it will work.
I bought the clerk’s bike. Hadn’t ridden it much, anyway, just enough to put on an act for a while. It didn’t work. Nobody bought the new image. Of course it was for sale. Who would want to keep it after what happened? It took every ounce of courage I had to even touch it. But I knew I had to. The garage owner looked so surprised when I walked in and asked about the bike. I could tell he thought I should be the last person in the world to buy a motorcycle. Especially that one. I didn’t care what he thought.
I’m teaching myself to ride it. It’s hard, and it hurts. But I keep thinking about Ross, and I know this is something I have to do. And I’m getting pretty good. I keep the bike hidden, so my parents won’t know. They’re so wrecked, they don’t know or care where I am half the time, anyway. I only ride at night, when it’s dark, on back roads where no one can see me. Not that anyone would ever believe it’s me. Still, there’s no point in taking chances. Wouldn’t want to spoil everything before my plan even gets off the ground.
Sometimes when I’m riding, I see it all happening again: Ross picking me up after school because Mom had a committee meeting. Ross teasing me because I had sworn I would never, ever climb on that monster of a bike. Then the speed and the power of it took over, and I actually relaxed. I was hanging on him like mad, but I was enjoying the wind in my face and the feeling that was so much like flying.
And then something went terribly wrong and I knew it had gone terribly wrong because the bike sort of flew up into the air and Ross screamed and then I screamed and then the bike landed and tipped over on its side and I was thrown free but Ross was trapped somehow alongside the bike and it kept skidding and sliding, really fast along the rough surface of the road with him being dragged along beside it, his clothes were shredding, and he was screaming for someone to help him but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t …
Reading, Echo shuddered at the very vivid image the words conjured up.
I will have scars inside and out that will never go away.
But I mustn’t think about that now. I have to push those thoughts away and keep practicing, practicing, until I’m as good as Ross was. Then I can do anything I want. Then I can keep my promise to Ross.
There were no more entries in the book.
Echo closed it, slid it back underneath her pillow, and lay down, no longer aware of her painful scrapes and bruises. Something had gone wrong. Pruitt had been riding a motorcycle with … who? A best friend? A cousin, a brother? And something had gone wrong, something a judge had called “accidental,” but Pruitt had not. And now he was out for revenge? Unless she had read wrong, he was now using a bike that had belonged to the clerk whose negligence had killed someone. Had bought it and taught himself to ride it, always with a plan in mind. That seemed pretty sick to her.
Scary. That much rage, that much determination, was very scary. How could she possibly fight that?
Pruitt was on a mission. It was very clear from the notebook that he didn’t intend to let anyone or anything stand in his way. He had already killed. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. And he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who tried to stop him.
Echo closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, facing the wall. What did the old woman and the little boy in town, the shoppers at the mall, the group in front of Johnny’s Place and those two freshmen in the red Miata have to do with the death of Ross? They couldn’t possibly all have been involved, could they? Pruitt wasn’t even from Twin Falls. She had seen him arrive on campus in late August flanked by a trunk and two suitcases. He couldn’t be a townie. So why attack the townspeople?
Pruitt isn’t sane, Echo, she told herself. You must know that by now. So quit looking for logical explanations. Pruitt didn’t go after those people
I bought the clerk’s bike. Hadn’t ridden it much, anyway, just enough to put on an act for a while. It didn’t work. Nobody bought the new image. Of course it was for sale. Who would want to keep it after what happened? It took every ounce of courage I had to even touch it. But I knew I had to. The garage owner looked so surprised when I walked in and asked about the bike. I could tell he thought I should be the last person in the world to buy a motorcycle. Especially that one. I didn’t care what he thought.
I’m teaching myself to ride it. It’s hard, and it hurts. But I keep thinking about Ross, and I know this is something I have to do. And I’m getting pretty good. I keep the bike hidden, so my parents won’t know. They’re so wrecked, they don’t know or care where I am half the time, anyway. I only ride at night, when it’s dark, on back roads where no one can see me. Not that anyone would ever believe it’s me. Still, there’s no point in taking chances. Wouldn’t want to spoil everything before my plan even gets off the ground.
Sometimes when I’m riding, I see it all happening again: Ross picking me up after school because Mom had a committee meeting. Ross teasing me because I had sworn I would never, ever climb on that monster of a bike. Then the speed and the power of it took over, and I actually relaxed. I was hanging on him like mad, but I was enjoying the wind in my face and the feeling that was so much like flying.
And then something went terribly wrong and I knew it had gone terribly wrong because the bike sort of flew up into the air and Ross screamed and then I screamed and then the bike landed and tipped over on its side and I was thrown free but Ross was trapped somehow alongside the bike and it kept skidding and sliding, really fast along the rough surface of the road with him being dragged along beside it, his clothes were shredding, and he was screaming for someone to help him but I couldn’t move, I couldn’t …
Reading, Echo shuddered at the very vivid image the words conjured up.
I will have scars inside and out that will never go away.
But I mustn’t think about that now. I have to push those thoughts away and keep practicing, practicing, until I’m as good as Ross was. Then I can do anything I want. Then I can keep my promise to Ross.
There were no more entries in the book.
Echo closed it, slid it back underneath her pillow, and lay down, no longer aware of her painful scrapes and bruises. Something had gone wrong. Pruitt had been riding a motorcycle with … who? A best friend? A cousin, a brother? And something had gone wrong, something a judge had called “accidental,” but Pruitt had not. And now he was out for revenge? Unless she had read wrong, he was now using a bike that had belonged to the clerk whose negligence had killed someone. Had bought it and taught himself to ride it, always with a plan in mind. That seemed pretty sick to her.
Scary. That much rage, that much determination, was very scary. How could she possibly fight that?
Pruitt was on a mission. It was very clear from the notebook that he didn’t intend to let anyone or anything stand in his way. He had already killed. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. And he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who tried to stop him.
Echo closed her eyes and rolled over on her side, facing the wall. What did the old woman and the little boy in town, the shoppers at the mall, the group in front of Johnny’s Place and those two freshmen in the red Miata have to do with the death of Ross? They couldn’t possibly all have been involved, could they? Pruitt wasn’t even from Twin Falls. She had seen him arrive on campus in late August flanked by a trunk and two suitcases. He couldn’t be a townie. So why attack the townspeople?
Pruitt isn’t sane, Echo, she told herself. You must know that by now. So quit looking for logical explanations. Pruitt didn’t go after those people
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