Hideout Jack Heath (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

the facial muscles, at least until rigor mortis, but the expression makes me start looking for other clues. Things that don’t fit with the narrative.

Like the gun in his hand. He didn’t drop it when he died. Unusual but, again, not unheard of. The bullet hole is neat. No burns around it, meaning he was shot from a distance of at least a foot. Possible, but very unlikely … unless he was shot by someone else.

When I was a kid I found an old longboard next to a dumpster. It took me a while to work out how to ride it—you swerve gently left and right to keep your balance and your speed, but eventually it feels like the board is in control, not you. The curves get too wide, too steep, and you know you’re going to get thrown off.

This situation feels just like that. Every time I think I understand what’s going on, I have to swerve again. And the crash, when it comes, might be the kind you don’t walk away from.

‘We have to get the others back here.’ Zara is texting.

‘Right.’ Fred visibly pulls himself together. ‘And we have to tell his family, I guess. Except we can’t, because we don’t want the police anywhere near this place. What a mess.’

He takes the gun from Samson’s hand and checks the clip. ‘The whole house could have gone up. Jesus.’

I guess he means that the bullet might have set fire to the propane tank which powers the fireplace. But that seems unlikely, up this end of the house. Maybe there’s something else flammable around that I don’t know about.

‘Samson hated his parents,’ Zara is saying. ‘We don’t owe them shit.’

‘Well, we can’t just put him into the grinder like the others.’

‘I know. I just can’t believe it.’

‘Me neither. He seemed so …’ Fred trails off. Maybe he’s just remembered describing Samson as ‘gloomy’ a few hours ago.

I could tell them not to feel guilty. I’m pretty sure Samson didn’t commit suicide. Someone came in here, shot him, and then put the gun in his hand.

But who?

When Donnie sees Samson’s body, he screams out, ‘No!’ and punches the open door so hard that we later discover it won’t close. His fist leaves a perfect imprint in what looks like plywood—apparently Fred’s commitment to bamboo only extends to the unpainted surfaces.

‘I’m sorry, pal.’ Fred puts a hand on Donnie’s shoulder.

Donnie shrugs it off. ‘Why the fuck would he do this?’

‘I don’t know.’

Donnie stares at the bed. His eyes are pink with rage or grief, I’m not sure which. He doesn’t bother to pick the splinters out of his knuckles. I watch his blood fall to the carpet. Drip, drip, drip. It’s mixing with the fallen stir-fry. Would the others think it strange if I started eating off the floor?

Kyle is next to arrive. He says nothing, looking at the dead body for only a moment before turning to the rest of us. Like he doesn’t want to react until he can see how everyone else is responding. It’s not until he sees Donnie crying that his own eyes tear up.

‘What happened?’ he asks.

‘Something terrible.’ Zara hugs him. If Fred is Kyle’s surrogate father, Zara is his mother. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

Kyle hugs her back. His hands are stiff against her spine. They don’t slide down to her butt, but I can see them considering it. Zara might see herself as Kyle’s mom, but he doesn’t think of her that way.

‘We should get the body out of here,’ I say.

‘Are you sure we should move him?’ Fred asks.

‘Why not?’

Fred looks uncertain. ‘I don’t know. We just need a plan.’

Cedric appears in the doorway. Looks at Samson. ‘Sleeping on the job, huh? Sounds about right.’

Donnie storms out, shoving Cedric out of the way.

‘Hey!’ Cedric complains.

Donnie doesn’t slow down.

Cedric laughs awkwardly. ‘What’s his problem?’

No one says anything.

Cedric sits next to Samson. ‘Hey, wake up, asshole. We’ve been searching all day.’ He slaps Samson’s face lightly.

Sees the bullet hole.

‘Oh,’ he says.

None of the other Guards comforts him in the silence that follows. I scan their sombre faces. None of them looks like they killed Samson.

So was it the hiker? Or is one of them a very good liar?

Fred has noticed the way I’m looking at the others. His eyes narrow.

I turn away. ‘I’ll take care of the body.’

‘You don’t have to do that, Lux,’ Zara says.

A plan spills out of my mouth while a very different one forms in my head. ‘I didn’t know Samson as well as the rest of you. I can bury him tomorrow, and everyone can say a few words. A proper goodbye. But we can’t leave him in the house. Do you know what happens to a body in the first twenty-four hours after death?’

‘We do,’ Zara says.

‘Right.’ I force a smile. ‘Forgot who I was talking to. Anyway, you don’t want to remember your friend like that. I just need someone to help me carry him to the slaughterhouse.’

‘I don’t want him out there.’ Cedric’s voice is soft and measured. ‘Not with those animals.’

‘If we take him anywhere else, he’ll be eaten by literal animals,’ I say. ‘And the slaughterhouse is cold enough to slow down decomposition. I’ll wrap him in a sheet so the prisoners don’t see him, okay? It’s just for one night, so I have time to dig the grave.’ And to figure out how I can butcher him in secret.

Focus. You should be trying to work out who killed him, and why. You don’t have time to eat anybody.

Shut up, I tell the annoying voice in my head.

‘What did you say?’ Fred asks.

I blink. ‘What?’

‘Did you just say, “Shut up”?’

I sometimes think