Weaver, page 5
Aron’s swollen, bluish face. The dark red streaks at the edge of the gauze. His one closed eye.
“You could have killed him.”
Eddie blinks once, breathing calmly through his nose. Says nothing.
“You planned it all,” the officer continues. “You got him drunk and planted a crazy idea in his head. Heck, you handed him that spray can. And when he used it, you sent those thugs after him. Knowing what they would do.”
“Correct,” Eddie says calmly. After a short pause, he adds: “He survived.”
“Only barely,” the officer snarls, tapping the photo with two fingers. “It could have gone either way. His jaw was broken in three places.”
“Four,” Eddie corrects.
The officer doesn’t respond, but his hand clenches into a shuddering fist, and he bites down on his lower lip. Hard.
“I’m not trying to be clever or provoke you,” Eddie says. “I just happen to know it was four fractures. Not three.”
The officer stares at him for a long time. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer—but colder.
“No matter how you try to spin it, you were gambling with a man’s life.”
“I didn’t do anything to him that he hasn’t done to me.”
Another pause. Then the officer nods, like he already knows where this is going.
“2009?”
“2009,” Eddie confirms.
JUST FOR A FEW DAYS
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
Eddie jolts awake with a gasp—the echo of Kelly’s scream still ringing in his head.
That was what yanked him out of his nightmare: Kelly’s shrill voice, shouting at him not to touch her.
And for a brief, blessed moment, that’s all it was. A nightmare. Then he sees his phone. It’s lying on the table in the kitchen, where he . . . must have spent the night?
He never made it to bed last night. He sat down here, paralyzed by panic, seeing the video go viral on social media.
The video that paints him as an abuser. A child predator.
He throws his head back and flinches as a sharp pain shoots through his neck and shoulders. The solid tabletop makes for a terrible pillow.
His gaze returns to the phone. The screen is dark. Part of him wants to wake it up. A larger part is too terrified.
Footsteps, behind him. Socks on linoleum.
“You . . . slept out here?”
Maya. Her voice is rough with sleep, but the confusion and concern come through loud and clear.
“Just for a couple of hours,” he mumbles, pushing himself up. “I got up early to prep, and then . . .”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. His wife isn’t stupid.
For a long moment she says nothing, just stands there, watching him. Maybe she sees something she doesn’t like, because when she speaks again, her tone is soft. Maternal.
“Do you . . . want to talk about it, Eddie?”
“About what?”
“About what happened. Whatever it is.”
His eyes instinctively drop back to his phone, but he catches himself and shifts his gaze to the clock on the wall instead.
“Fuck—what time is it? I really need to get ready.”
Maya pulls her shoulders up and takes a breath, like she is about to give him a piece of her mind. But then she just shakes her head in defeat and turns toward the coffee maker.
“Better get a move on, then,” she says.
“Yeah,” Eddie replies. “We, um . . . we’ll talk about it later, okay?”
No response. Not a verbal one, at least.
Yet her silence says a lot.
The teachers’ lounge is usually buzzing like a beehive in the mornings before the first classes start. Work talk, the clatter of laptop keys, and the low hum of the overworked copy machine are the bare minimum of sounds you’d expect to hear on a typical day.
Today, it’s nearly silent. It’s like all of Eddie’s coworkers have just been sitting still, eyes locked on the door, waiting for the moment he would walk in.
And when it finally happens, it’s as if they all suddenly become self-conscious and start looking anywhere but at him.
The only one whose gaze stays on him is Jen, sitting on the couch with a light blue folder resting on her lap.
However, she isn’t looking at him the way she usually does. Her eyes are cautious. Maybe even a little suspicious. Come to think of it, it’s a lot like the look Maya gave him back home.
You’ve done nothing wrong, Eddie tells himself as he goes to the kitchen to pour coffee. Hold onto that.
That’s all well and good, but it’s hard to keep cool when no one says good morning and everyone is suddenly very absorbed in their paperwork. Even Donny West—with whom Eddie usually exchanges lame dad jokes—is silent as the grave today.
From the cupboard above the kitchen sink, he grabs a white mug with the school logo and a small crack starting in the handle. As he is pouring coffee into it, someone clears their throat behind him.
“Hey, um . . . Eddie?”
He turns around and is met with Miss Talbot’s rosy-cheeked face. Normally, that’s a pleasant experience, given that Etta Talbot—a short, gray-haired woman who almost always wears a tweed skirt, cardigan, and sensible flats—is what you might call the school’s grandmother.
Yet today, Etta doesn’t look particularly warm or caring. Her eyes are anxious, her lips pressed into a tight line.
“What can I do for you, Etta?” he asks.
"It’s, um . . . Jerry. He asked me to cover your first classes today,” she says, fluttering a stack of papers like proof.
Eddie’s mouth goes dry, and he has to steady himself to keep the coffeepot from shaking as he sets it down on the table.
“He did? Did he say why?”
She glances down, her throat clicking.
“He . . . said it might be a good idea for you to have the morning off. He didn’t go into detail, and I didn’t ask.”
“Uh-huh,” Eddie says, forcing a smile. “I guess I’d better go ask Jerry myself, don’t you think?”
He fails to keep the anger from seeping into his voice—that much is clear when he sees one of Miss Talbot’s sensible shoes take a step back as she nods nervously.
But damn it. He is angry. He is furious.
“I’ll talk to him,” he declares, after which he spins around on his heel and—surrounded by colleagues with worried eyes and perked-up ears—stomps over to the door and yanks it open.
Eddie doesn’t knock. He walks straight into the front office, where the principal’s secretary—a middle-aged woman with purple nails and plastic-framed glasses—looks up from her computer screen and stares at him wide-eyed.
“Jerry has a meeting in a minute,” she whispers. “You can’t just—”
“I need to have a word with him,” Eddie says. His voice is low, hard as frozen ground.
Before she can protest, the door to the principal’s office swings open behind her. Jerry Sharp steps out holding a mug, his face trying to strike a balance between friendliness and authority.
“Eddie! I was just on my way down to get you. Come on in.”
Jerry’s office is, as always, neat and bright. Light wood paneling lines the walls, a solid oak desk sits at the center, and a large bookcase with glass doors displays a full set of encyclopedias that haven’t been opened since the internet came along—as well as a handful of trophies from various school tournaments.
Eddie sits down without being asked. Jerry does the same, lifting his mug and blowing on his coffee like it’s just a casual chat between friends.
“I just talked to Etta,” Eddie says bluntly. “She says you gave her my classes today.”
The principal nods slowly.
“I asked Miss Talbot to take your first periods today, yes. It seemed like the best solution.”
“Best solution?” Eddie repeats. “For what?”
Jerry sighs and puts down the mug.
“Come on, Eddie. There is no need to do that. You know, just as well as I do, what this is about. And I’m on your side. I’ve seen the clip, and I know you. I know it’s not what it looks like.”
That should be reassuring. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like Jerry is just telling him what he wants to hear.
“But we’re a school,” the principal continues. “We run on trust. And even something that is just a misunderstanding can cause waves. Parents call in. Students talk. The staff gets uneasy. It’s not you I’m questioning. It’s the situation I’m trying to get under control.”
A chilling cold spreads through Eddie’s chest, and at its center, his heart pounds—hard and desperate—like a fist banging against a coffin’s lid from the inside.
“So, you want me to . . . what? Stay home?”
“Just a couple of days. That’s all. Not as a punishment. Just until the dust settles.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong. It was Kelly and . . . and Roy Brenner. They set me up, I . . .”
Jerry rubs his cheek and inhales through his nose. Then he leans forward.
“Look, Eddie. You’re a good teacher—and a good man. And believe me, a month from now, no one will remember any of this. Right now, we just need a bit of time to handle it. Okay?”
“Just a couple of days?”
Jerry nods, but as he does, Eddie notices his gaze drop to the desk.
THE PAINT JOB
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
Eddie closes the school office door far too gently behind him—a ridiculous contrast to the blood pounding in his temples. But he has used up every ounce of energy keeping a straight face in there, and now he doesn’t even have the strength left to express his anger by slamming the damn door.
Slowly, he walks through the corridors. First period has already begun, so there’s no one else in sight. The only real signs of life are muffled voices bleeding through closed doors: his colleagues, trying to pour some knowledge into teenagers.
It’s lonely, walking here.
Once outside, cold air hits him in the face like a wet rag. The sky has turned a dull, faded gray—not storming yet, but close. For now, just a fragile drizzle hanging in the air.
He cuts diagonally across the green area in front of the school to get to the staff parking lot, which sits on the far side of a long, rectangular bike shed.
He hears it even before he rounds the corner.
Footsteps. Running on gravel. Subdued laughter. Wheezing laughter.
There is no way he could know for sure, yet somehow, he does. That laughter is aimed at him. Just like everything else today has been.
Relax, he tells himself. It’s just some kids late for class . . . or skipping first period. No reason to assume—
He doesn’t get any farther before all the reason he needs comes racing around the corner of the bike shed and across the grassy area.
Aron Hanson—Roy Brenner’s lapdog—with his backpack bouncing off his hip and his face wearing that unmistakable look.
He just did something he wasn’t supposed to.
Now, their eyes meet, just for a moment, and every shred of doubt vanishes from Eddie’s mind. Whatever Aron was up to behind the shed, it had something to do with him. It’s written all over his face. The way he hesitates, just for a heartbeat . . . and then rushes off.
With a growing unease in his gut, Eddie speeds up until he reaches the corner of the bike shed.
He rounds it—and stops cold.
Someone has spray-painted his car. Huge, screaming yellow letters stretched across the windows and doors.
PERVERT!
PEDO FREAK!!
A couple of days, Jerry Sharp’s voice whispers in his head. Just until the dust settles.
Eddie stares at the words. The dust won’t settle. It’ll turn into mud—thick, choking mud he is expected to wade through.
He walks slowly toward the car, pulls out his keys—but once there, he doesn’t unlock it. He just stands still, reading the words over and over like he is looking for a mistake. A typo. A flaw in the logic. As though that might somehow prove he didn’t do it.
There’s nothing. Only hate and yellow spray paint.
The smell still hangs in the air—sharp and sweet, like gasoline fumes. Fresh. Five minutes old, maybe.
Aron. Roy Brenner’s errand boy.
Eddie stares. No longer at the words, but at his own reflection in the window.
And then, standing there alone in the parking lot, surrounded by the stink of paint, something strange happens.
He smiles. A quivering, deranged smile.
Not because it’s funny. Because it’s so goddamn absurd—and because he should have known.
They’ve judged him already.
THE HOME FRONT
GLEAMSDALE, 2009
The drive home feels endless, because Eddie chooses to zigzag through quiet residential neighborhoods to avoid the busier streets. But the extra time on the road is a price he is more than willing to pay if it means fewer eyes catching sight of the crude text on his car and trying to match it to a face.
To him.
When he finally pulls into the driveway, Eddie lets the engine idle a few beats too long. Like he is considering backing out again.
Driving off. Disappearing.
In the end, though, he does shut off the engine and step out. And as he does, the acrid sting of spray paint hits him again. Harsh. Chemical. Nauseating.
The front door opens just as he steps up onto the porch.
Maya. She stands in the doorway, hands tucked halfway into the sleeves of her cardigan like she always does when she is nervous.
It’s gotten to her already. Fuck.
“What . . . happened to the car?” she asks, even though the answer is mind-numbingly obvious. To her. To everyone in town.
“Can we go inside?” he says. “I need to sit down.”
She nods but still stays in the doorway. Blocking it. Only when he gestures subtly with his hand does she step aside and let him in.
The kitchen smells of coffee and toast. Usually, it’s the warmest room in the house. Today, it feels cold.
Eddie drapes his jacket over a chair and heads to the sink to wash his hands. There is paint residue caught in the creases between his knuckles. Why, he has no idea—he didn’t paint anything.
“About the car,” he begins. “It’s just a crude joke. One of the students—”
“I saw something,” Maya cuts in, her voice trembling. “On my phone.”
He dries his hands and turns around. She is already holding her phone. The screen is lit—but she doesn’t show it to him yet.
“A video,” she says. “Of you. And a girl.”
His stomach knots.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“Okay,” she says, her brow furrowing. “Then what is it?”
“It was . . . a setup. I don’t know. They tricked me. Lured me out there and staged the whole thing.”
“They?”
“The girl and Roy Brenner,” he says, pointing toward the phone in her hands. “That’s her in the video, but Roy is the one behind it. I’m sure of it. He—”
“Who is she?” Maya interrupts.
“What?”
“That girl. What’s her name?”
“She’s . . . just a student. Nobody. Roy’s girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?”
“Are you even listening to me? Her name is Kelly. I told you I was meeting up with her. But that doesn’t matter. It’s her boyfriend who is the real problem here. Roy Brenner. You know, the mayor’s son. The guy who always gets away with—”
“But you were alone with her, right? On the football field. Last night. Just the two of you. Not with Roy.”
“She told me she needed help, Maya! She said she knew who was behind the video of Molly. I explained all this to you yesterday!”
“But you didn’t say anything,” Maya says. Her eyes are glassy—not with tears, not yet. But she is right on the edge. “You came home yesterday, completely silent. After that happened! You sat down out here, and you didn’t say a single word about it.”
“I was . . . in shock,” he says. “Confused. I didn’t say anything because it sounded worse than it was.”
He reaches out—tries to place a hand on her arm—but she pulls back. Not angrily. More like it’s . . . instinct?
“Maya, please. I didn’t do anything. You know that, right?”
She nods, but just like Principal Sharp, her eyes shift as she does.
Sharp’s had drifted to his desk. Maya’s drift toward the car in the driveway.
And the bold yellow letters scrawled across it.
STEVE PARKER
WHAT & WHY
THE INTERROGATION, PART 5
GLEAMSDALE POLICE DEPARTMENT, 2018
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” the officer says. “Kelly Connors humiliated, and framed, you with a video back in 2009, and you got your revenge by doing something similar to her in 2017. Aron Hanson painted on your car, and eight years later, you lured him into another round of graffiti. Knowing full well it would land him a near-death beating and a month in the hospital. That about sum it up?”
“Sounds fair to me,” Eddie replies.
The officer leans back in his chair, allowing silence to reign for a moment. It’s measured, intentional. Like he is sizing up the man across from him, trying to decide whether Eddie meant the summary or the punishment when he said it sounded fair.
Eddie offers no assistance. His expression remains neutral. Unmoved.
“I think I’m starting to see a pattern,” the officer says, pulling a new folder from the stack and rotating it so the label faces Eddie. Not that he needs to read it. He knows who is next on the list. The officer says it aloud anyway:
