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Michael walked side by side with Dylan out the front doors of the high school, having doubled back for Dylan’s phone, which Michael kept in his pocket for “security reasons.” Michael explained what had brought him to the high school in the first place, all the while watching his classmate for any tell that Dylan already knew what had happened.
For his part, Dylan either showed genuine surprise and concern for Michael or faked it well. As they walked toward the road, Michael never let him move beyond his sight. Although Officer Tagliamonte had cleared the boy of any connection to Carter Wainwright to the point of producing official records that proved his identity and innocence, Dylan still worked at Brentworth. The circumstances that had brought him and Michael together had always seemed a little too convenient, perhaps contrived. Michael had needed a friend. Boom, he’d gotten one. Dylan had survived not one but two attacks by Horvat’s brainwashed Indians. And Dylan had been brainwashed himself.
Sam didn’t believe in coincidences. Her cynicism was wearing off on Michael. As they reached the road, he turned to face Dylan. “So... where should we go?” he asked, having a sneaking suspicion Dylan would only recommend one place.
“I don’t know.” Dylan shrugged. “Can’t go to the police, right?”
Michael nodded, watching Dylan’s facial expressions closely. “Right.”
“How about the treehouse? She found you there once. Maybe she’ll think you’ll go there again.”
Michael suppressed his smile. It was the answer he’d suspected, and it made him trust Dylan even less. His friend’s suggestion wasn’t without any reason—Sam might think to look for him there—but so might all the Wainwright douchebags, particularly if Dylan was one of them.
It didn’t matter. Michael was tired of running. Without his phone, Dylan wouldn’t be able to contact Wainwright, except if he had a backup. Maybe there was even one in the treehouse. But Michael had his main phone, the stick-knife, and the wariness to be ready for even the slightest inkling of bull. Dylan was either a true friend used by a malicious enemy or a malicious enemy posing as a true friend. He claimed to have been brainwashed, and Michael could think of no reason why Wainwright and Horvat would brainwash a willing participant in their schemes.
At the same time, Michel desperately wanted to trust his friend. Wainwright had had ample opportunities to use Dylan against Michael before that day. Why would he have waited until then? On top of it all, and the real reason behind Michael’s burgeoning suspicions, was that he couldn’t believe anyone would truly want to be his friend.
He kept all these thoughts to himself, letting the doubt fester while keeping his expression level. Outside, he said, “Sure. Sounds good.”
“Hey.” Dylan frowned. “We’re good, right? I hate what happened. It seems just so... unreal to me. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt anybody. This whole thing is just so freaking crazy.”
He rubbed his eyes, and Michael wasn’t sure if he’d seen tears. But Dylan took a deep breath and found his composure. “Anyway, you have my phone and that stupid stick. So unless we run into those brainwashing jerks, I don’t think there’s any way they’ll get to me again or that I’ll be able to hurt you.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t think I’ll be answering any calls ever again.”
“Not your fault, man,” Michael said flatly. “I get it. Let’s just get out of the open. Sam’s probably worried sick about me, and to be honest, I’m worried sick about her.”
Dylan nodded, and the two walked in silence back to Brentworth, both taking occasional glances over their shoulders and hiding their faces from oncoming vehicles. They saw no cops and few cars. No one passed that raised Michael’s suspicions.
Brentworth was closed off to anyone but the police. Caution tape and orange cones stood sentry over a deserted building. Security patrolled the parking lot, so Dylan and Michael kept inside the tree line at the back of the adjacent properties, a gas station and carwash, working their way behind the hospital.
Michael hesitated only a moment before heading deeper into the woods. Of course he second-guessed his logic in going back to the place where it had all began. But he’d had a vision of the future in which he was still alive and Sam was older, and he trusted that meant they would make it through the day okay. Of course, Sam could be hurt and needing help sooner than later. Moreover, having seen the vision, Michael knew that he might be acting in a way he wouldn’t normally act had he not had the benefit of foresight. He could be changing the future without even realizing it.
He was growing tired of the constant battle, his life of fear, helplessness, and loneliness. And he was tired of being pushed around. If he kept running like he always had, he was starting to think he would always be running. Maybe it was time he pushed back.
As they plodded over pine needles without saying a word, Michael thought back over the events of the last several days—the attacks on himself, the people he’d seen die. He thought back to those who’d exploited him for his curse, all the way back to Tessa, whose actions caused her stepfather to murder his last foster parents, and Sam, who’d exposed him to a murderer just to solve a case. He thought of the Suarez gang and Jimmy, who’d sold him out to the brothers. His so-called friends, people who were supposed to care about him, using him like some carnival freak for their own selfish reasons.
Heat rose to his face, and he flexed his fingers. He wondered who his real enemies were. At least with Wainwright and Horvat, he knew where he stood. But there was no hurt greater than that of betrayal. The betrayal of a friend.
He stared up at Dylan as they climbed the splintering ladder to the treehouse. Michael reached for each rung without hesitation, squeezing them as if he wanted to strangle them, his feet marching from one to the next with hostile snaps.
When he reached the top, Dylan was working the pulley. “I’m just going to bring it up, you know... just in case. To have it at the ready.”
Michael stood a foot away from him. “Your father’s an administrator at the hospital, right?”
Without turning, Dylan continued to draw up the bucket. “Yeah, but he didn’t have anything to do with those crazies, if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s been cooperating with the cops ever since everything went down.”
“It just seems odd that... I mean, you were just hypnotized by them, right?” Michael pulled Dylan’s cell phone from his pocket.
“Yeah?” Dylan worked the bucket closer.
“Well, aren’t you even the least bit concerned that maybe he was too?” The cell phone was locked. “What’s your password?”
“Three two one... one two three. Why? Who you going to call?”
Michael typed in the password, then scanned the recent calls. The last one had come from DAD. He dialed it back and let it ring.
Dylan looked over his shoulder and sighed. He smiled shakily. “Where are you going with this, Mike?” His brow furrowed. “Who are you calling?”
“Don’t you want to make sure your father’s okay? You haven’t even mentioned him or asked for the phone on the entire walk over. Aren’t you concerned about him?” Michael inched closer to Dylan. “Or is it that you already know there isn’t anything for you to be concerned about?”
The phone continued to ring until, at last, someone answered. A familiar voice said, “Where are you? Are you with that detective’s kid?”
“No,” Michael snarled. “But I’m with yours.” He hung up the phone.
“Michael,” Dylan said, starting to turn while holding the pulley in place. With the metal bar at his side, he stepped toward Michael. He raised his hands, confusingly placating and threatening at the same time, as he inched ever closer. “You’ve got things all wrong. I’m your friend—”
“Get away from me!” Michael saw the raised bar and acted. He threw out his arms, slamming his palms into Dylan’s chest.
Dylan cried out. His arms reached wildly for something to grab, finding nothing but air as he plummeted from the platform. His elbow smacked the bucket, tipping it and spilling the handlebar down to the ground with him. He hit earth will a dull thud.
Michael gazed over the ledge. Dylan was sprawled on the leaf-covered dirt below. He wasn’t moving. Michael made his way to the ladder and began his climb down, his whole body trembling and working on cruise control. In his mind, reruns of what he’d just done played over and over again.
At the bottom, he circled the tree to check the body of the kid he was sure he’d just murdered. But Dylan was no longer where Michael had pushed him. Indentations in the dirt marked the spot where he had landed. A trail of footprints led away, then turned, circling.
In his peripheral, Michael spotted something metallic swinging toward his head.