The Departed

then turned the keys in the ignition, left the window cracked. He hadn’t been the one to swipe the bottle earlier—that had been Beau’s handiwork. It had come from Beau’s daddy’s liquor cabinet and he’d even probably admit that…later.
    He didn’t wipe the car down, either. Didn’t want it too clean. The rest of them thought he didn’t pay attention, but he did. He was in and out of Beau’s Mustang too often and knew if it was too clean, well, that would look weird, right?
    So he left it. And he took his clothes. He’d slip out the back. Shutting the door tight, with the Mustang running, he left the house. Beau’s folks were out—they’d be out at the casino partying for hours. Or out with their “friends.” Shit. Friends. Beau’s parents were into swinging—everybody knew it, they just pretended not to.
    By the time they got home, Beau would be dead. Carbon monoxide poisoning—it was a bitch, and classic cars still weren’t quite as good at eliminating that carbon monoxide—a handy little fact Brendan had researched a while back. It would all look like an accident. Wasn’t like Beau hadn’t gotten in trouble for drinking before. He’d even passed out in his car before. A fact that was known by more than a few people, since he’d done it in the school parking lot—fucking moron.
    He could already hear all the crap. Everybody would talk about what a shame it was, such a terrible waste, a horrible accident. And if only his folks had been home. Brendan smirked, pleased with himself. He’d wait about fifteen minutes, make sure.
    Out on the side, in the shadows, of course. Beau, like Brendan, lived outside of town on one of the bigger pieces of land. There was some privacy out here, so he could hide himself just fine. Well enough to make sure nobody showed up in time to save Beau.
    * * *
     
    TIFFANY Haler didn’t know why in the hell she was there. Wasn’t like she gave a fucking crap about Beau Donnelly.
    Fucking asshole. Maybe that was why she was here. She’d heard about what happened to Mark Danvers and it made her belly hurt. She liked Mark, even if he did hang around with these losers. She’d always liked him. She wouldn’t be surprised at all if Beau had something to do with what happened to Mark. He was mean enough. Mean as a snake. Mean as a dog who’d been trained to do nothing but rip out another dog’s throat.
    Nibbling on her nail, leaning against her moped, she tried to decide if she wanted to go to the door of the house. Big, brightly lit, so pretty in the night. Not like her house…not anymore. Her mom stayed in her room and either cried or read. Her dad locked himself in his garage. And they both forgot about her. It was always dark, always cold.
    At her house, the lights were rarely on.
    Her mom rarely spoke. Her dad looked like he’d aged twenty years. Everybody was sad. Everybody was broken. All because of…
    Unable to look at that brightly lit house, a place that looked like it screamed welcome, she looked away, staring into the darkness.
    Something shifted in the dark. If she hadn’t been staring just there , she never would have seen it. Never. But she was looking, and she saw the boy walking away—saw him stop and wait in the darkness. Like her. Staring at the house.
    Just like her.
    She reached for her phone, not daring to do anything until she saw the shadowy figure turn away and disappear into the night. Each minute seemed to be a lifetime, but she figured it was probably only five or ten minutes. She should wait longer, make sure he didn’t come back.
    But somehow, she didn’t think she could. Somehow, she suspected there wasn’t any more time to wait.
    Swallowing, she fished out the card Desiree Lincoln had given her and punched in the number as she started across the street. As she drew closer, she thought she heard a faint roar. Faint…but pretty damn familiar, and as she got closer, she knew exactly what that sound was.
    “Oh, shit…” Her gut clenched. Curled.
    As a sleepy voice came on the line, she started to run.
    * * *
     
    PLEASED with himself, Brendan cut across Meyer’s Field.
    There wasn’t a Meyer around, hadn’t been for years. But the field was still called Meyer’s Field. He kept to the fence, along the line of the side where the trees ran thick, not wanting to risk being seen, although shit, who the fuck was out—
    He saw the outline of somebody out there, then. If the moon hadn’t been full, shining down in just