Page 62 of Chaos at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 2)
My hands curl into fists as Oscar takes in the place's mettle, making notes on his iPad. I'm just assuming he has all his work tied to the cloud. We haven't talked about the iPad I threw into the mirror, or the fact that I'm certain he still has access to that horrible video. How many times has he watched it? I decide I don't want to know the answer to that question.
“I'm counting on the neighborhood telling them,” Oscar says, smiling sharply. His glasses flash as he turns to look at me. “What are they going to say? Two kids on a motorcycle walked into the house and then left, but yet nothing was disturbed?” He pauses for a moment, like he's thinking. “Well, I suppose you could steal a few small things, just for fun.”
I narrow my eyes as Oscar continues down the hall, toward the gym and the bathroom that functions as a changing room for the outdoor pool. My nostrils flare. Pen and I had so much fun swimming out there. It didn't occur to me that Eric was filming us in our bathing suits for any reason other than posterity's sake.
Hah.
And at age eleven, I'd thought I was hardened to the world, that my experience with my father's suicide, and my mother's abuse, the Thing's rage … I thought those things had taught me to see evil. How wrong I was.
I wait for Oscar, standing in the open kitchen/living room area with the faint smell of Eric's stupid Straight to Heaven cologne wafting in the air around us. The smell of it—like dark rum and patchouli—makes me sick, churning old memories that are better left buried.
When Oscar comes back and heads for the stairs, he pauses with one, elegant, inked hand waiting on the banister. As he glances down at me, I can see the challenge burning in his eyes.
“Coming with?” he quips, and then he continues on up the stairs, like he truly doesn't expect me to follow, like he thinks I'll chicken out. Guess he doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does.
With a long exhale, I start up the stairs, pausing on the landing, my eyes focused on the door to the room that used to be mine.
One night, after weeks of discomfort, where Eric touched and cuddled me in ways just this side of inappropriate, he came into my room at night. He laid down beside me and pulled my nightgown over my shoulder, pressing his lips to my skin. I woke up right away, my body freezing up as his hand slipped down between my legs.
He still has a scar, you know, from where I hit him with the vintage toy firetruck that was decorating the nightstand beside my bed. Eric almost lost an eye. Every day since I've wished that I'd robbed him of his sight the way he'd robbed so many girls of their sense of safety.
Pursing my lips in determination, I follow after Oscar, taking the curving staircase one step at a time, the sound echoing in the vast palace that is the Kushner's home. My palm skims up the banister, caressing the metal railing as I remember running down these stairs in my nightgown, Eric's blood on my hands.
I ran down the street, and I didn't stop running until my feet were bleeding and my entire body ached. The next morning, I called my social worker—Coraleigh Vincent—from the phone at the antique store. She came alright, but when she got there, she wasn't on my side. Not even close.
I pause on the top landing, looking down the hallway at the rows of doors on either side. Oscar takes a separate key from the pocket of his slacks and unlocks one, like he's been here plenty of times before.
“Where did you get that key?” I ask, hanging back, hating the dark wave of suspicion that's washing over me. I should trust Havoc, trust their twisted view of the world. I paid them, fair and square. I'm one of them.
“Off a hook in the kitchen,” Oscar says smoothly, pushing the door open and stepping inside. It takes me a minute to follow after him, wrapped up in old memories and pain. Penelope suffered here, too. Not quite as badly as she did with the Thing, but only because we weren't here long enough for her to be raped. Just molested. Just. I hate that I can even use that word in reference to my sister's sexual abuse.
After a moment, I gather my courage and move down the hall, entering an innocuous looking bedroom that's quite clearly decked out in Pottery Barn and high thread count sheets. Money. That's what it's decorated in: cold, hard cash.
Oscar starts looking through drawers right away, meticulously examining every inch but without disturbing anything. It's impressive, I'll admit.
