For the rest of the day Rosie paced, wondering if Omar was all right, hoping the hallucinations would stop, and hoping he would go to bed and stay there.
But what if he did go to the graveyard? Was it really Jack who was behind all of this?
Jack. It had to be him. That was the only reasonable explanation, wasn’t it? Maybe he had always been jealous of Omar. Or maybe he wasn’t before, but Mackie’s death had pushed him over the edge. Everything fell apart for Jack; he lost his brother and, on top of that, the death broke up the friendship of boys who were practically triplets separated at birth.
Rosie opened her computer browser and searched for the Mackie Blackwell fundraiser. The happy eyes of Mackie Blackwell stared back at her. In his hand he clutched the worn football—the three names, Mackie Blackwell, Jack Blackwell, and Omar Arglos, were just visible under his fingers. The same football that they buried with Mackie.
There were other photos. The three boys playing in the sprinkler with an orange foam football when they were probably in kindergarten. The three boys building a snowman—the snowman, of course, clutching a football. And then birthdays, junior high games, and prom pictures. Jack was in all of the shots alongside his two best friends. No, it didn’t seem like he was jealous of Omar and Mackie. It really did appear that they were three of a kind.
Just after six Rosie picked up her phone. Should she call Mrs. Arglos and make sure Omar was okay? Rosie had hoped that he would get some sleep and then text her. Maybe she just needed to be patient. The last thing she wanted to do was wake Omar up if he was finally sleeping.
At eight she checked her phone again. Still no texts from Omar. Finally at eleven she texted him.
ROSIE: Hey, how are you doing?
No response.
The trauma and the medication. Could there be any other explanation for Omar’s bizarre behavior? And why wasn’t Jack dropping the story of Omar harassing him with texts? Messages that were sent from Mackie as if Mackie really had come back. She thought of the hissing voice telling her to “help him” and shivered.
What if Omar was still planning to meet Mackie tonight? If that was the case, she couldn’t let Omar go alone. She looked at the time on her phone. It was eleven thirty. If she left now she would be able to stop whatever was going to happen at the graveyard at midnight. But she would have to hurry. Rosie grabbed a flashlight and slipped out the front door, slowly pulling it closed until it clicked.
The moon shone from a black sky as she hurried down Zumbay Road. A rolling fog filled the ditches and partially covered the road. Rosie looked back, but even the lights at Dina’s Diner were off. There was no one else around; no one to help her if she found something horrible at the graveyard. She walked a little faster.
Ten minutes later she stepped onto the damp grass of the graveyard. Ahead, back near the forest of dark trees that grew behind the church, a shadowy figure stood in front of a small yellow light. He was there, at Mackie’s grave.
“Oma—” she started but then stopped. No, she wouldn’t call out to Omar and let him know she was there. Instead she hurried to the far right, into the trees. Rosie would sneak up on him and see what was really going on.
Her feet crunched on the dry leaves as she slowly made her way in the blue moonlight through the thick trees. The mist dissolved and Omar came into focus as she crept closer. He stood at the tombstone, holding a single candle. On the tomb was a familiar red chalice. Omar lifted it, as if to drink.
She needed to stop him. “Omar?” Rosie called loudly. He turned in her direction.
Something snapped up ahead of her in the trees and her eyes barely caught the white 44. “Hey!” she shouted. But whoever it was disappeared into the thick forest.