And now Justin, her cool new older friend, ditched out on her.
I already know I’m gonna go to stupid lengths to find that guy, just to make her happy.
“Head backstage with Peace,” I say, offering her a smile. “Just wait. I’ll hunt him down.”
“Okay, fine,” I get again.
She gives me a skeptical look, but after a moment turns and flounces inside.
I catch Leo’s eye across the carnival grounds, through the steadily growing crowds of people moving through booths selling funnel cakes, fried things that probably shouldn’t be fried, hot drinks, trinkets, all the little touristy things people like to take home with them even though they ain’t good for much. I see a lot of out-of-towners, folks I don’t recognize who came just for the carnival. Makes it harder to spot anyone acting fishy, but I trust the guys to have things under control.
So I signal Leo that I’m ducking out, then let myself blend into the crowd.
I check the entire grounds up and down for Justin, every nook and cranny, every storage shed, every backstage area—even looking under the stage. It doesn’t make sense, they were together less than an hour ago. Did he forget something at home?
I do some more checking.
Nothing.
And after a few more calls go unanswered, I’ve had it.
I’m about to go and drag Justin out of his apartment if I have to, if it’ll make my little girl happy.
Dammit.
I trusted him with this, trying to make him feel like he was part of the team. Part of my family.
Look, I know he’s got heavy shit he’s dealing with, but I need him not to duck out on me like this right now.
So, reluctantly, I stop for a holler at Warren, letting him know I’ll be back and to call me if anything goes down. Then I climb in my Jeep and head back into town.
The apartment complex isn’t far. Heart’s Edge is so small we’ve only got a few of these multi-unit buildings since most people buy or build their own homes.
Justin’s truck isn’t in the parking lot when I pull up, but I go up to check just in case.
And find his door open.
Unlatched, just barely pulled closed a crack, like he left in a hurry.
I frown. After finding my own home ransacked, I’ve got a bad feeling.
But before I can push the door open, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I snatch it out, not even checking the name on the caller ID, and answer.
“Justin?”
“Nah, Blake,” Sheriff Langley says. I can hear the music and noise of the carnival in the background, chatter and people moving about. “It’s me. Listen, I got bad news.”
My chest goes heavy, and my breath goes thick with dread. “What’s that?”
“I left the new junior deputy watching the station, and uh, well...” He clears his throat. “Apparently, Holt stole his keys right off his belt and managed to get loose.”
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
I don’t need this right now.
“Watch for him at the carnival,” I growl. “Be ready to evacuate people, but don’t cause a panic just yet. I’ll be right there. If you need help, get the guys.”
Langley makes a nervous sound of agreement. I already know when push comes to shove, he probably won’t be much help.
He picked the wrong town to bumble into.
I’m already forgetting Justin, turning away, but my elbow bumps the door as I do and sends it swinging open.
And I go cold, frozen in place, as I see the interior.
Gone is that sterile lifelessness that made me think Justin’s existence, his home, must be so empty, so lonely all the time.
All the photo albums have been yanked down from the shelves.
They’re scattered everywhere, their pages open and slashed in ominous red ink.
What the hell?
I almost don’t want to look.
I have to.
Because suddenly what I’ve been overlooking is right here in front of me.
I drift inside, crouching down to look at the first photo album on the floor.
The pictures in it are old.
But I know them, because I know the people in them.
Warren. Jenna.
Me.
Back then, we were a trio, after Leo went underground and before Doc moved to Heart’s Edge. We’re young, fresh out of boot camp, hanging on each other and laughing at Brody’s.
The picture’s shaky. Taken by someone real inexperienced.
But me and Warren are slashed out in red, while Jenna’s face is circled in a curly red heart.
My jaw drops.
It’s the same weird shit in every other picture.
Dozens—no, fucking hundreds, some just seconds apart, capturing our lives. Us working. Us laughing. Us coming home from deployment to see our families and friends. I see myself and Warren and Jenna over and over again, but more and more it’s Jenna. Jenna. Jenna.
Shots of her tossing her hair back, shots of her dirty with grease because she wasn’t afraid of manual labor, shots of her leaning on her brother and laughing until her eyes scrunch up.
Then shots of that folded American flag on a coffin.
Shots of her grave.
And then no more of her as I move from album to album...but there’s me again. This time, it’s a photo from an old local paper, taken by some reporter.
Right outside the Paradise Hotel, or at least what’s left of it.
And Justin’s mother leaning on me as I haul her away from the smoking rubble.
I don’t even remember that.
That night was such a fucking haze. My gut’s in knots as I realize that in the rush of doing what needed to be done, I must’ve been the guy to notice the woman collapsed in the ruins was still alive, wheezing, her body blackened with soot.
I don’t get it.
Don’t understand why he’d save all this crap. Why he’d be taking pictures of us all these years without us knowing.
There’s something very wrong here, I’m realizing.
Something wrong inside Justin’s head.
More and more, I’m flipping through page after page, barely breathing.
Watching as the photos get better in quality but more obsessed, more strange. More of me and Warren on our lonely fishing trips, and visits to Jenna’s grave captured in black and white.
Then Doc, too, as he opened up The Menagerie, practically chronicling his integration into Heart’s Edge. Even a few secret shots of Leo back when he was Nine by night, concealed in the shadows, watching over the town from a distance, just a silhouette with an edge of moonlight glinting off his mask and hood.
Justin’s been everywhere.
Watching our lives.
Obsessing over us.
And hating us, because too many of these photos are scratched, slashed with ink.
Enough of them show an unstable rage.
Blame, in jagged scratches of red pen strokes that rip right through the paper.
Snarling, I sift through more, coming up on recent stuff.
Then I hit on a trend that terrifies the ever-loving fuck out of me.
I start seeing photos of Andrea.
My daughter, and goddamn if every goose pimple on my body doesn’t stand up. I recognize her gangly pre-teen lope, her crooked gap-toothed smile. More and more photos that seem to track her growth by the month, hearts circled around her face...until it’s not her face at all.
The photos are altered in this strange, fucked up collage.