Todd Strasser - Wish You Were Dead

“Do you think it’s real?” Mom asked.

Detective Payne made a gesture with his hands to show he didn’t know. “It’s like anything else these days. We have to treat it as legitimate until we know otherwise.” He turned to me. “Why do you think this note came to you, Madison?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have a clue.”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to play with your head?” the detective asked.

PBleeker , I thought. “There might be one person. I’m not sure. I get anonymous messages.”

Mom wrinkled her forehead. “How long has this been going on?”

“About a year.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because I never really felt threatened. It’s more like someone who, well, maybe has a crush on me and is afraid of being rejected.”

“If it’s online, can you trace it?” Mom asked the detective.

“Depends,” Detective Payne answered. “I’ll take the information, but some people are better at hiding their real identities than others. And frankly, I have my doubts. Why would someone who’s been comfortable communicating on the Internet suddenly decide to leave a handwritten note?”

Mom gestured at the napkin. “What about fingerprints?”

“Not from paper like this,” Detective Payne said.

“I don’t understand how this person would expect me to show that I can be trusted,” I said.

Again, Detective Payne gestured with his hands as if he didn’t know, either.

“What should Madison do?” Mom asked.

Detective Payne turned to me. “There’s nothing you can do, Madison. Go about your business as usual. Just, you know, be careful. Stay alert.” He took one last sip of coffee and reached for the note. “Okay if I take this?”

I nodded. He stood up, folding the napkin and sliding it into his pocket. “It would probably be a good idea if you didn’t mention this to anyone, okay?”

“Is there anything new about Lucy?” I asked

The detective hesitated. “We’re following several leads.”

Mom accompanied him to the front door. She probably had some questions she wanted to ask him. I glanced out the window, where the sun had broken through the gray clouds and light glinted off the Sound. Only a week ago I’d sat in this kitchen not even questioning whether or not I felt safe. After all, this was Soundview. Not only Soundview, but the gated community of Premium Point. But so much had happened since then—Lucy’s disappearance, that awful feeling that someone had been following me in the dark boatyard, and now, this note.

Who could have left it?

The face that unexpectedly appeared in my thoughts was Tyler’s.

He knew where I lived.

Rich bitch .

Things like this happen for a reason .

Another voice was in my mind. Dr. Cunningham’s: Did you happen to see anyone else around when you dropped her off?

I’d said no but now I realized that wasn’t true. There had been someone else around. Tyler.

Hushed voices drifted down the hall. Mom and Detective Payne were speaking. Then the front door closed and Mom returned. She sat down at the table and took a sip of coffee.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He thinks someone may be playing with your head,” Mom said. “In times of stress, certain, er … not well people … sometimes do things like this.”

“What about Lucy?”

Mom traced the rim of the mug with her finger. “They’re stumped. They’ve brought in dogs and searched everywhere. They’ve sent alerts to all the neighboring towns. No one’s seen her. Her phone hasn’t been used since last Saturday. It’s as if she just vanished into thin air.”

“But he just said they’ve been following leads.”

“I think sometimes the police have to say that,” Mom said. “Just to reassure the public. But Detective Payne just told me that in his thirty years in the police department, he’s never seen a case like this.”

Even though the house was well heated, I shivered and hugged myself. “It’s scary.”

“Yes,” Mom agreed. “It is.”

During the normal IMing and texting that night, I didn’t tell anyone about the note. Courtney was online, and I was tempted to try and smooth things over with her, but for once I resisted. Why did I always have to be the one who tried to make things better? Why couldn’t she reach out to me?

Thursday 1:14 P.M.

“WHAT DID YOU just say?” Mr. Osmond asked Tyler in current events the next day, the fifth that we would live through without knowing what had happened to Lucy. I’d driven to school that morning wondering how Courtney would get there. Now she sat across the room from me, and neither of us looked in the other’s direction.

Mr. Osmond was a new, young teacher with all that enthusiastic “I’ve got to do more than just follow curriculum” energy that usually lasted no more than the first three or four years.

“I said that some people deserve to die.”

The class had gone silent. Everyone knew that this was just the sort of statement that Mr. Osmond loved to pounce on—a seed that he would now water with probing curiosity in the hope that it would blossom into debate. “Deserve to die,” he repeated. “So, Tyler, am I to understand that you are in favor of the death penalty, even in cases where the guilty person has not committed murder? In your opinion, these people still deserve to die?”

“Absolutely,” Tyler replied.

“According to whom?”

“According to what they’ve done,” said Tyler.

Mr. Osmond looked around. “Does anyone agree? Disagree? We’re not talking about murder here. The question is, does anyone really deserve to die for committing a lesser crime?”

“Rapists, child abusers, and pedophiles,” said Reilly Bloom.

“Damn right they deserve to die,” said Jake, and exchanged a high five with Greg Stuart. While he liked to sit with his jock friends in the back of the room, Adam, as a rule, maintained a somber demeanor in class and refrained from the typical dumb-jock hijinks.

“How would you feel if someone decided you deserved to die?” Mr. Osmond asked. “Who’s to say what constitutes a behavior or crime deserving of the death penalty?”

The class went quiet. Mr. Osmond scanned the room for someone willing to answer. There were certain people he could count on to give an opinion. I was one of them, but today I averted my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t call on me.

“Madison?” said Mr. Osmond, as if he could feel my reluctance.

I sighed and gave the answer I’d prepared in my head in case I was called. “I’m not sure I believe anyone has the right to decide who deserves to live or die.”

“You’d have let Hitler live?” asked Tyler.

I looked over at him, but unlike previous times when I felt my attraction for him stir, this time I felt wary and uncertain.

“I guess I believe that really bad people should be in prison for the rest of their lives,” I said.

“Are you serious?” Tyler asked as if I’d just said I believed pigs could fly. “Hitler? You’re talking about someone who was responsible for the deaths of six million Jews. Women, children, babies, complete innocents. How can you think someone like that could be allowed to live?”

“Hitler is an extreme case,” said Mr. Osmond. “We were talking about someone who has not committed murder.”

“If someone intentionally does something that he knows can result in death,” Tyler said flatly, “then that person deserves to die.”

“Even if he doesn’t actually kill anyone?” asked Mr. Osmond.

“It’s like everything they’ve been telling us about bullying since kindergarten,” Tyler went on. “You can tease and taunt someone until they’re so miserable they kill themselves. Why should people who do that go unpunished?”