Брэд Мельтцер - The Fifth Assassin

“St-st-stovetop!” the blonde with braces added, getting the biggest laughs of all.

At the center of the circle, Rita tried to hold her smile in place, but it wobbled. A swell of tears built just behind her eyes.

From the closet, Marshall looked back at Beecher. “Girls are like… evil bitches.”

“What was that !?” someone shouted.

“From over there!” another yelled.

The crowd went quiet.

Beecher froze, hiding his eyes by staring down at the closet’s wood floor, which was a mess of shoes. He held his breath. Marshmallow did the same. No one was pointing at them. Maybe they didn’t—

The door to the closet flew open as the burst of bright lights attacked their retinas. “You little rat fink !” Beecher’s sister screamed. “ You’re dead for this! ”

Beecher scrambled backward, deeper into the closet. But with nowhere to go, he was tripping, tumbling, stumbling over the mess of shoes.

“Grab him!” a girl yelled.

Before he knew what was happening, the group of girls were grunting and pulling…

But not at Beecher.

“Get the fat one!” someone shouted.

“Nonono… please…!” Marshmallow pleaded as they dragged him from the closet. The girls were bigger—and two years older. Marshall didn’t have a chance. He tried grabbing Beecher’s shirt, then the cuffs of his jeans, but at the back of the closet, Beecher was tucked down, curled into his own self-preserving ball.

With a final tug, Marshall was out—literally pulled onto the worn yellow carpet with the daisy edges. The girls didn’t have to say a word. The circle formed instantly around him.

“You fat little shit!” Beecher’s sister shouted. “I should tell Pastor Riis what you did!”

“Y’know the pastor’s screwing your mom!” the girl with the gold cross added.

“That’s not true!” Marshall said.

“I heard he’s screwing her because your dad’s penis is even more broken than his legs,” the blonde with braces added.

“That’s why you’re an only child!” another girl said.

“I bet your penis is broken too!” Rita chimed in as the group let out their collective giggles and laugh.

“Broken penis!”

“Little penis!”

“No penis!”

The laughter grew louder as Marshall lay there, curled on the carpet, covering his head like he was in one of those 1950s Cold War instructional videos trying to protect himself from an atomic bomb.

In the back corner of the closet, as Beecher jammed himself against a row of once neatly hanging sweatshirts, he felt the empty clothes hug him, like cotton ghosts.

“They call you Marshmallow because you’ve got those boy boobs too, don’t you, fatty?” one of the girls called out.

“His dad has man-boobs too. Bigger than his mom’s!”

“Maybe the pastor’s screwing your dad too!”

The circle tightened around Marshall, like a gang when they start kicking their victim.

“ Don’t cry, fatty! ” Rita threatened as Marshall’s body started to shake.

Of course, Beecher wanted to stop them. Wanted to race out and help his friend and scream to stop them all. But he didn’t. He couldn’t , he thought. They were older. And bigger. How could he take on a roomful of—?

“ That’s enough ,” a girl’s voice interrupted. Calmly. Confidently.

The room turned.

Still embraced by the ghost-sweatshirts, Beecher peered out from the closet. He knew who it was.

Clementine.

“What’d you just say?” Beecher’s sister challenged.

“Listen, if it was my little brother, I’d kill him too,” Clementine said. “So go kill your brother. But don’t think you’re all-powerful just because you can pick on the fat kid who can’t fight back.”

The room went silent.

“Listen, bitch—you weren’t even really invited to this party,” the short bossy girl named Rita jumped in.

“You think I wanna be here? I’d rather gouge my eyes out than look at some Napoleon-teenbitch who’s so insecure she can’t remember how much the same thing hurt two minutes ago.” Turning to Marshall, Clementine added, “C’mon, get up.”

Jamming his fingers underneath his glasses to wipe his eyes, Marshmallow slowly rose to his feet. He didn’t say anything. He simply followed Clementine to the door.

Beecher watched it all from the closet. Clementine was incredible. Even more incredible than he had thought before.

But as she disappeared and Marshall trailed behind her, Beecher was still waiting for Marshall to turn back to him. He waited for Marshall to take one last glance over his shoulder.

Beecher kept waiting for his friend to look.

Marshall never did. He didn’t need to.

Beecher knew what had happened—he knew he was the cause of this.

And the sad truth was, it wouldn’t be the worst pain that Beecher would cause for Marshall Lusk.

53

Today

Get out of my house!” I shout.

“Benjy, listen to me…” Clementine pleads, using the old nickname my mom used to call me.

“Get out!”

“Beecher, before you—”

“ Get the hell out of my house! ” I insist, rushing forward and swinging my briefcase at her.

She hops from the chair but doesn’t take a single step away from me.

Her smell—a mix of caramel and a pinch of peach from her lip gloss—washes over me, reminding me of our kiss two months ago. She’s wearing the same tight black sweater from that first day we reconnected. It’s not nearly enough to make me forget what happened after that.

“Beecher, just listen.”

“ Listen!? You’re a liar. You’re a manipulator. And the last time we were together, you—oh yeah— you murdered someone !” I yell the words so loud, they burn my throat. “I’m calling the cops. They’re going to arrest you,” I tell her coldly as I reach for my phone.

“No. You won’t,” she challenges. “That doesn’t help either of us.”

I dial 911 and hit—

Her hand whips out, slapping the phone from my grip. It rockets against the armrest of the sofa and ricochets off the floor, skittering under the coffee table.

“Are you insane!?” I ask. Then I remember who her father is. Of course she’s insane.

I dart for the phone. She grabs my wrist.

I try to pull away. She’s holding so tight, her nails dig into the underside of my wrist.

“ Get… off! ” I shout, fighting to pull free and giving her a hard shove that slams her in the shoulder, catching her off balance and sending her stumbling backward.

Her feet hook on the carpet and she falls like a cut tree. The back of her head hits the edge of one of the lower shelves on a nearby bookcase, and her head snaps forward. A few picture frames sky-dive from the higher shelves, crashing next to her.

Heading for the coffee table, I reach for my phone.

“Beecher, can you please calm down a second?”

Thankfully, my cell’s not broken.

“I’m serious, Beecher! You need to listen!”

Again, I dial 911.

“You really think I came here without a good reason?” Clementine pleads. Her voice is desperate now.

I hit send and wait as it rings.

“I didn’t come here empty-handed!” she says, struggling to sit up. She reaches behind her back like she’s pulling something from her waistband.

If she has a gun—

“You need to pay attention,” Clementine says, pulling out a…

… folded-up sheet of paper.

No gun. In my ear, 911 rings for the second time.

“Beecher, you need to see this. It’s written by your father.”

“Everything you say is a lie, Clementine.”

“Not this time, Beecher. It’s a letter he wrote .”