Page 18 of The Truths We Burn

The parade lasts right until dusk, meaning we have another thirty minutes to do what we came here to do and leave before anyone else sees us.

Like ghosts, you could feel us in the air, but you’d never be able to prove it.

Or demons that hide inside your closet, only coming out when we want you to see us.

I drive through the empty street towards the town hall. Confetti, balloons, and candy cover the asphalt, a clear sign that this side has already been passed through.

My bike skids to a halt when I pull in front of the building. What used to be a Catholic church had been turned into the town hall. It had been here since the founding of the town, upgraded to stand the test of time. It’s where my father worked fifty percent of the time.

I hit the kill switch, my toe kicking the stand, and I slowly ease my way off my bike. Removing my helmet and setting it on the seat, I pull out a cigarette and sit on the concrete steps below the fountain in front of the building.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I see a message from Silas.

Passing the pharmacy now.

That was three minutes ago, so we have roughly twenty minutes before the entire town makes their way back to where I’m currently sitting. The parade always starts and ends in the same spot every year.

Halfway finished with my dart, I see the lights of a brand-new Range Rover coming towards me. My leg begins to bounce, and my fingers hum with anticipation.

Welcome to the gates of hell. The show is about to begin.

“I hate homecoming,” Alistair says, hopping out of the front seat of a car that does not belong to him. The control freak inside of him wouldn’t let me and Silas handle this on our own.

Plus, we have a mob mentality.You hurt one. You hurt us all.

I scoff at the cheesy white words written on the windows, things like,“QB1” “State!”“#7 Sinclair”

Never understood the obsession people have with high school sports.

“What don’t you hate?” Thatcher replies, sliding out of the passenger seat. I’ve known him a long time, and I know he’s petty, makes jokes, plays piano, and enjoys pissing people off.

Yet there are pieces of Thatcher I’ve never understood. Parts of him that are darker than my own. It’s when he gets quiet that the world needs to fear him.

The day he finally gives into his heritage is the day the world will pay for what they made him into.

Even I get goosebumps thinking about it.

“Hitting people.” Alistair smirks, bumping shoulders with Thatch as they make their way in my direction. The two of them had been tasked with jacking Easton’s car and meeting me here, while Silas is keeping an eye on the traffic.

“False,” I start, tossing my cigarette to the ground. “You hate the town’s homecoming. Ours is always fun.”

“You got cigarettes?”

I reach into my pocket, tossing the pack at Alistair, his leather jacket shifting as he catches them. My part of this begins now as I open my black book bag, the inside filled with everything you need to be thrown in prison for an arson charge, and pull out two empty bottles of whiskey, ones that I’d taken from the trash can in my own home.

“Lighter?”

I raise my eyes to my dark-headed friend, Alistair.

“You want me to smoke it for you too?” I joke, tossing him my Zippo. “Don’t fucking steal that one. It’s my favorite.”

He inspects the front of the lighter, arching an eyebrow, and lights his smoke before throwing it back to me. “Your favorite Zippo out of that entire massive collection is the one with your initials on it? A little fond of yourself, aren’t you?”

I roll my eyes as I squirt isopropyl alcohol into the inside of the whiskey bottles. “Says the one who likes leaving imprints of his own initials on people’s faces.”

We share a laugh while I work my pyromaniac magic, soaking a few rags in the alcohol before shoving them into the tops of the bottles, leaving a few inches hanging out of them.

“Look at him, our little chemistry nerd.” Thatcher rubs my hair, and I refrain from smacking the shit out of him.

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