Sam picked up the torn slip of paper and held it in trembling hands. His eyes flew over the words etched in jagged letters:
I know the truth.
I know what really happened.
Sam’s knees wobbled and nearly gave out. He fell back against the row of lockers. The world was spinning again.
Who was after him? Who knew the truth? He quickly scanned the halls, but none of the stragglers seemed to be paying him any attention. One kid was tying his shoelace. Two girls were giggling near the doors to the gym. Then, suddenly, he caught sight of a figure as it darted around the corner at the far end of the hall.
It was Walter. Sam was sure of it. He’d know that frizzy black hair anywhere.
He’s gone too far. He’s not going to get away with this!
Sam crumpled the note in his fist. His knuckles were white. He’d show Walter. He’d ram the paper down his throat and make him eat his words.
Leaving his locker wide open and letting his backpack drop to the ground, Sam tore down the hall. He nearly ran into the guy who was tying his shoelace but sidestepped him at the last second.
“Watch it!” the guy shouted.
But Sam just kept running.
He spun past the girls, who stopped giggling. He ignored their gasps and charged forward, reaching the end of the hall in a matter of seconds. He took the corner too fast, swung wide, and almost slammed into the wall on the opposite side.
“Walter!” Sam roared at the top of his lungs.
He didn’t care that he was at school, didn’t care what might happen to him if he got caught shrieking in the hallway. All he cared about at that moment was grabbing Walter by the throat and choking that smug smile off of his face once and for all. But before Sam could finish his thought, he came to an abrupt standstill.
The hall was empty. The figure — whoever it was — was gone.
Sam kicked wildly at a locker door, slamming his foot into it so hard that he dented the metal. He dropped to the ground, cursing and grabbing his foot. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed the throbbing pain, trying desperately to get hold of himself. He was furious, frustrated, exhausted, and confused. Part of him wanted to lie on the floor for the rest of eternity, while the other part wanted to put his fist through a wall. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, and opened his eyes.
The principal, Mr. Gordon, was standing three feet away, staring down at Sam. The short, bald man scowled, then motioned calmly for Sam to follow him.
Sam sighed. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. He scooped up the crumpled ball of paper he’d dropped and shoved it into his back pocket.
“Robert McLean,” the principal said when Sam’s father entered the office a half-hour later.
Sam glanced up from the chair he’d been slumped in, and for the first time in his life he was ashamed of his father. Totally ashamed.
His dad was wearing three layers of clothing that looked as if he’d slept in them. He was unshaven. It seemed as if he hadn’t had a shower in days. His face was starting to show what appeared to be some sort of weird disease — all white and blotchy, with dark greenish rings around bloodshot eyes.
This wasn’t his father. Someone had kidnapped Mr. Perfect and left Zombie Dude behind.
“Norm,” his father said, nodding in acknowledgement.
Sam’s spine straightened. His father knew the principal? He actually knew him? Somehow Sam had forgotten that his father had grown up in Ringwood, that he likely knew a lot of the people.
“Surprised to see you here, Bobby,” the principal said, eyeing Sam’s father with a mixture of amusement and contempt. “Thought you’d left Ringwood for good.”
Bobby? No one calls Dad Bobby.
“What’s this all about, Norm?”
Sam studied his father’s expression. It was stone-cold, almost sinister. Sam knew right then and there he could kiss his iPod goodbye. And his computer. And his cellphone.
Almost out of reflex Sam gazed out the window of the office. The sun was low in the sky. A golden haze bathed the football field. In the opposite direction, darkness brewed. A storm approached in silence.
“Your son went berserk, Bobby. Kicked in a locker and was cussing at the top of his lungs. Thing is, there wasn’t anyone else around.”
Sam was waiting for his father to look over and shake his head, roll his eyes, do something to demonstrate disappointment, but he didn’t cast him even a sideways glance. Instead, he kept his eyes trained on the principal, as though Sam wasn’t even in the room.
“I’ll pay to have the locker repaired,” he said with a calmness that was frightening. “And you won’t be hearing any foul language coming out of this boy’s mouth again.” He paused, then added, “That’s a promise.”
Sam swallowed a lump the size of a baseball. That was no promise. That was a warning.
The principal studied him for a moment as if he were taking great pleasure in deciding his fate. Finally, he said, “All right. I’ll cut him some slack, Bobby. But keep a tight rein on your boy. I’ve seen him hanging round with Cody Barns. You, of all people, should know that can’t come to any good. In fact, just today the police were here. That’s all I can say.”
Sam’s eyes grew wide, and his pulse quickened. The police. Cody. They must know. Everything.
“Sam won’t be seeing the Barns boy anymore,” his father said, smiling. It was a thin grin, barely noticeable, but Sam caught it. Then he added, “That’s another promise.”