it to what’s really happening.

  “Sure. Thanks.” I get up to leave.

  “Before you go, there’s the matter of the fight. I’ve given Darren three hours community service, and the same applies to you. I’m assuming you were provoked, but I can’t be seen to condone that type of behavior. Go see Coach Ames after school and he will find you a job to do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I slink down into the chair, pulling my gray hoodie tightly around me, and fix my eyes on the door used to bring in the prisoners. The courtroom’s full, everyone waiting with baited breath to see “The Arizona Monster” aka my dad. So far, no one has recognized me, which is a miracle seeing as half the street is here. Fucking rubberneckers.

  I asked Mom this morning if she was going to the trial, and she said no. Then, when I told her I was going, all she did was sigh loudly and say it was up to me. It’s like she doesn’t realize how important it is. Or maybe she doesn’t care.

  I’ve never been in a court before, only seen it on TV, and it’s very different from how I imagined. For a start, it looks like a classroom, apart from all the cops. I bet they’re expecting someone to take a swing at Dad. And who’d blame them? Not me, that’s for sure. Because, given the opportunity, I’d do the same thing.

  “Bring the prisoner in,” one of the cops calls.

  In an instant, the whole place is silent, and everyone’s head is turned in the direction of the door.

  A shiver runs down my spine, and I hold my breath as the door opens and Dad’s brought in, handcuffed and flanked by two prison officers. />
  Shit.

  Fucking shit.

  He’s got a black eye and looks at least twenty pounds lighter than when I last saw him. And he wasn’t overweight then. He sits in the dock, wearing the expensive Armani dark gray suit Mom bought him for work; he was wearing it the day he was arrested. He holds his head high, defiant almost. It’s like he’s still pretending to be innocent. That won’t last long once the evidence comes out.

  Starting from over the opposite side of the courtroom from me, he stares at everyone, each second his gaze getting closer and closer to where I’m sitting. I try to look away, to lower my head so he doesn’t realize it’s me, but something compels me to keep looking. Then it’s too late.

  Our eyes lock, and his light up. His lips turn up into a slight smile. My heart is pounding in my ears. What the fuck should I do? The guy sitting next to me whispers to the woman on his right, and she whispers to the person next to her, until everyone sitting in my row is giving me the most evil stares. My instinct is to get up and run. But I can’t. Not without causing even more of a freak show than I’m already doing. Instead, I force myself to look down and keep my eyes focused on the floor until the judge calls for opening statements.

  The prosecution lawyer stands and faces the jury.

  “Elliott James, Garret Mitchell, Robert Morrison, Ethan Lopez.” He pauses, glancing around the courtroom. Talk about theatrical. “Innocent children. Trusting children. Dead. Sexually assaulted and brutally murdered, in cold blood, by the accused.” He points his finger at Dad.

  Everyone stares at Dad, and he remains impassive. Not a flash of guilt, remorse, or sadness is remotely etched across his face. It’s like he’s totally divorcing himself from the whole proceedings. I don’t know this cold, insensitive man. He may look like my dad from the outside, but that’s where the similarity ends.

  The prosecutor outlines the evidence he’s going to present to the court, including witnesses. Something doesn’t seem right, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  The defense lawyer stands up next.

  “My client, Benjamin Franklin, is a family man, who loves his wife and children. And who’s been accused falsely.”

  My jaw drops. What the fuck? Falsely accused—how does he make that out? How’s he gonna deal with the hair in the trinket box?

  “All the evidence is circumstantial,” the lawyer continues. “My client was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the evidence will show this…”

  I rest my head in my hands. I don’t understand what’s going on.

  Circumstantial? That means there’s no concrete evidence, which doesn’t make sense. What about the hair? Why doesn’t that count? Why didn’t the prosecutor mention it?

  Or was the evidence planted? Is Dad not guilty? Have we got it wrong?

  No. NO.

  He is guilty. I saw his face when they found the trinket box. If it was planted, he’d have said so. Dad’s never been the sort of guy who takes things lying down. And I can’t forget he as good as admitted what he did in the letter he sent me. All this is probably some crazy-assed legal bullshit to try and get him off. So much for his doctrine that you should always own up to your mistakes and take the punishment.

  For some reason, the judge calls for a recess, and I decide to leave and go back to school. Coming here seemed like a good idea, so I could make some sense of everything, but all it’s done is confuse and sicken me even more. The opening statements were bad enough; no way can I sit through all the gruesome evidence the prosecution’s going to produce. To hear how those poor boys suffered. And I know now that it’s not going to help me learn any more about my father and why he did it. I don’t care what his defense lawyer says; in my heart, I’m sure he’s guilty.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Garret Tyler Winston Mitchell

  Age eight.

  Only child.

  Mother died in childbirth.

  Short red hair.

  Tall for his age; four feet ten.

  Collects spiders.

  Loves his daddy, who’s a dentist, more than anything in the whole world.

  Hates cleaning his teeth.

  Refuses to eat peas.

  Skateboards everywhere.

  Surprises his teachers with his extensive vocabulary.

  Learning to play the guitar.

  Best friends with Adam.

  Benjamin Franklin’s second victim.

  Dead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hey, Franklin,” Dobbs yells from across the other side of the locker room.

  “What?” I snap, not bothering to look up from tying my bootlaces.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize it will be something about my dad. Thanks to the trial starting today, the papers are rehashing everything he did. So all fingers are pointing at me. It’s not like I don’t get it. If it was another guy’s dad, I might have felt resentment toward him, and not even consider whether he knew anything about it or not.

  “What did the pedophile say when he was released from prison?” He pauses, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering. “I feel like a kid again.”

  Some of the guys laugh while I pretend to ignore them.

  “Except your dad won’t get out of prison,” Dobbs continues. “He’s heading for death row. Where he deserves to be.”

  I agree. If he’s guilty.

  I don’t get why, after deciding he’s definitely guilty, that I still keep thinking there’s a chance he could be innocent. I’ve gone over it time and time again. He fits the profile. He virtually admitted it to me. The evidence was there, even if, for some reason, it’s not coming out in court. If only he’d just plead guilty, and then I’d know absolutely. Then I can… What? What can I do?

  I rest my head in my hands.

  All I want is a sign.

  Holy fuck. A sign? Now I’m sounding like Summer. She’s into all that astrology and things-happening-for-a-reason crap. For years, she’s wanted me to go with her to some woman she sees for a card reading. Thank God I didn’t go, because what the hell would the woman have said to me if she really could see things in the cards?

  Whatever. When it comes to Dad, he’s guilty. I know he’s guilty. He knows he’s guilty. And that’s it. Definitely.

  “Death’s too good for him,” adds Foster, who never misses a shot.

  “Shut up, Foster,” Troy hollers.

  “Whose side are you on?” Foster replies.

  “I said shut the fuck up,” Troy repeats.

  “I’ll say what I want. And I’m right. Franklin’s dad should be sent to the worst prison, with the meanest inmates, who’ll make him suffer like he deserves. Because he’s scum. More than scum. But then you know all about that, don’t you, Franklin?”

  That’s enough. I leap from the bench and lunge in the direction of Foster who hides behind Dobbs.

  “I’m warning you, Foster,” I roar, my fists balled and ready to take a swing at him. “Cut it out or you’ll be wishing you were one of my dad’s victims by the time I’ve finished with you.”

  You could cut the air with a knife. The whole locker room stares me, jaws dropped. How could I have said that? The words were out of my mouth before I could check them. How sick does that make me feel?

  “Enough, Mr. Franklin,” Coach Ames says, striding toward us. “Your voice can be heard down the corridor. And I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After everything that went down today, I’m relieved the ride home with Amy is easy, and she chats all the way, totally oblivious to what’s been going on. It’s kinda funny she’s twelve years younger than I am, but, according to Mom, she was an accident.

  I’ve never thought this before, but what if having Amy started Dad off? If having a baby in his late-thirties triggered some sort of badness in him. It could’ve been lying dormant for all that time, waiting for some life-changing event. Then again, that assumes he didn’t do anything before he abused and murdered th
ose young boys. And how likely is that? Surely he would have to build up to something that horrendous. Like looking at child porn sites on his computer. Or watching kids in the park. And there could be children out there that he’s done stuff to who haven’t come forward. Especially if he threatened to do bad things to their parents if they said anything, which is known as the easiest trick in the book.

  There could even be some more dead bodies that haven’t been found yet. More than likely, in fact, if what I’ve read is to be believed. Christ, how bad would that be for the parents, thinking their children might still be alive when really they’re dead?

  “Who’s at our house?” Amy asks as we pull into our street and notice a crowd of people standing in our driveway. My heart plummets. It’s the fucking press. That’s all we need. They swoop down on you like vultures. It makes me sick the way they feed off of people’s misfortune, not caring who gets in the way. The dirty bastards.

  “I don’t know,” I reply, hitting the gas and driving past. “But I’m not staying to find out. We’ll stop at the park for ice cream, and I’ll call Mom to find out what’s going on.”

  Anger bubbles in the pit of my stomach, and it takes all the resolve I have, and some, to appear cool and not fazed by it. For Amy’s sake.

  “Can I have a chocolate ripple?” Amy asks excitedly, clearly not at all bothered by any of it.

  “Of course you can.”

  We park, go to the ice cream vendor, and then head over to a bench and sit, eating. I take out my cell, key in Mom’s number, and pray she answers. There’s no point in phoning the landline because, if it’s anything like last time when it rang incessantly, Mom disconnected it.

  “Mom,” I say as she eventually answers.

  Except it goes through to voicemail. Shit. We’ll just have to go home and face the bastards. But what should I tell Amy? When Dad was arrested it was decided, by Mom and her sister, my Aunt Bee, to tell Amy that Dad was working overseas in Africa and would be gone for a long time. After a while, Amy seemed to forget about him and stopped asking when he was going to come home or why he hadn’t called.