Dylan Smith laid on her stomach, kicking her feet up and down. Music blared in her ears and her history papers were scattered across the bedroom. Her room was messy and the amount of old worn boots and torn jeans would impress anyone. Plus, the fact she could find anything.
Mrs. Smith was out for a town meeting. She ran the volunteer council of Harwood and constantly challenged everything the other councillors said. It was her true joy; ruining people’s lives. At least that was what Dylan said.
Derek was hanging out with Tyler and Peter. They were going to go to Smithey’s and do…something guyish. Everything seemed to finally be going her way. Well, apart from Matthew and the other two Visigoths forcing their way into their secret group and taking over Jill’s naïve mind. He was using her. He wasn’t good news. Anyone could see it; even Hammy.
Jill was clueless. She hoped she’d get hit hard on the head and wake up. For freakin’ sakes, the damn satyr tried to kill her best friends. Matthew Black was trouble and Dylan had written in her history notes what she would like to say to him. It was a long list and not the most innocent either.
Then there was the fact that Alex was missing. Her mind had been focused on him all week and she hadn’t been able to sleep properly. They weren’t close, but the girls were all friends with him. He played harmless pranks on everyone. Maybe his disappearance was a big hide-and-go-seek game. It disturbed her though. After all the attacks and that he went missing following the party, made Dylan concern. If Matthew had done anything to him – oh, she’d make him pay.
“Dylan.” She looked over her shoulder to see her dad, Mr. Smith, at the door. After she recovered from a mini heart-attack, she growled and sat up.
“What? You going to try to ‘discuss’ my behaviour to the others? ‘Cause I have a history thingy and I don’t have time to talk about them,” Dylan ranted.
“They found Alex.” Relief filled her body. Exhaling, she sat up and rubbed her stressful headache goodbye.
“Thank god, where did he go?” she asked. Mr. Smith sighed, his shoulders falling and walked into the room. The floorboards creaked and he seemed hesitant to answer. “He’s okay, right?”
Mr. Smith rubbed his eyes. “Dylan, they found Alex’s body in the woods behind his house. His side had been stabbed – several times.” Stabbed? Her stomach twisted and she dug her nails into her bare legs. “He’s been dead since Saturday night.”
“He did,” she blurted out, eyes misty.
Mr. Smith stepped closer, hands up. He knew Dylan was raging inside. Her breathes were sharp and she couldn’t control herself. “Dylan, Dylan.”
Dylan bounced off the bed and flailed her arms. “He did it, dad! Who else would? There’s only us and them!” Her chest pounded. She swept some hair from her face and ran her fingers through it.
“Dylan,” Mr. Smith whispered, reaching to touch her trembling hand.
She jerked away and clutched her t-shirt, having trouble breathing without breaking down. She hadn’t showing her weaker side. She barely cried when she was a kid. If she hurt her knee, she toughened up and continued playing.