The Watcher in the Wall by Owen Laukkanen Page B

“I’d say we have a pretty authentic, ah, backstory to work with.”
    “Fine.” Mathers studied the screen, his picture in the profile XXBlackDaysXX. “But if this comes back to bite me, I’m going to be pissed, you guys.”
    Windermere hit him. “What are you going to do, Mathers?” she said. “Tell the principal?”
    < 33 >
    Gruber friended DarlingMadison on “Brandon’s” Facebook page. Printed out her profile picture and brought it to work with him, taped it up in his locker in the break room.
    He couldn’t see her picture without thinking about Sarah. Without flashing back to that last night in the double-wide, to the thrill he’d felt as he watched her, that high-voltage intensity, the power. Earl hadn’t killed Sarah;
he
had. And he would do it to this girl, as he’d done with all the others.
    He typed her a message on his phone.
So what brought you here? Why do you want to kill yourself?
    She answered.
I’m just sick of living,
she said.
You know? Sick of putting out the effort all the time just so a bunch of assholes at school can push me around. My mom keeps moving us to new cities and I keep having to change schools and I never fit in. I hate feeling like an outsider, but it’s never going to change. I figure I might as well get on with it.
    Yeah,
Gruber wrote.
I know what you mean. Why do you move around so much?
    Mom’s broke,
DarlingMadison replied.
Dad ran away. Dog died. It’s like a country song. Wah-wah.
    Gabriel98:
Do you like country music?
    DM:
Hell no. Sure made it awkward when we were living in Texas.
    DM:
Do you?
    G:
Not really. Some of it’s okay.
    DM:
What music do you like?
    Gruber opened a new Internet window on his phone, brought up a music website, trendy hipster stuff. One of his prospects had sent him the link when he’d made the mistake of telling her he liked Justin Bieber.
    G:
M83. Kanye. Arcade Fire. I like a bit of everything.
    G:
You?
    DM:
Yeah, pretty much. I really like classic rock, but nobody else does. One more reason I’m an outcast.
    G:
What kind of classic rock?
    DM:
Zeppelin. Rush. The Who. Frank Zappa. I dunno. Shit my dad used to play when he drove me to school in the morning.
    Gruber almost wrote back, telling her he hated that stuff. Remembering Earl playing it in the kitchen of that little double-wide, volume cranked, singing along, loud. Realized he was forgetting himself, getting careless. Too caught up in the whole Sarah connection.
    Right,
he wrote back instead.
I know a little bit of that stuff. It’s cool.
    DM:
Hah. You don’t have to patronize me. I know I have weird tastes.
    Was she mad? Gruber wished he could see her face. He could always tell if Sarah was mad, just the way she looked at him. The way she said his name,
Ran-dy
, the syllables clipped and distinct. He always knew.
    He couldn’t know with this one, but he wanted to know. He didn’t want to lose her. He couldn’t.
    Then she wrote back.
Anyway, whatever. Why are
you
doing it?
    The door to the break room opened before Gruber could think up an answer. Adam Osing, Gruber’s acne-scarred punk boss, poked his head inside.
    “Gruber,” he said, frowning. “What are you doing in here? Your shift started twenty minutes ago.”
    Gruber held up his phone. “Important phone call. Family emergency.”
    Osing’s expression didn’t change. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Do it on your own time. We need you in ladies’ fashions. Cleanup in the maternity aisle.”
    Osing waited, watched as Gruber made a show of turning off his cell phone, tucking it away in his locker. Turned on his heel and walked back out of the break room as Gruber closed the locker door. Quickly, in case Osing returned, Gruber fished the phone out of his locker. Opened the chat box.
    DarlingMadison had written,
Hello?
    Gruber stared at the screen, Earl fresh in his mind, Sarah. He could see Sarah dancing around her little bedroom in that pretty blue dress. He could hear Earl’s music cranked out in the kitchen, Jim