Buried by Linda Joy Singleton Page B

will.”
    â€œI’m sure he will. Be a good little girl and go tattle to him.”
    â€œYou want to get rid of me and it won’t work.”
    â€œYour obsession with me is flattering, but you’re not my type.”
    â€œEgotistical jerks aren’t my type,” I retort. And I can’t believe I ever thought Wiley was hot (I’m ninety-five percent sure that’s who this is). He’s smug and too sure of himself. He’s purposely baiting me because he wants me to leave so he can ditch his Reaper clothes and retreat back into obscurity.
    â€œShouldn’t you report me?” he taunts. “What if I planted a bomb on his bus?”
    â€œDid you?” I demand.
    He shrugs. “Find out for yourself. Or wait around for the big kaboom. Hurry, time is running out.”
    I glare at him, then turn like I’m going to leave. Mid-turn, I whirl back and lunge for him, hands reaching, grabbing the edge of his ski mask, pulling it off …
    Revealing the Grin Reaper.

E l e v e n
    N ot Wiley, or even a Jay-Clone. It’s the original.
    â€œJay Blankenship!” I shout.
    I’m grinning as wide as his trademark smiley face. The infamous vigilante is the preppy, popular, egotistical son of the most respected judge in town. I love the irony! And I’m going to love exposing him.
    His dark eyes, even when glaring, are softer now than when viewed through a slit in a ski mask. His blond lashes are long, curled, and almost girly, at odds with the hard lines of his cheekbones. When I’ve seen him around school, he always has an arrogant lift to his chin—he’s handsome and he knows it. But up close, I can see the rough edges in his face and a small scar above his right eyebrow. Not so perfect now , I think.
    â€œGive me my cap!”
    â€œOf course,” I say. With exaggerated politeness, I hold it out. His murderous glare doesn’t scare me.
    He snatches the mask roughly, then shoves it into his pants pocket.
    â€œAren’t you going to put it back on to hide your identity?” I say, amused.
    â€œThere are other ways,” he says mysteriously, peeling off his gloves and shoving them into his coat pocket.
    Then he takes off the long coat and turns it inside out—revealing royal blue fabric hidden beneath the midnight black. He folds up the yards of excess fabric, transforming the concealing coat into his preppy letter jacket. He drapes it over his arm as if this is a new fashion style his Jay-clone followers will emulate. Whipping out a comb, he smooths back his blond hair, then parts it off-center, a wave falling across his forehead and softening the hard edges of his face. The Reaper is transformed back to the Prep.
    I’m not sure who disgusts me more, the smug rich kid or the vandal. I touch a stained corner of my backpack—a reminder of his theft and brutal actions.
    â€œYou don’t need to hide your identity anymore,” I say coolly.
    â€œWhy not?” he demands.
    â€œFigure it out.”
    â€œAre you threatening to expose me?”
    I give a thin smile. “The word ‘threat’ implies that I might not go through with it. But I will.”
    He frowns. “You can’t tell anyone . ”
    â€œI’m going to tell everyone , ” I say, as if making a solemn promise.
    â€œThat would be a very bad idea.”
    â€œPeople will want to know the truth—especially your father.”
    His brows knit together, his faint scar stretching like a scowl. “Don’t you understand that I’m helping people? Let’s talk this over.”
    â€œI have nothing to talk about with you. But I have lots to tell the principal.”
    â€œDon’t do that.” He bites his lip. “Please.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I?”
    â€œBecause you’re not the hard-hearted bitch that some people think you are.”
    â€œSweet-talking me won’t change my mind.”
    â€œThen I