The Long Game
Page 33
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“Miss, I need you to stay calm. I’ve got police en route. Do you see any indication that the shooter is still in the area?”
The hall was empty except for me and the body that wasn’t John Thomas anymore.
“Has anyone else at your school been shot?” the operator asked. “Is this a spree?”
I don’t know.
I wasn’t sure whether I just thought the words, or if I actually managed to say them, too. My hand dropped to my side, the phone with it.
Why hadn’t anyone come when I’d screamed?
What if John Thomas isn’t the only one? I thought. That was enough to spur me into motion. One second I was standing there, my limbs dead weight, and the next, my phone was on the floor, and I was running for the cafeteria.
For Henry and Vivvie.
I broke through the door into a room filled with unnatural stillness. People were huddled in groups. I could hear someone crying.
Multiple someones.
“Tess.”
I turned toward Henry’s voice. He was here. He was whole. I took a step toward him.
Henry’s fine. My brain struggled to process. They all are. No one was hurt. No one was screaming.
Henry made it to my side, his stride long and the expression on his face as intense as I’d ever seen it. Something gave inside me.
“Shot.” The first word I managed to form was the same one John Thomas had said to me. “Someone shot him.”
Henry reached for my shoulder. He squeezed it. “I know.”
Someone shot John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry knows.
“You know?” The words came out in a whisper.
“Everyone knows,” Henry told me, his voice taut. “I am so sorry. I know your families are close.”
Close? My brain struggled to parse what he was saying. Sorry?
Sorry that I had been the one to discover the body? Sorry that I yelled and yelled and no one came?
“Dead.” I meant to ask questions, but that was all that came out. “He’s dead, and—”
“You don’t know that,” Henry cut in.
Yes. I do.
“Tess.” An added layer of strain entered Henry’s voice. I followed his gaze down to my hands.
Blood. John Thomas’s blood on my hands. Dead. He’s dead—
“Tess,” Henry repeated, his voice soft, “what happened? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, and somehow, staring down at my bloody hands, Henry’s touch warm through my clothes, the dam broke, and words came rushing out at warp speed. “Someone shot him. I found the body. I yelled for help. I tried—”
Henry ducked to capture my gaze. His mint-green eyes held mine. “Someone shot who?” he asked.
“John Thomas Wilcox.” I stared at him, my brain processing the fact that Henry hadn’t known about John Thomas, that he’d been talking about something else.
Someone else.
I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. I stared past Henry to a flat-screen television on a nearby wall.
A reporter was talking into a camera. I couldn’t hear her—couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything, not my arms or legs, not my tongue in my mouth. But as shock set in and darkness bit at the corners of my vision, I could make out the words on the ticker tape going across the bottom of the screen.
Someone shot him, I’d told Henry.
His reply had been hoarse. I know.
I stumbled backward, my hands looking for purchase against the wall as I absorbed the message on the ticker tape. When I’d said Someone shot him, I’d been talking about John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry had been talking about President Nolan.
CHAPTER 26
President Nolan has been shot. Someone shot the president. The words played on a loop in my head. They didn’t make any more sense sitting on the floor with my back to the wall than they had in the cafeteria.
We were in lockdown. Less than a minute after I’d heard the first siren, all of us were shuffled into classrooms. The lights were turned out. The doors were barred. Guards were posted in the halls.
The Secret Service had removed Anna Hayden from the premises.
I’d ended up in a science classroom. Henry was there. Vivvie, too. Two dozen of our classmates were crammed in with us. Some were crying. Some were frantically texting their families.
Some were looking at me.
The blood was dry on my hands now, but my clothes were still soaked with it. My pant legs. The cuffs of my shirt. The lapels, where John Thomas had grabbed me.
John Thomas had been shot, and someone had tried to assassinate the president, and there was blood on my hands.
The hall was empty except for me and the body that wasn’t John Thomas anymore.
“Has anyone else at your school been shot?” the operator asked. “Is this a spree?”
I don’t know.
I wasn’t sure whether I just thought the words, or if I actually managed to say them, too. My hand dropped to my side, the phone with it.
Why hadn’t anyone come when I’d screamed?
What if John Thomas isn’t the only one? I thought. That was enough to spur me into motion. One second I was standing there, my limbs dead weight, and the next, my phone was on the floor, and I was running for the cafeteria.
For Henry and Vivvie.
I broke through the door into a room filled with unnatural stillness. People were huddled in groups. I could hear someone crying.
Multiple someones.
“Tess.”
I turned toward Henry’s voice. He was here. He was whole. I took a step toward him.
Henry’s fine. My brain struggled to process. They all are. No one was hurt. No one was screaming.
Henry made it to my side, his stride long and the expression on his face as intense as I’d ever seen it. Something gave inside me.
“Shot.” The first word I managed to form was the same one John Thomas had said to me. “Someone shot him.”
Henry reached for my shoulder. He squeezed it. “I know.”
Someone shot John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry knows.
“You know?” The words came out in a whisper.
“Everyone knows,” Henry told me, his voice taut. “I am so sorry. I know your families are close.”
Close? My brain struggled to parse what he was saying. Sorry?
Sorry that I had been the one to discover the body? Sorry that I yelled and yelled and no one came?
“Dead.” I meant to ask questions, but that was all that came out. “He’s dead, and—”
“You don’t know that,” Henry cut in.
Yes. I do.
“Tess.” An added layer of strain entered Henry’s voice. I followed his gaze down to my hands.
Blood. John Thomas’s blood on my hands. Dead. He’s dead—
“Tess,” Henry repeated, his voice soft, “what happened? Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said, and somehow, staring down at my bloody hands, Henry’s touch warm through my clothes, the dam broke, and words came rushing out at warp speed. “Someone shot him. I found the body. I yelled for help. I tried—”
Henry ducked to capture my gaze. His mint-green eyes held mine. “Someone shot who?” he asked.
“John Thomas Wilcox.” I stared at him, my brain processing the fact that Henry hadn’t known about John Thomas, that he’d been talking about something else.
Someone else.
I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. I stared past Henry to a flat-screen television on a nearby wall.
A reporter was talking into a camera. I couldn’t hear her—couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t feel anything, not my arms or legs, not my tongue in my mouth. But as shock set in and darkness bit at the corners of my vision, I could make out the words on the ticker tape going across the bottom of the screen.
Someone shot him, I’d told Henry.
His reply had been hoarse. I know.
I stumbled backward, my hands looking for purchase against the wall as I absorbed the message on the ticker tape. When I’d said Someone shot him, I’d been talking about John Thomas Wilcox.
Henry had been talking about President Nolan.
CHAPTER 26
President Nolan has been shot. Someone shot the president. The words played on a loop in my head. They didn’t make any more sense sitting on the floor with my back to the wall than they had in the cafeteria.
We were in lockdown. Less than a minute after I’d heard the first siren, all of us were shuffled into classrooms. The lights were turned out. The doors were barred. Guards were posted in the halls.
The Secret Service had removed Anna Hayden from the premises.
I’d ended up in a science classroom. Henry was there. Vivvie, too. Two dozen of our classmates were crammed in with us. Some were crying. Some were frantically texting their families.
Some were looking at me.
The blood was dry on my hands now, but my clothes were still soaked with it. My pant legs. The cuffs of my shirt. The lapels, where John Thomas had grabbed me.
John Thomas had been shot, and someone had tried to assassinate the president, and there was blood on my hands.
