Sean Slater - The survivor

The comment made Courtney smile, and she looked at the dress again, this time feeling a little more confident. She was about to try it on when her phone rang. She hoped it was Bobby Ryan — God, he was, like, Jonas Brother hot — and frowned when she read the caller ID.

DAD.

Raine saw. ‘Don’t answer — you’ll have to go home.’

‘Believe me, I’m not.’

She waited for the phone to finish ringing, then scrolled through the missed calls. She saw his number on there four times.

‘Principal Myers must’ve called him,’ she said.

‘So your dad knows you’re skipping.’

Courtney leaned back against the change-room wall, slumped down defeated. ‘I’m dead. I am so dead. He’s gonna ground me for sure. He’ll ruin everything. The party, the concert… I wish Mom was still around.’

For a moment, both girls said nothing. Then Raine took control. She grabbed the dress and held it against Courtney’s chest. Made a whistling sound, and her lips took on a mischievous grin.

‘Deep dark red, baby. Brings out your hair. And red is hot, hot, hot!’

Courtney grinned. ‘You think?’

‘For sure. Bobby Ryan’s gonna love it!’

Both girls broke out into a series of excited giggles.

‘Come on,’ Raine urged. ‘Try it on.’

Courtney took the dress, looked at the price tag and almost choked. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘So?’

Her cheeks flushed. ‘I don’t… I don’t have that kind of money.’

‘Who says you need to?’

Courtney gave a nervous look towards the sales clerk who was standing just outside the curtain.

‘I’m not stealing anything,’ she whispered.

Raine let out a high-pitched laugh. ‘Well, duh. I’ll buy it for you.’

‘It’s almost two hundred bucks.’

Raine smiled. ‘Being sexy don’t come cheap, Court.’

‘You’re missing the point — it’s almost two hundred bucks.’

‘Hundred schmundred. It’s nothing.’

Courtney looked at the dress, then back at Raine. ‘You got that kind of money?’

Raine laughed again. ‘My mom does.’ Before Courtney could say more, Raine wheedled, ‘Come on, Court, put it on.’

Courtney finally gave in. She stepped into the dress, felt the silk and satin slide up her body, and felt good in it. Felt sexy. She turned around so Raine could zip up the back, then pulled her long, reddish-brown hair free so that it spilled all around her shoulders.

‘Friggin’ perfect,’ Raine said.

Courtney looked at herself in the mirror, stared where the material clung to her like a second skin, her belly showing through the thin red satin. Raine was right. She did have a flat stomach.

And she did look good.

Her phone vibrated against the hard wooden surface of the bench, and she reached down and turned it off.

No way in hell Dad was screwing this up too.

She needed the costume. They’d gotten front-row tickets for Britney Spears on Friday, and it was gonna rock hard. But before that, they were going to the Parade of Lost Souls party. They had to.

Bobby Ryan was going to be there.

As Striker drove back to St Patrick’s High, he felt as if they were on a House of Horrors ride at the carnival. Small swells of anxiety crept into the back of his heart, causing it to beat a little faster with every mile. He felt hot. His skin was sweaty.

He pulled at his shirt collar to get some air, then gave Felicia a quick glance. He saw the relaxed expression on her face and the casualness of her posture, and he wondered how the hell she could be so cool all the time.

Her ability to distance herself was unnerving.

They drove on. The weather was cold and blustery, but the eleven o’clock sky remained clear and bright. Sunny, even. Unusually beautiful for such a fall day, especially one so late in October.

It seemed wrong, given all that had happened.

Imperial Road curved lazily around the woodlands as they followed it south, the road surface uneven and slippery. They passed through the swerving tunnels of maple trees until the north end of the school came into view.

A mob of people had gathered. Clusters of mothers and fathers massed near the roundabout. A handful of officers were speaking with them. Most of the parents were as white as sheets. Some of their faces were filled with fear and longing. Others were loud and hostile, ready to riot at a moment’s notice. An explosive tension filled the air.

Striker felt sick for them. From this day forward some of their homes would feel empty, filled with an unnatural silence; a grief too deep to be explained. He knew this because he had felt it after Amanda died. Even after two long years, there was still a strange emptiness inside his core. A dark and hollow place.

He looked ahead and spotted a white unmarked Crown Victoria, parked out front of the school. The White Whale, everyone called it, because there was no colour less operational than white.

The Crown Vic belonged to the road boss. Car 10. Meaning the Inspector of the day. There were many of them that ruled the road, and most of them were men Striker not only respected but admired. Guys like Jean Concorde who had been one of the best investigators the Department had ever seen, or Reggie Yorke, who was as operational as men come, spending the bulk of his time with Strike Force and the Emergency Response Team. Hell, even Davey Falk was a good man, lacking the operational and investigational skills the other two Inspectors had, but making up for it with his steadfast support of the men and women under him. All were exceptional men, and Striker hoped to see one of them behind the wheel of the White Whale.

But as he and Felicia drove nearer and the occupant came into view, Striker’s hopes faltered and were replaced by a morbid feeling of something between frustration and disgust. It was the Deputy Chief himself.

‘Oh Christ,’ Striker said. ‘It’s Laroche.’

‘Avoid him,’ Felicia said.

‘Just what we need now. The one guy in the Department who can make even an Active Shooter situation worse.’

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘Of course you would say that.’

Felicia shot him a fiery look, as if preparing for an argument, but then let the comment go.

Striker slowed their speed as they passed the white Crown Victoria. Inside the car sat Deputy Chief Laroche. His dyed black hair, which was slicked back over his head in an oily smear, contrasted with the unblemished white of his skin. As if to counteract the glare of his face, he’d adorned himself with a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses with overly dark lenses. He wore the standard white shirt that all Deputy Chiefs and Inspectors wore, starched so strongly it looked like white cardboard rather than a cotton-polyester blend, and had adorned himself with all the medals he’d earned during his time in the Army — a time which everyone knew he’d spent on this side of the ocean in field management despite his claims that he’d seen battle in the Kuwaiti wars. In one hand, Laroche held a steaming hot cup of Starbucks; in the other, a sandwich overflowing with cheese and lettuce. He took a huge bite of it as they drove by, and Striker turned his eyes back to Felicia.

‘Kids are dying in there and that prick’s out here eating sandwiches.’

The earlier defiance of Felicia’s face crumbled away. ‘Well, he’s

… he’s got to eat sometime, I guess.’

‘Have we eaten yet?’ When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘We’ve been on the road since eight.’

‘I’m not getting into this, Jacob.’

‘No, you wouldn’t, would you?’

She gave him another hot look, and for a moment, she seemed ready to say more, but changed her mind.

They left the White Whale parked a half block behind them and drove into the roundabout at the school driveway, past the front entrance. Striker parked, climbed out, and had a flashback of chasing Red Mask. He could still hear the loud bangs of the gunfire, still smell the lingering scent of burned gunpowder.