Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Concern flickers in his eyes. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
He looks unconvinced. And sounds reluctant as he adds, “Do you want to talk about Silver—”
“No,” I interrupt. “What else is there to say? She’s dead. Are you going to bed now?”
Although it’s clear he wants to push the issue, he finally nods. “Yes. I’m turning in. Try not to stay up too late on your phone. It’s bad for your eyes.”
“I won’t. Good night.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Around eleven thirty, I start to hear soft snoring wafting from the end of the hall. Fifteen minutes after that, I get dressed, throw on a coat, and slip out my bedroom window.
It’s a decent jog across campus, sticking to the perimeter and doing my best to avoid security cameras until I’m safely within the derelict zone—the area of Sandover’s expansive campus that’s sat abandoned and overgrown since long before Dad became headmaster.
I wade through tall grass by my cell phone’s flashlight, following a map crudely marked on a Google Maps satellite image to find my way.
“Getting warmer,” a voice suddenly calls from the darkness.
“Marco?”
“Polo.”
I emerge from the grass, and the greenhouse comes into view. A black silhouette draped in ivy and fallen foliage. I scan the glass facade with my flashlight, searching for Lawson.
“This place is like eighty percent creepier than you made it sound,” I say to what feels like empty night. “If you brought me out here to ax murder me, I’m not in the mood.”
I’ve wandered this campus and its forests in the pitch-black countless times. Yet as I continue to approach the vacant, looming greenhouse full of broken panes and tricky shadows, I suddenly become hyperaware of every startling noise emanating from the surrounding trees.
“Lawson? Marco?”
“Polo.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Lawson’s whispered reply. So close to my ear, I feel his breath against my face.
“Jesus.” I spin around and find him smirking in the light. I give him a shove for good measure. “Jerk.”
“Sorry,” he says without regret. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t take a swing at you.”
“That would have been adorable.”
“Oh, really. You don’t know about my sick ninja skills?”
“Literally, sweetheart, I’d pay money.”
“Uh-huh. You’re lucky I’m a pacifist.”
“Uh-huh,” he mimics. “I really dodged a bullet there.”
“You know, not to sound ungrateful for the company,” I tell him, “but this place looks exactly like a murder lair. Maybe a few less chainsaws and pickaxes, but, yeah, definite dismemberment vibes.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not going inside. The smell alone will ruin your night.” Lawson chuckles. “This is where the hormonal meatheads come to make hamburger of each other.”
“Really?” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Wait, it’s Saturday night. Isn’t that when the fights usually take place? Are they already over?”
“No, got canceled.” He sounds confused by his own explanation. “Weirdest fucking thing. We all got a mass text saying they’re tomorrow instead.”
“Can I look inside? I promise to hold my breath,” I tease.
“Sure, but if you need to throw up, don’t do it on me.”
“Deal.”
He takes my hand to guide me inside the greenhouse, which is mostly a hollow void. The place has been meticulously cleared of the debris and leftovers I would have expected to find. There are no empty pots and rotting shelves. No dried remains of once-flourishing flora. I sweep my flashlight over walls that are scrawled with graffiti. Toward the center of the floor are splatters and trails of what looks like dried blood.
Ugh, and he wasn’t wrong about the smell. My nostrils fill with the pungent odor of sweat and blood, notes of decay and urine thrown into the mix. I try not to breathe through my nose as I continue to examine our surroundings.
“There’s a lot of blood here.”
He shrugs. “It can get…graphic.”
We go back outside, where I gulp in the fresh air. The cool breeze rustles my open coat, bringing a slight chill.
I zip up the coat and glance at Lawson. “We’re not sitting out here, are we? It’s kind of cold.”
“Nope. Follow me.”
We make our way through the darkness, down a grassy path. At first the grass is well-trodden, as if many a shoe had passed over it. Then it grows tall again, the little trail becoming overgrown with foliage until finally we stop in front of a rusted iron gate. Less than twenty-five feet or so from the greenhouse is a smaller one, almost completely hidden by shrubbery and covered with browning strands of ivy.
Lawson pushes aside some vines and opens the door, entering ahead of me. “I stumbled onto this place last winter,” he tells me. “I come here when I need to clear my head.”
“And you need to clear your head tonight?”
“Yeah. Sort of.”
I step inside and look around. The space can’t be more than eight feet by eight feet, maybe a tiny bit bigger, and this room hasn’t been cleared out. Racks against three of the walls contain old containers and the skeletons of potted rosebushes. There’s a low cabinet that Lawson opens to remove a folded blanket, which he tosses on the ground for us to sit on. He also flicks on an electric lantern, and, best of all, a small space heater.