Eighth Grade Bites by Heather Brewer Page B

mumbling under his breath. “Did he mention what the questions were?”
    The mahogany door at the end of the hall was locked, but Vlad quickly remedied that with a skeleton key. He stepped in first, with Henry not far behind him, and held his breath as he looked about the small room. His father’s enormous desk sat at the center. Framed certificates and artwork lined the walls. A big leather chair was behind the desk, and behind that was his father’s suit closet. Vlad sank into the still-soft leather and spun slowly. A small window made of colored glass cast a red glow in the room, painting Henry pink. “My dad loved this chair.” Vlad fought, but the tears came anyway. Three years hadn’t been long enough to quench them.
    Henry squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, Vlad. Let’s get this over with.”
    They searched each drawer, tore through every file, examined the contents of every box, and even combed the desk for secret compartments. By the time they had rummaged through the bottom of the closet, the sun had set and they’d run out of places in Tomas’s study to look. If Vlad’s father had left the answers here, someone else had already found them. Vlad kicked a box across the room and ran his hand through his hair. “It has to be here somewhere.”
    â€œWhat were you hoping to find, Vlad? The name of your parents’ killer scribbled down on a notepad? Typed-out details of who killed them, how, and why? The arsonist’s fingerprints documented along with a signed confession? Nothing’s here.” Henry dropped the file he’d been looking through on the desktop, causing a cloud of dust to rise into the air between them. He took a deep breath and flashed an apologetic glance at Vlad. “All I’m saying is maybe you should leave well enough alone. What if digging through this stuff, nosing around, does nothing but drive you crazy?”
    Vlad shook his head. Henry couldn’t possibly understand. Vlad thought of replying, but nothing that came to mind could make Henry get how he was feeling. He walked out and made his way downstairs, careful not to even glance at his parents’ bedroom door. As he opened the door to his old bedroom, he heard Henry’s footfalls behind him. Without looking at him, Vlad said, “You didn’t have to come.”
    Vlad’s room was littered with smoke-stained toys that had been important to him at some point in time, though he strained to remember when. On his bed lay an old pair of jeans and, next to it, a crumpled shirt. At the foot of his bed was a lime-green beanbag, and behind it his walk-in closet, where clothes still hung. Everything had been abandoned in the wake of the fire. Vlad reached for the light and chastised himself for forgetting the lack of power. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and flipped it on, stepping into the closet. When he reached the back wall, he knelt and loosened the panel there. Inside the wall was a box, which he withdrew and carried to the bed. Henry was watching with guilty interest. “What’s that?”
    Vlad pulled the lid off and set it next to the box. “It used to be my secret box, where I kept everything that was important to me.” He looked inside at the various ticket stubs, photographs, and trinkets, a sad smile finding its way onto his lips.
    Henry pulled out a photo of Tomas and looked from Vlad to his father’s image and back. “You’re just like your dad.”
    Vlad blinked and looked at Henry with wide eyes. “What did you say?”
    He didn’t want an answer. In fact, just as “You’re ju—” left Henry’s mouth again, Vlad bolted out the door and ran as fast as he could back to his father’s study. Henry followed close behind. “Where are you going?”
    Vlad yanked open the study door and rushed inside. Henry caught the door before it could hit him in the face. “But