Because if she didn’t have her secret nights with Colby Wilkes, what was left?
Four walls, long days, and fear.
She needed this. She just had to make sure he never found out.
TWO
October 31
Right before quitting time, Colby got a visit from the Grim Reaper. Colby looked up from his desk at the hooded head peeking in through his doorway. “You know where Dr. Guthrie is?”
The sullen voice sounded appropriately grim for the costume. Colby put aside the student file he’d been making notes on. “He had to leave early because he wasn’t feeling well. Were you supposed to meet with him today?”
The reaper shrugged and pulled his hood back, revealing the face of junior Travis Clarkson. “Yeah. But if he’s not here . . .”
Colby could hear the indecision in the drift of Travis’s voice. If his counselor wasn’t here, he had the right to skip his appointment, but Colby sensed the kid needed to talk. He’d heard there’d been a bullying incident this morning and that Travis had been the target. Unfortunately, not an uncommon spot for Travis. Poor kid came from one of the wealthiest families in the area, but money couldn’t fix his acne-prone skin, his crippling social anxiety, or the resulting depression it caused.
“Come on in and grab a chair, Travis,” Colby said, keeping his voice casual. “There’s only a half hour before the bell. You can skip the rest of study hall and chat with me.”
Travis shifted on his feet in that awkward way teen boys did when they hadn’t quite grown into their new longer limbs. “I don’t want—you look busy.”
“Nope.” Colby stretched his leg beneath his desk and sent the chair in front of it rolling toward Travis. “I was just finishing up some notes. You’ll save me from boring paperwork.”
Travis tucked his hands in the robe of his costume and shuffled in. He glanced around at Colby’s office, his eyes skimming over the shelves of books and the few photos he’d kept from his music days. “Your office is different than Dr. Guthrie’s.”
No shit. That was because Guthrie liked to pretend he was Freud himself instead of some guy working at the pedestrian institution of Graham Alternative High School. Guthrie’s office had a plush couch, hunter green paint over the cinder-block walls, muted lighting, and a freaking desk fountain. If smoking weren’t banned in the building, Colby had no doubt the school psychologist would have a pipe hanging from his mouth during sessions. But Colby had learned that the last thing these kids needed was to walk into something that looked like a thera
pist’s office. In fact, he spent most of his sessions with his students doing something active while they talked. It was amazing how a kid could open up if he was shooting hoops and not being stared at when he answered personal questions.
“I like to keep things simple.”
Travis went to the wall to get a closer look at a photo instead of immediately sitting down. “Is that you and Brock Greenwood?”
“Yeah,” Colby said. “I played with him in a band when we were younger. Of course, back then, he wasn’t the Brock Greenwood. Just a guy who could sing his face off. You listen to country music?”
Travis turned away from the picture and lowered himself into the chair. “I listen to everything. I like mashing shit—er—stuff up on my computer. You know, making things that don’t seem to go together blend.”
Colby smiled. “Really? That’s cool. I can’t be trusted with all those music programs. I have a friend who does it and he’s tried to teach me, but he’s declared me a hopeless case. Just give me my guitar and a blank piece of paper to jot down lyrics.”
“Old school.”
“Or just old.”
Travis almost smiled—something Colby wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Travis do—but the kid seemed to catch himself before he let it break through. God forbid he let the school counselor know he liked talking to him. “You still play?”
“I do. I play a few gigs here and there. Nothing serious. It’s a good way to relax—playing without any pressure attached to it.”
Travis nodded. “Yeah, I get that. But I can’t really imagine getting onstage as being relaxing. I like the behind-the-scenes stuff. Putting on my headphones . . . I don’t know, it’s like a switch that shuts out the world and transports me somewhere else, another life.”
“An escape.”
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his chapped lips together. “That’s what I like. That escape. Nothing else matters when the music is playing.”
Colby leaned back in his chair and hooked his ankle over his knee, understanding that desire but also hearing the loneliness lacing Travis’s words. “Ever thought about pursuing a career in that? Sound engineering or music producing?”
Travis glanced up, his face a bit haunted—although that could’ve been the whole Grim Reaper look he had going on. “I’ve thought about it. But my parents would shit a brick—sorry.”
Colby waved a hand, dismissing the language. The kid was talking, he didn’t care if he slipped up and cursed.