Chp.11

I'm sitting in a purple couch, with a blanket around my shoulders and a mug of hot coffee in my hands. I feel a bit sheepish sitting here like this. But it's better than nothing. Plus, Amy's really nice. Rickson's in his study, talking to the officers about something. They came to me, asking me the same things Rickson asked, but in more details. And despite my impatience, I answered them all exactly how I remember. I could see by the looks of some that they didn't want to be here. With me.

It's 3:36, but everyone's still awake. A man named Erik already gone out to where Mom and Dad went. But it's useless. Only I know that though. I wish I took the note. But I didn't tell anyone because I think something bad will happen. And I'm just not bloody thinking straight. I put my hand on my pant pocket and it's still there. Your diary is still here even when I don't want it to be. Because this diary is the reminder that they may not come back. That they're gone just like you.

I shake this thought out of my head, a feeling of nostalgia hitting me. I miss everything. I miss how we used to be. And I don't know what I'll do, where I'll go if they're gone too. And then that note. The list. Should I tell Rickson about this? Can I trust him?

"Here you go," Amy's voice tears me away from my thoughts, "This is the best I can do for your cap-thing."

She hands me my beanie, and I take it back, wearing it even though it's still a bit damp. And cold.

"You want more coffee?" She asks, wiping the sweat off her dark complexioned face before folding her arms.

I shake my head, looking down at my fidgeting hands.

"Don't you worry," She says kindly, "James and his team are bound to find them."

I nod at the word James. James Rickson. The man who's helping me. But I don't know why he's doing that. He could have left me there, on the wet road, and wouldn't have had a sleepless night. But he's in his room; I can hear arguments too muffled to understand clearly.

"What did you say their names were, again?" A head pops from the door, a man with a thick mustache.

"Brenda and George Wells." I reply.

The man nods, scribbling it down on his pad before leaving me alone.

"You sure you don't need anything else?" I could tell by Amy's voice that she was tired.

I look at her, "I'm alright."

She gives me a long sympathetic stare before walking out of the living room. I wait for five minutes, then take out your diary. It's dry but your words are smudged. Just enough to read. I run my fingers on your words, stroking them. It's weird how the rest of your diary is empty. Did you write another entry in the middle? I flip through the pages.

I'm trying to recall the day when you were going camping. When I was watching TV and you were just wandering around the house, looking for your sleeping bag. Did you look troubled that day? Did you look scared? I don't know. You never showed.

"You off?" I asked, when you heaved all your stuff in the living room.

"Yep," You clapped your hands together, "I'm fully prepared."

Did that mean you were ready with your camping equipment or that you were prepared to play that game?

"And you'll be coming back when exactly?" I wasn't looking at you, focusing on the stupid TV.

You didn't answer that did you? You just stepped closer, and I forced myself to look at you.

"What?" I asked.

"I've been reading this book," You muttered, "It's the history of New Jean. I gotta tell you there are some whacky tales in them."

I frowned, because I didn't understand what you were saying, "Umm…Okay?"

"There was this section in which they told about frequent murder of kids." You were in deep thought, "It kept on happening, but not in any patterns. And that section is so small, barely readable."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, "I thought you don't like history."

"I never said I don't like the town's history itself." You said, defensively.

"Where did you get the book from anyway?" I changed the channel with the remote.

"From the library," You answered, "It's in my room right now. I'll hand it back after-"

There was a loud honk from outside and we heard someone yelling your name.

"Your friends?" I asked.

You chewed your lips, "Yeah. I...I better get going."

"Bye." I waved not looking back at you.

"Bye, Lukas." You said quietly, and it was weird how you didn't say Luke to me. You never liked my real name. And then you went away. You never returned.

I wipe at my eyes, realization dawning. That book. Kids' murder. Jesse, you were trying to hint something at me weren't you? And I was so stupid that I ignored it all. Why did I do that? Damnit Jesse, you were trying to hint me so I could save you. Did you die hoping I'll come for you? And I'm such a bloody loser. An idiot. I couldn't save you even when you were trying to make me understand.

A book. History of New Jean? Is that real though?

I rest my head on my hands, my throat aching, swallowing down my screams. That book. That's the clue isn't it? Kids dying. You did do your own research Jesse. And that book. In your room. Oh God, I need to go back home. I need to-

I'll take Rickson with me. He probably knows about these murders. If he looks through those cases, maybe he'll find a connection. Maybe he'll understand?

I get up without hesitating, to the study. I can hear them still talking. And I can hear my name. My parents' names.

"...But you don't understand, sir," I hear Rickson say, "We can't just throw this matter away."

I frown at that, pressing my ear on the door, another voice erupts,

"I just had a call, Rickson," The voice was gruff, "Erik did some asking on his way, there ain't no Brenda and George going nowhere!"

I freeze. What does he mean they didn't go anywhere? What did that mean?

"But he can't lie!" Rickson protests, "He was shivering in the rain when I saw him."

They were talking about me.

"And how are you so sure that this isn't an act? Will you answer me that DS ?" The other voice sneers.

And I'm horrified. They think I'm lying. They think I'm acting this all out.

"But he can't-!" Rickson shouts, but thinks better to lower his voice, "But he can't be capable for killing two adults, sir. That's ludicrous."

I forget to breath. They think I murdered my own parents. They think that I can do that. And my heart hurts to hear that. To know that no one trusts me. Just because Skylar said-

"Oh come on, James," Say that voice, "Wasn't his sister the one to kill those girls?"

I'm hating how he snarls at that. As if this is obvious. That I killed my very own parents. I clench my fists. I hate them. I hate Rickson. I thought I could trust him when I actually only forgot that I'm alone here.

"But we have no proof of that, sir." Rickson says, defending me. But I still hate him. I hate him for being in this conversation.

"Exactly," Snorts that voice, "He's fifteen, ain't he? Perfectly capable of taking care of himself."

"But, sir..." His voice drains away.

And I'm so mad that I ever trusted them to find our parents. They never solved your murder did they, Jesse? They blamed the whole case on you. The same they're doing with me.

"I'll just tell Erik to come back. Can't believe you're arguing with me about this, Rickson."

"Sir..."

"For god sake, if you care that much then we'll give him to an orphanage. You happy now?"

And I can't believe they're actually talking about this. Talking about taking me away.

I hear the door knob twist and I don't do anything, just frozen with shock. Rickson opens the door, taken aback to see me, standing there, listening to whatever they said. And I'm shaking my head in disbelief, backing away from him. I see DI Williams standing behind him, tsk-ing like I am the one at fault.

"Lukas," Rickson says, his eyes showing the guilt he feels, "It's not what it looks like. We were just-"

"You said you'll help me." And I'm still stepping away from him, "You said that you'll help me find them."

My jaw tight, my fists clench, my knuckles going white, I keep on backing further and further. But Rickson keeps on coming close.

"You don't trust me, do you?" I hiss. "You lie about everything. About helping me, about finding my parents. Promising me!"

"And you!" I turn to the DI, "Thinking you'll get away with everything. Nothing but a useless fat jerk who can't do his own job properly!"

Williams face is red with anger when I growl that, as he snarls, "See Rickson? This kid flipping on me. No doubt his sister was the killer and now he's one too!"

"I said Shut up!" I yell on top of my lungs, "Shut up! Shut up!"

Rickson with wide eyes, "Calm down, Lukas."

"Oh I'll be sure to note that down." I snap, turning and running away. Pushing through the rest of the lying crew and out of the front door. I hear Rickson, calling back for me but I don't stop. Because I'm going to find out everything. Without his help.

I run, the sun slowly rising. I see the newspaper boy eyeing me suspiciously but I ignore him. All I'm focusing on is what you said. A book? History? Dead kids? But no patterns. Damnit. What did the last part mean?

Nobody's coming after me. No one's stopping me. Because no one cares. No one cares if I live or die. I don't care either. I think about how that blasted DI didn't even send that Erik to the town to find out where they went. I should have gone with them. If they were dead, Jesse, at least they were with you now. And if they aren't with you, then why aren't they with me? They left me here with these bloody liars. Are they thinking about me right now? Because If that killer took them then I'll kill him. I don't care who it is now, I'll kill that murderer without any hesitation. I don't care if I die after. As long as he dies first.

I reach home, fishing out my keys, quickly unlocking it. The door creaks open, nothing but the sound of my heavy breathing could be heard. I go in the kitchen, grab myself a glass of water, gulping it down to cool down my hot body. I race to your room.

I look around. But there is no book. I go through your cupboard, then your desk, you trunk, under the bed. It isn't anywhere. Letting out a cry of frustration, I kick at the leg of the bed. The mattress moves a little. I frown. What if..?

I lift the mattress up, and I see it. I think brown book with the words New Jean imprinted on it with bold black letter. I take it out. Sitting on the floor, facing the window, I frown. Because the book isn't really a book. I go through the pages, seeing that they were copies of old news papers. About good incidents and bad. About celebrations and tragedies to advertisements. From the day they made New Jean till 2003. It was published nine years ago. But there isn't any name of the person who did it. I notice a page folded. I turn towards it. I see a sticky note with your handwriting.

Don't do this, Luke.

You're warning me again. And I don't get it. You were hinting me, weren't you? That day before leaving? But now in this diary and this book. You're warning me now. And I don't understand you, Jesse. What do you want from me? You literally folded the stupid page!

I take of the note to reveals a small section. It didn't have a bold heading like the other section. Just a simple fact of five kids found dead. That's all it said. I look for more folded pages and find one. I sigh to see another note from you.

Stop, Lukas, you don't want to get into this.

I ignore it too, taking it off. And then there's another section behind it. Another small space hiding with the same words. Dead children.

My heart is beating when I turn to the final fold of paper. And this time your note isn't stopping me. It just says,

You can't win the game.

And I want you to tell me what it means. What your death means. What Skylar the only one being alive means. What going to the camp meant. What this book, your diary, Mom and Dad disappearing means. What this all-

I narrow my eyes to see a black shadow moving. But before I could even turn, a hand with a napkin is pushed against my face and I'm choking with the wetness of it touching me and I'm kicking my legs around wildly, the book falling from my lap. My eyes bloodshot, I try to loosen the grip but fail, breathing this weird...

My eyes are shutting but the cloth is still on my face, clasped tightly. I see white flashing with black. I raise my hand to scratch at the culprit's face but my eyes are drooping and I'm breathing heavy in the cloth and I feel sick and my visions blurring even though I don't have tears in my eyes. I can feel the person grabbing my hand with his free one and I'm drowning and drowning and I can't do anything to stop this person.

I'm dying, Jesse. And if you three are already dead, then I'm ok with this person killing me.

I'm ok with it...

But why am I thinking about playing a game...?