Nodding, he types my response on his cell.
“What about our doll?” I ask. “Thought we were playing tonight.” If he’s fighting, then we won’t be in Westbrook for the night.
“We are. She’s going to Death Valley,” he answers.
I look from Rellik to Monroe, but they both shrug at my next question. “How do we know that?”
Scout just smiles. “I’ve got eyes on her at all times.”
HENLEY
“Why are we here?” she asks as I turn onto Spring Valley Boulevard. Spring has been blacked out with black spray paint and above it now reads Death.
“Because the Reapers will be here after the game.” This is their hangout on the weekends when they’re not throwing house parties.
“Oh.” Her face falls, not happy with the guys being so close.
Maybe she thought it was a girls’ night.
I pull through the old, open wrought-iron gate, looking around the vast property crowded with vehicles. Trucks have their tailgates down with ice chests sitting on them. Cars have their trunks open, and Jeeps have their tops off.
“I’ve never been here,” she states as I pull up next to a white Range Rover.
“Never?”
She shakes her head.
That’s not a total surprise. This place isn’t for girls like her. She just doesn’t scream party girl.
A man dressed in black pants and a black shirt runs by us wearing a white mask and red contacts. She shrieks, jumping into my side to get away from him.
“Why are some dressed up like it’s Halloween?” she asks, looking around. “It’s still a month away.”
“That’s just a part of Death Valley.” I shrug. “Come on.” We walk across the yard and up the stone steps. The front double doors are open, and we step into a grand foyer. A wide staircase runs up the middle of the large platform and then splits off to either side. It reminds me of Beauty and the Beast. Before he turned back into a prince and everything was shiny again.
“This place gives me the creeps,” she whispers, looking over the dirt on the floor and broken pieces of concrete that are missing from the walls. “It …” She sniffs. “Smells like death.”
“There’s an urban legend that it’s haunted.”
“Haunted? By whom?” Her voice squeaks.
“The boys who died that night.” I take her hand. “Come on. He’ll be fighting soon.” I drag her up the stairs. They creak with each step, and when she goes to grab the railing, I shake my head. She snatches her hand back immediately and frowns. “Don’t want to get a splinter or something worse.”
She nods and fixes her glasses, clearly uneasy. If I were telling the truth, so am I. I’ve only ever been here high and drunk. This is my first experience sober at Death Valley, and it’s not nearly as fun as I remember. Plus, I always came with the Reapers. A lot of shit can happen here in the shadows.
We get to the top and turn right when she comes to a stop as her phone begins to ring in her pocket. She pulls it out and bites her bottom lip nervously. “I have to take this. It’s my foster brother.”
I nod, and she walks away as she answers it. I run my hands along the wall. The wallpaper has been peeled off, and there are holes throughout. Not to mention the pungent musty smell. Lacey was right. I make my way down a long hallway. Pieces of the walls are missing here also. A girl fell out of a second-story window two summers ago and broke both of her legs while on an acid trip. It was not a good day for her.
The only reason we party here is because it’s twenty-five miles from the closest town. The cops don’t bother us, but that also means if there is a problem and we have to call 911, it takes the paramedics a while to reach us.
I squeeze between the couples who are making out on either side of the hallway and walk into a room.
I find myself entering the chapel even though my mind is screaming not to do it. This is where it happened. It’s as if I’ve come full circle. The room looks the same as it did then. The stained glass has been broken out on the far left wall, allowing the light from the full moon to shine in. The altar sits at the front with pieces of the edge broken off. My shoes kick around a piece of loose concrete with each step I take. The two windows above the double doors are still intact but have been broken—pieces knocked out over the years from kids throwing beer bottles at them—giving me a little more light from the hallway right outside the doors.
I reach out, running my fingers over the dusty pews. They sit ten deep on either side of the aisle. There’s an air in this room. It feels like imaginary hands are wrapped around your throat, suffocating you. Small fingers run up your spine as if you’re covered in spiders. The high ceilings seem to groan, and the floors squeak. A cross that hangs on the back wall behind the stage has long fallen to where it’s upside down.