Page 4 of Requiem

I poke myself in the chest with my thumb. “Minor.”

Gaynor laughs, shaking her head. She stares off into the trees that crowd the horizon, her gaze distant. “Know what I think? This is all some bad business. No amount of revenge is going to make you feel better. I think you know that already, don’t you? And…if you hurt this boy and get caught, your age won’t matter. You’re eighteen in a matter of months. And as soon asanydetective does thesmallestamount of work, they’re going to discover the connection here and realize that this was allverypremeditated—”

I don’t want to hear it.

Gaynor can keep her logic and her worries to herself. She’s done nothing but try and dissuade me from this course of action since we left L.A. and I’ll be damned if I tolerate any more talk of ‘taking the higher road,’ and ‘letting the police figure it all out.’ I throw back the rest of my coffee, my anger mounting as Gaynor continues to ramble on.

“…said the accidental death ruling could be overturned if we could provide any further evidence of—”

“Gaynor?”

“Yes?”

“Stop.”

“I’m just saying! What kind of guardian would I be if I didn’t try and play devil’s advocate?”

“Enough. Theo Merchant is untouchable. You’ve already said so yourself. His parents are powerful and rich. He fucked up, drove recklessly, and killed Rachel. Hekilledher. The criminal justice system will not punish him, so I will. That’s all there is to it. Now let’s hit the road. It looks like it’s going to rain.”

Where Ruth is cold and emotionless, Gaynor is warm and sweet. She feels too much. I see her worry for me, plastered all over her kind face, and it cuts me to the quick. She looks stricken beyond belief, like there’s so much more she wants to say, but she knows how futile it would be to try. So she doesn’t.

The moment I get back into the car, a wave of exhaustion hits me with the force of a wrecking ball. Pain lances through my head, strobing right behind my temples. I have to screw my eyes shut against the light that was dull and grey a moment ago, but is now blisteringly bright. I can barely think around thethrum, thrum, thrumof my pulse rushing in my ears.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Gaynor asks softly.

I nod. “Just tired. And I have aprodigiousheadache. Jesus.”

I hear Gaynor rifling around in the center console: The rustle of paper; the crinkle of plastic; the rattle of a pill bottle. “Here.” She knocks the back of my hand with her own. “Take these.”

Lord only knows how many Tylenol she passes me; she’s always been a little heavy handed with her meds. Grateful, I toss them back, swallowing the pills dry. I slump back into my seat. “Damn, this one came out of nowhere,” I say, wincing as the pounding inside my skull intensifies.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Gaynor’s voice sounds weirdly far away, but her tone is soothing. “The painkillers will kick in soon. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Toussaint.

It’s a stupid French family name or something.

I didn’t even know how to say it when Rachel first showed me the pamphlet and informed me that she was applying. She had a grand old time teaching me how to pronounce it, skipping around the training room, repeating‘Too-SON, Too-SON,”in a ridiculous French accent, making the ‘N’ at the end sound nasal and preposterous. She’d screamed and tried to kick my ass when I told her that it just sounded like Tucson. As in Tucson, Arizona. Apparently, she hadn’t viewed the comparison as favorable.

I dream, and my dreams are memories, swimming together, full of laughter and utterly brilliant.

When Gaynor wakes me up, it’s late. The sky is a purple, dusky bruise. A long, rutted out, insane-looking swathe of buckled tarmac stretches out in front of us. It’s as if a huge earthquake has splintered the road apart, completely destroying it. This is, in fact, the only plausible explanation I can come up with to justify what I’m seeing as I clamber out of the passenger seat.

Alongside the road, a large, lop-sided sign reads:

Toussaint Academy Pick Up Point

EXTREME ROCKSLIDE DANGER!

EXTREME FLASH FLOODING DANGER!

EXTREME MUDSLIDE DANGER!

EXTREME CLIFF FACE DANGER!

Dial 55311 from call box for assistance.

“What thehell?” I’m still super groggy. My legs feel a little spongy. Weak. Gaynor blows hard down her nose as she assesses the fucked-up road, visibly marveling at the chaos of it.

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