Her smile grew. And then faded. “What happened after the guy rescued you?”
“I wasn’t arrested—thank you, nepotism—but I spent some time in a psychiatric unit. After that, Chris sent me to a therapist in Norfolk. But, by then, I wanted help. I stopped drinking and doing shit.” He gave a loose shrug. “And that’s it.”
“Is that what Zachary meant when he said you’d hurt your brother?”
The lightness disappeared from his voice. “Yes.”
Makani was relieved that nothing worse had happened. And Ollie hadn’t even done anything truly awful; most of the disappointment was inside his own head. She could tell that, for Ollie, having worried his brother was the worst thing he could have done. Instead of pressing him, she backtracked. “When you said you got high . . .”
“Weed.”
“You never did any harder drugs? Pills or opioids or anything?”
He shook his head.
“And you never sold them?”
Ollie sighed. “Cool. You heard that one, too.” He shook his head again. “The only thing I’ve ever sold is produce.”
“Did you sleep with anyone else?” Please say no.
“Only in my dreams,” he said. “Only you.”
It was cheesy—definitely a line—but Makani didn’t mind right now. She smiled at him as they stood in front of Greeley’s. “Hey, Ollie?” she asked softly.
“Yeah?”
“You know how you said that I’m a good granddaughter and friend?”
He smiled back. “Yeah.”
“Do you think I could be a good girlfriend?”
Ollie’s hands reached for hers through the dusk. Their fingertips touched, and the streetlights flickered on behind them. “I think you’re already a good girlfriend.”
They kissed while they waited for Chris. It felt absurd, kissing in public. Kissing after a memorial. Kissing when they’d been so close to being actual subjects of the memorial.
It also felt euphoric, rapturous, and profound.
Ollie’s nose was cold, but his arms were warm as they slipped around her back. It was the thrill of summer, revived—making out beside the grocery store when they shouldn’t be doing it. Except infinitely better, because the questions between them had been answered.
Their lips parted to catch their breath. Makani laughed, glancing aside. And that’s when she noticed the blood.
Red handprints. Beaten fists. Dragged fingers. The fine lines of the skin that had touched the glass were shockingly clear and shockingly human.
Makani stiffened with fright.
Ollie followed her gaze, and they startled apart. They stared at the bottom left side of the store’s automatic entry doors. The blood was on the inside.
Their limbs reached for each other again, clinging, as they frantically checked their surroundings. Except for the cars, the parking lot was empty. The traffic had unclogged, and only a few people remained on foot. None of them were close by. None of them were Chris or any other officer. And none of them appeared to be David.
Makani’s heart raced. Ollie cupped his hands to peer inside the dark store, while she kept her eyes on the street. “Is he in there?” she asked.
“I think somebody was dragged toward the checkout lanes. But I can’t see them.”
“Oh God.” She ripped his phone from his pocket, bouncing anxiously on the balls of her feet. “I’m calling your brother.”
“The whole place is ransacked.”
“Shit! What’s your password?”
“9999.”
“What? Why would you do that? Somebody could guess that!”
“You didn’t,” he said. “Shit! Something just moved.”
Makani lurched against the door. He pointed toward a shadowy area, a pile of . . . she couldn’t tell what. “I think there’s someone there,” he said. “Someone on top of that.”
It was impossible to tell. But there was definitely something that might be a person.
Chris’s number rang emptily in her ear. The shadows shifted again, and Makani gasped. Before she realized what he was doing, Ollie unlocked the door. As a longtime and trusted employee, he had a key. “Someone’s still alive!” he said.
The overhead sensor picked them up. The doors whooshed open. They rushed inside and then staggered backward, stunned by the true destruction. Overturned vegetables, boxes, cartons, bags, and cans were everywhere—an abundance of food, splattered like congealing fireworks across the linoleum.
Ollie yanked her aside so they wouldn’t track through the blood, the streaks of a body hauled across the floor. They ran toward the shadows and then crashed into a halt. Makani clamped her hands over her mouth to mute her scream.
In front of the checkout registers was a permanent display of merchandise whose profits helped support the football team, something Makani had once found incredibly strange but she’d slowly grown used to. Now that she knew Osborne, it made sense. But tonight, it had been razed to the ground. And in the center of the debris of jumbled sweatshirts and flags and tchotchkes was Caleb Greeley.
The boy lay atop the heap like another item of garish memorabilia. His feet and knees were splayed outward. His face was on its side, and a swollen tongue protruded out from between his front teeth. The chest and stomach had been mutilated. Long incisions slashed through his blood-drenched band uniform, but, despite the clothing, the unnatural splaying of his limbs made him look more like one of those realistic sex dolls than a human being. It was his body’s complete and utter lack of dignity.
But that still wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the hands.
Caleb’s fingers had been laced together, and then his hands had been severed. They rested over his heart in prayer position. Red gore and white bone.
But if Caleb was dead . . . someone else was the moving shadow.
Makani and Ollie backed into the cereal aisle, each placing a protective arm across the other person’s chest. They pressed against the yellow Corn Pops and green Apple Jacks. Their hearts slammed against their rib cages.
The air was sharp. Acidic. It stung their nostrils and watered their eyes. Caleb must have been chased down the condiment aisle, one over. The vinegary fumes from the smashed jars of pickles and olives were ghastly. Makani covered her nose. She was still holding Ollie’s phone, and Chris was shouting at them through the speaker.
The metallic thud of a push bar echoed throughout the building.
Their hearts stopped.
And then a heavy door settled closed.
Makani whispered into the phone, “David Ware just went out the back exit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The can of tuna fish had been bothering her all week.
Katie Kurtzman had discovered it last Friday as she was moving a load of whites from the washing machine into the dryer. The flat can was eye level and sitting on the sill of the basement’s only window. The long, narrow window was closed, but its latch didn’t work. It was just big enough for a slender body to squeeze through.