Page 127 of Bite Me

There’s a room at the end of the hall that catches my attention. There’s no reason for it. The door is a simple off-white, like the walls, but I step toward it, checking that no one is watching me.

The furniture inside is untouched, but not dusty. It’s a single bed, still freshly made, and a desk that’s got a fresh jar of flowers, but nothing else indicates this room is ever used. There’s nothing out of place.

I comb my fingers over the spines on the small bookshelf beside the bed. These definitely belong to someone. They’re worn at the edges and faded in some spots. In the corner of the first page, “John” is written in vibrant black ink.

If there ever was a time a boy lived here, it was long ago. Could it be Dacre’s brother?

Sitting on the bed, I hold one of the pillows. It smells like fresh laundry. Missing Dacre sneaks up on me. Is it possible to imagine a real connection?

I thought he felt it. I know I felt it. But maybe I was wrong.

Laughter and music carry down the hall as I stare at the emptiness of this abandoned place. Someone once lived here, for sure.

There’s an inch of a gap in the drawer next to the bed, and the whole thing wobbles when I open it. Inside, there’s a spiral notebook.

I shouldn’t be here. Stars forbid Dacre’s brother pops up out of the blue and asks me why I’m snooping in his childhood bedroom.

The notebook has a name in the corner, too, only the date that accompanies it is much older than I imagined Dacre’s brothers.

This . . . belonged to Dacre’s father.

Which means this room is a shrine to him. These are books he read, perhaps as a teen. From the notebook slips a photo of Dacre’s father, with a young, thin face. He’s got Dacre’s nose and eyes, but he’s smiling from ear to ear with his arm around a girl with short pink hair. They’re so radiant and full of life.

The edges are bent, and there are creases denting their faces. Could this be Dacre’s mother? Dacre never showed me any pictures of his family, but I know that’s his father because he looks so much like Dacre. I flip it over, and it’s dated with the words:

“June and me”

So it’s not Dacre’s mother.

From the beginning, the entries are sporadic and volatile.

The first sentence reads:

“Nothing I ever do is good enough.”

Definitely some teenage angst here. I flip through stories with a sinking guilt in my stomach. It feels wrong to read the journal of Dacre’s dead father, but my hands keep flipping. What I’m looking for, I’m not sure, but I’ll know if I see it.

I stop on a day that reads in all caps:

“FIVE DAYS. He locked me in a room for five days, with nothing but four walls and a bed. I’ve never seen him that angry before. I don’t even care. He won’t let me see her anymore. He doesn’t know me like he thinks he does. I have to get out of here.”

An anxious tingling surfaces as I read further:

“She’s gone. I can’t believe it.”

A large number of pages have been ripped out, and the pages that remain are crinkled, the color bleeding as if they had once been wet.

The bottom of a ripped page reads:

“I don’t know what to do. The thought is . . . impossible. Nothing is ever impossible, but I can’t wrap my mind around it. There’s no way he would do this.”

The next entry is from a few weeks later:

“I’m such a coward. Every time I try to ask him, I can’t do it. Maybe I’m afraid of his answer. He lied about where he was. He doesn’t know that I know, yet. If I ever get the courage, I’ll confront him, but I’m not sure if I will.”

The sounds get louder outside the door, snapping me out of my trance. I close the notebook, trying to calm my erratic heartbeat. Dacre’s father hated his father. Maybe that’s why Clyde never told Dacre the truth.

I try to wrap my head around the implications of John’s words. Clyde Everhart might have played a part in this girl’s death. There’s nothing definitive—a hunch isn’t the truth. But I feel the weight of this revelation as I hide from the footsteps outside the door and wait for them to pass.