“…but like all psychopaths, he managed to stay carefully under the radar so that all the signs went ignored,” she continued. “Brushes with police. Car crashes. Even cyberspace hacker friends. And a hobby that Michael called his “Wall of Death”.”
Here, my picture finally disappeared, only to be replaced by an even larger photograph of my old bedroom. Taken at a horribly crooked angle, the photo provided by the police department displayed my wall of eyes, all of the pictures now ruined by dust and ash and crinkled edges that gave them a degenerated look.
Of course they’d skip over the Joy and Love walls. Of course they’d go straight to the Sadness and Anger, panning across the terrified eyes of the anonymous people like I’d trapped them in cages and tortured them to get my pictures. Nobody would explain how I got the photos. Nobody would tell them to turn around and look at the glowing faces on the other side of the room. That wouldn’t have made for a good Wall of Death, now would it?
Go ahead, squeeze as much out of this story as you can. I clenched my fists.
But the reporter hadn’t even gotten to the best part yet—the part that’d gotten me labeled a terrorist. Next, they shifted to shaky video footage of a crashed jet on the beach, smoke dominating the sky as the flames roared through the remaining fuel. My photo hovered on screen beside the plane that Callista had crashed: I was accused of hiding bombs on board and destroying the jet via remote control.
I couldn’t believe what I was watching. It was so obvious…so fabricated. The anchors just continued on with their reports as if there wasn’t even an inch of doubt, throwing in the casual accused and alleged to stay barely in the bounds of honest journalism.
And Arleta—they loved their sinister and gory tales. They would eat all of this up. Everyone would watch the updates every day, talk about it at school and their jobs until my reputation reached local-celebrity levels. They’d all say they knew it all along, that they were right to have never trusted me, that they were lucky to have not been my friend.
I wanted to curse at the news that they were getting it all wrong, that all of this was a lie about me. But suddenly I knew what was happening.
They control every inch of the world… I remembered Father Lonnie so clearly, his whisper tinged with fear. This was the Guardians’ doing! They were feeding these stories to the media to ruin me even more, to give me nowhere to run.
My chin sank into my palm weakly as the report continued, showing interviews with kids I’d bumped into once or twice—suddenly, former best friends or ex-girlfriends. That part almost made me explode with laughter. Then it switched to the reporter walking down a sidewalk with my school in the background.
“Parents have to wonder that if a boy of seventeen can murder his own family and burn their house down—how close was he to your own children? Are they safe while he runs free?”
“I have a message for Mr. Asher.” Footage played of a short and rotund man in a police uniform, standing behind a stack of microphones. He looked nervous, lacking the public speaking skills to even look up from his pre-written statement on the podium. “No matter what it takes, we will find you. We will draw you out from where you are hiding, and bring justice to your family.”
I’d seen better-written threats in chalk at my sister’s schoolyard. There was a shuffle of stock music, ushering in an animated bumper that sent them into another segment. My face disappeared.
I sank back into the chair, looking across the counter at nothing. In one sweep, the Guardians had taken from me anyone in my old town who might have come to my support.
My throat had gone dry again. I heard footsteps in the doorway behind me but was too distracted to turn until someone slid into the chair next to me. I turned my head sharply. It was Thad.
“Did you follow me?” I hissed. I would have jumped from him if I wasn’t sure it’d cause a scene. He was by himself.
“You can’t be alone,” Thad replied simply. “You know that.”
I let my breath out. Having a bodyguard stalking me was not something that I found appealing. Likely it was because they’d already seen that if they took their eyes off me then I’d go off and nearly get myself killed. I cursed under my breath.
The bartender clinked a glass of water down in front of Thad and left again. He began to sip slowly, eyes staring blankly ahead at the television.
We sat like that for a while, neither speaking. Thad put his glass down.
“What are you thinking about doing?” he said, almost painfully. I wished I could have dodged his question but he was looking straight at me.
“Thad,” I replied, “my family is dead. My house is burned down. Everything is gone. Do you understand what that means?”
“That you’re blinded with anger,” he suggested. “That you’ll do anything to get your hands on Wyck for what he did. Even if it’s suicide for you and us.”
The words slipped out and he immediately knew how cruel it sounded. I cringed and turned away, drinking more to hide my face.
“I’m sorry,” he relented. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Talking about it was not making me feel any better, and every time I let my mind wander back it was overcome by images of the burning house. I couldn’t escape it, like a brand seared in to the back of my subconscious, always popping up no matter how hard I tried to block it out.
Thad picked the glass up, drank the rest down, and then stood.
“Come on,” he beckoned. “I want to show you something.”
“No,” I said. “Just go.”
“Please,” he said. It took me unawares. He nodded toward the door.
I gave in. It wasn’t like I had somewhere else to go. I put some cash on the counter and Thad lead me outside. He went down the neighboring lane and into the shadows, where we jumped into flight and headed away from the Valley.
At first I was afraid that he was bringing me back to Callista, and I just didn’t have the heart to hear another scolding from her. But to my relief he turned away from the hills and in the direction of a different part of town. His motions told me that he knew exactly where he wanted to go, so I followed with little regard to the places beneath us.
We passed Beverly Hills, our short-term home. Surprisingly, only a small distance from the beautiful neighborhood, the buildings below us changed into messy structures again. You could easily tell where the rich people had stopped building their rich people homes, because that’s exactly where the roads began to fall into disrepair, and the trash began to be piled higher in the alleys, and the dogs appeared to run free from one lot to the next. Everything stank of rot.
Thad found the rooftop he was looking for—long and flat above an auto garage. This building was not much taller than the bar we’d left, surrounded by others in similar concrete construction. Wind rustled black tarps and broken crates that polluted the roof. I could hear multiple pounding subwoofers below, warring each other to dominate the beat.
Thad hopped onto the wall with his back against the bricks of the corner pillar and his shoes on the concrete edge in front of him. I wasn’t surprised by the lack of concern on his face for the edge, even as the sounds of the cars in the nighttime traffic rumbled below us.
I walked to the edge and peered over, using it as a distraction for my aimless gaze, trying not to look at Thad. Multicolored lights laced the street below us like an array of cheap carnival games. Buildings blocked most of the view but the little I could see was magnificent enough. Los Angeles signs sparkled like purple and green gems, reflecting into the faces of the people and the cars going about their frivolous and self-indulgent tasks. On the surface, everything glittered in LA. Even when I stole a glance at Thad, I could see the city continuing on the other way—ever sparkling, ever alive.