Chapter Text
The silence that followed Stan’s phone call with the stranger was nearly deafening. It was louder than it should have been, louder than the walls around him could hold. There was a ringing in his ears that wasn’t there before, and Stan could no longer tell the difference between anger and fear. His mind swarmed with unanswered questions that he would probably never get the chance to ask, not as long as whoever called him had the upper hand.
A flash of white light illuminated the hallway, casting shadows which flickered before retreating back into the darkness. The intensity of the thunderstorm outside was the least of Stan’s worries now. His thumb still hovered over his phone screen, waiting for his brain to think of what to do next. Did he dare try calling Scott’s phone back? Would the stranger even answer him? They didn’t seem like the type to let Stan have the last word.
The sound of voices then helped him bounce back from his thoughts, gradually growing louder as they neared the hallway he stood in. Stan shoved his phone into his pocket, quick to hide the evidence if someone, like Yates, were to turn the corner. The detective always seemed to ask the right questions, and if presented with the opportunity, Stan knew he wouldn’t pass up an interrogation. Especially with him.
Attempting to act normal, the quarterback spun on his heel and continued down the length of the hallway, staying on track with his original objective. The longer he wasted time out there, the longer Clyde would be left by himself – trapped with his thoughts. Stan knew from experience that that was the worst thing he could possibly do. Clyde was arguably in a much worse state than the rest of their friends, he could only imagine what was going through his head.
And if Stan couldn’t even get his own shit together, how would he ever be able to help Clyde?
The library was a stale yet relieving welcome, as he stepped into the room where the rest of his peers had been the whole time. He’d been escorted back after he and Clyde left the locker room, by an officer who didn’t talk much. Stan managed to snag a grey crewneck sweater with their school’s logo, and a pair of brown cargo pants. They weren’t perfect, definitely not something Clyde would choose to wear, but it was better than anything else in that bin, and the linebacker had been thankful nonetheless.
Two more officers took Clyde to a different classroom, awaiting the arrival of his father. They exchanged their goodbyes, Stan promising to call him later whenever he got out of this hellhole. Clyde nodded to him, trying desperately to smile, but the outcome was far from it. Stan didn’t blame him. He’d hesitated, watching the brunette sulk and trudge away with unspeakable tragedies wafting between them. He wanted to call out, feeling like he should, but there was nothing left for him to say. Nothing that Clyde didn’t already hear.
Stan surveyed the separated crowds of students, some huddled around tables, others idling near bookshelves. The library was as busy as it ever would be, for reasons other than eager learners. It didn’t take long for him to spot his friends, a group of grief-sodden familiar faces. Stan walked down the stairs, heading straight for the table in the furthest corner from the door. His eyes drifted as he moved, studying the expressions of those he didn’t recognize. None of them were normal. Not that Stan even knew what normal looked like anymore. Teary eyes and traumatized stares were all he saw, each of his classmates affected differently by what happened.
And while Scott’s death had been equally as brutal as Bebe’s, it was an entirely different story to watch it happen. Or, rather, witness the aftermath. Stan felt awful diminishing his former friend into nothing more than that, a bloody corpse, but he felt even worse trying to imagine Bebe’s smile after such a sight. He had trouble even picturing the true tone of her skin, after a sickly, pale white engrained itself into his memory. It pained him as he realized the same for Scott. How that just weeks from now, maybe even days, Stan wouldn’t even remember the color of his eyes. Not without a picture.
Then, Stan’s wandering eyes caught sight of one more familiar face — one that should have been in his thoughts to begin with.
Wendy sat on the ground with her knees tucked into her chest, back flush against a bookshelf surrounded by other girls from the cheer squad. Red McArthur had her arm slung around Wendy’s shoulders, soothing the sobbing girl with slow circular motions of her palm against her. Heidi Turner held Wendy’s hand in hers, clasping their fingers together while shedding tears of her own. Stan couldn’t see the others, backs facing his passing form, but he could sense the amount of despair between them. For a moment, he slowed his pace, debating whether or not he should stop and offer comfort. But the last time he’d spoken to Wendy brought sharp guilt to his chest, the way he’d left her to her own devices after she’d practically begged to help him. She was clearly vulnerable, disturbed just as he had been. He wasn’t sure if his presence was really what she needed right now.
Stan continued on, a frown plastered over his lips as he forced himself to look away. Emerging from an aisle of shelves, his friends’ table was in clear view of him. His arrival prompted all pairs of eyes to fall upon him, desperate and loaded with questions.
Tolkien shot up from his seat, followed by Kevin and Craig, watching the quarterback approach with expectant faces. “Where’s Clyde? Is he okay?”
“Is he coming here?” Craig quickly added on.
“He’s…” Stan hesitated again, unsure of an existing word that was appropriate enough to describe Clyde’s condition. “H-He’s waiting in another room for his dad to show up. Detective Murphy suggested he stay separated from everyone else."
Tolkien scrubbed a hand over his hair, breaking eye contact while he assessed his own emotions.
“…What about you?” Kevin voiced, gripping the back of the chair he previously sat in. “A-Are you okay?”
“I— I don’t…” Stan’s brain short-circuited, wordlessly balking while trying to think of an answer. His unwilling silence seemed to be answer enough for the rest of his friends.
“Yeah… us neither.” Craig said, dejectedly.
Kevin took a seat again, closer to Stan. Tangling his fingers in his hair, he breathed in sharply. “This— this is fucking crazy, man. What the hell is going on?!”
Craig turned to him. “…Two of our friends were murdered, Kevin, I think it’s safe to say that someone’s targeting us.”
Stan perked up. “You think so?”
Craig gave a vigorous nod. “First Scott, and now Bebe? And what happened to Clyde? You do the math, dude. Someone doesn’t like our friend group.”
Stan stifled a feeling of bile inching up his throat. Craig had a point, a point he’d already made himself, but a point nonetheless. These murders weren’t just personal, they were warnings. And they wouldn’t be the last ones, either. Stan had heard so himself from the very person responsible. They were being targeted, and there was no telling who would be next.
“We thought it was McCormick, maybe even Broflovski.” Tolkien said, catching all of Stan’s attention. “We jumped them before you came in—“
“What?” Stan cut him off, his eyebrows pinching together with surprise. “You jumped them?! Why the fuck—“
“Because they’re the only ones in this room who hate us enough to hurt us!” Tolkien didn’t even let him finish.
“Have you idiots even seen McCormick? He may act tough but that fucker’s all bark and no bite. And Kyle—“ Stan stopped himself, unable to think of anything to say. His mind was jumbled, but nothing could surface about the redhead. Maybe he was more messed up than he thought. “Kyle’s— h-he’s not capable. No way.”
Craig scoffed, unconvinced. “Speak for yourself, dude— remember when that hick gave Clyde a black eye in sophomore year? All for an off-handed comment, McCormick’s got a short temper.”
Stan bristled. “You’re out of line, Tucker. Comparing a fucking bruise to— to that?!” He gestured towards the direction of the gym. “Anyone can throw a punch. But who the hell is capable of gutting someone?”
Silence befell the group as Stan’s words resonated. The quarterback cringed at the thought of defending Kenny, but now wasn’t the time to jump to conclusions. None of them were thinking clearly, every shred of what they believed could be evidence was coming from an impulsive place.
None of them had ever felt like this before. Stan had never understood how deep real terror could run, overshadow the rest of his emotions as if it were a fucking contest. Fear like this had never festered so painfully within him, not even when his mother had slapped him for the first time. Not even when Randy had pushed him down the stairs in a drunken rage. This was different, because it involved people other than himself facing danger. It involved his friends, people he cared about. And he was sure the others felt the same way.
Kyle fidgeted in his seat, an uncomfortable quietness trapped in the classroom with him. He’d only been sitting there for a few minutes, but of course under these circumstances it felt like hours. He was growing anxious, occasionally stealing glances while trying to study the detective’s expression. Yates’ furrowed eyebrows and pondering stare barely told him anything, other than the fact that this conversation wouldn’t be light. Why Yates had singled him out first was nerve wracking in itself — did he know something that Kyle didn’t? Did he know about the phone calls?
“Do I need to ask about what happened back there?” Yates finally spoke up, without lifting his gaze from the desk. He’d been flipping through a manilla folder, skimming over every page more than once.
Immediately, Kyle tensed up, at first unsure of how to respond. He’d been gathering up what to say if he was accused of something, but this was just a simple question. “No, um— that was nothing. You can probably imagine we’re a little stressed today, Detective.”
Smooth. Sly. Kyle took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.
“Yes, I can,” Yates said, taking a few pieces of paper from the folder and sliding them across the desk. Kyle watched them. “Sorry about all this. Precautions in case the school was being targeted. Did you know Ms. Stevens?”
Kyle fidgeted with his thumbs underneath the desk, looking down. “No. Not really. I don’t even think I’ve ever talked to her before.”
“Is that because she was friends with Stan Marsh?” Yates asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
Kyle’s head shot up again, his eyes slightly narrowed with suspicion. “Why would that matter?”
The detective shrugged one of his shoulders. “Just an assumption. I know the two of you have a history.”
Kyle hung his head, scoffing at the simplicity of the man’s words. He didn’t think his trauma could ever be reduced to a single sentence. That was certainly one way of putting it.
“Your parents. They’re out of town?”
Kyle silently thanked the man for the conversational curve. “Yeah. On a cruise.”
“You didn’t think to mention that the last time we spoke?” Yates asked, his voice dropping to a condescending tone.
“I didn’t think it was important,” Kyle retorted, furrowing his eyebrows. “My parents have nothing to do with this. And I’ve lived with them my whole life, I’m pretty sure they’re not secret psychopaths.”
They also apparently weren’t capable of answering his phone calls.
Yates ignored the last part of Kyle’s sentence. “Do you have any actual proof that they’re gone? Have they contacted you at all?”
“No, but— they’re gone. I can assure you. They wouldn’t leave me and my brother alone without telling us where they’re going.” Kyle folded his arms. “But if you want proof, ask Randy Marsh. He’s the one who drove them to the airport.”
“Stan’s father.” Yates concluded. “I thought you said that you two weren’t friends?”
“We aren’t, but our parents still are,” Kyle shrugged. “We, uh... grew up together, so they’ve been close for a long time.”
“May I ask what exactly happened between you two?”
Kyle felt his heart skip a beat. “…I don’t see how that’s really relevant to the case, Detective.”
“It’s relevant to your testimony,” Yates pointed out. “And your potential motive.”
Kyle forced himself to relax a little, trying to ignore the notion that he and his friends were all suspects in this case. It didn’t seem like Yates had much on him, if he knew about the phone calls from Scott’s number, he would have tried to accuse him. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. He was only seventeen, being interrogated for the murders of his best friend and classmate.
“Not really.” Kyle said, quickly shooting him down. “It’s personal, and not something I’d usually share with someone like you.”
“Why not? Is there something you feel like you need to hide?” Yates pushed on, ever persistent.
“No,” Kyle returned, his heart beating faster in his chest as he felt all of his trauma rear its ugly head again. “I just— it’s… I don’t like talking about it.”
Again, Yates ignored him. “You said before that he used to bully you. Did you two get into an argument?”
Kyle’s shoulders tensed. “...Something like that.”
Yates nodded. “Did the conflict turn physical?”
Kyle quickly shook his head. “We didn’t fight, no. He just— said some things.”
“What kinds of things?” That set him off.
“Just— things, alright? I told you, it’s not important.” Kyle protested, heated and on the verge of walking out. “Why are you so concerned about it, anyway?”
Yates didn’t look impressed. “I’m concerned because two teenagers are dead, and they just so happened to be friends of both you and Mr. Marsh.”
Kyle swallowed a lump in his throat, an uneasy feeling churning in his stomach as the quarterback suddenly appeared in his mind.
The conversation had become uncomfortable much faster than he would have liked. He wanted — needed — to change the subject before Yates made him talk about his past with Stan. He searched his mind, dug deep within the bowels of his thoughts to find something to use. Something that would divert the direction of their conversation, but not so much that Yates would catch on.
And suddenly, Kyle came across it. For once, Cartman was useful, their conversation at the library table still fresh in his memory.
“Can I ask you something?” He lifted his head, immediately locking eyes with Yates. The man in question raised his eyebrows, but ultimately gestured for Kyle to continue, giving him the floor.
He took it. “How did you get here so fast?”
Yates looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”
“The police station’s on the complete opposite side of town, Detective.” Kyle said. “You got here in what felt like less than five minutes.”
Yates didn’t blink for a long moment, seeming to come up with an answer on the spot. “Speed limits don’t necessarily apply to emergency situations, Mr. Broflovski.”
“Still.” Kyle said, his suspicions only growing. He could feel the gears of his mind turning again, working overtime to figure this man out. “…You already knew about Bebe, didn’t you?”
The man then visibly tensed up, his shoulders pulled back in a poor attempt to straighten his posture. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to accuse me of, kid, but—“
“How else could you have gotten here so quickly, if not because you were expecting something like this to happen?” Kyle questioned, turning the tables.
The two then descended into a standoff, each of them struggling to maintain the upper hand in the conversation. Kyle noticed the way Yates’ eye twitched with a stitch of irritation, and he couldn’t help the faint feeling of pride swelling in his chest. Your move, he thought to himself.
After a long beat, the detective exhaled a long breath of exhaustion. He carded a hand through his orange locks, breaking eye contact. Kyle could have sworn he heard the man mumble a ‘god damn it’ under his breath.
“...Alright, yeah. We knew.” Yates relented, finally yielding to the redhead’s accusations. “We received a 9-1-1 call early this morning about a car illegally parked at Stark’s Pond. One of the officers went out to take a look, and he reported that the driver’s side window was smashed in and covered in blood. The car was registered to Roger Stevens, Bebe’s father. He confirmed that it was his daughter’s car.”
“What?” Kyle’s face paled. Partly because of the information, partly because he was right. He shook his head with disbelieving eyes. “W-Who made the call?”
Yates’ expression turned again, this time pinched into a look of hesitation. “The call came from Peter Charles. He was doing his rounds on the jogging trail around the lake. Came across it on his way back.”
Kyle had to physically refrain himself from swearing out loud, the name immediately causing the hairs on his neck to stand up. PC? What were the odds that his principal discovered two crime scenes in a row? Was he– could it be possible that PC was the one behind this? Or could it be that someone just wanted it to look that way?
He was doing it again. Overthinking. Kyle was drowning in possibilities and he couldn’t take it anymore. His brain was tired, for god’s sake he barely had time to register that Bebe was dead. And that he saw it. Now he was trying to connect dots that didn’t even exist, with little to no evidence to support his case. It was too much. There was too much to process. Too much to consider, and Kyle understood why Yates was stressed.
He shook his head again, his veins bleeding with mild panic. “PC? If he found the car, why aren’t you investigating him?”
“We plan on it,” Yates assured him, his eyes shifting to a stern gaze again. “But right now, I’m more concerned about you and your friends.”
“And why, because– you think a couple of depressed teenagers are capable of murder?” Kyle argued, narrowing his eyes.
Yates’ gaze was stern and unwavering, no doubt a practiced quirk. “Everyone is capable of murder, Mr. Broflovski.”
Kyle reeled from his words, suppressing a shiver that threatened to crawl up his spine. He balled his hands into tight fists below the desk’s surface, hiding his unease, though it was obvious with his stiff posture.
“...Why did you come here? To South Park?” He found himself asking, although he didn’t give Yates much of a chance to answer. “It’s because you think there’s something happening here, isn’t there?”
“Mr. Broflovski—“
He couldn’t stop the words before they left his mouth. “Do you think the murders are related?”
A pregnant silence fell over the room, the tension of the question so thick Kyle could almost feel it in the air. It may have been the wrong thing to ask, but he couldn’t ignore that he’d been wondering the same thing since the lockdown started. Him, along with the rest of his peers. The answer seemed obvious, given the evidence, the ominous phone calls from Scott’s phone, but all Kyle wanted was a professional opinion.
Yates sighed again, finally closing the folder that still lay on the teacher’s desk. “I cannot and will not reveal confidential information to a seventeen-year-old boy.”
“But you told me about Bebe’s car,” Kyle pointed out, his tone hopeful.
“Because that’ll be public information by the end of the day. Hell, it probably already is.” Yates answered, tossing one of his hands up in a defeated gesture.
Kyle chewed on the inside of his cheek with thought before responding, “Off the record, then.”
Yates sighed again, a sound of reluctance and impatience. “Kid, just because you say ‘off the record’ doesn’t mean—“
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Detective, but the police in this town are about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. They’ve never seen anything like this before. None of us have, so they’re not going to be of very much help.” Kyle said, cutting Yates’ sentence short. His words were rich with irony, considering the fact that he had yet to admit about receiving phone calls from Scott’s number. He felt the guilt start to rise, but he snuffed out the flame before it grew too powerful.
The detective looked at him, his apologetic eyes catching the lights above them. Kyle knew full well what he was insinuating, a plea to help in any way he could, but Yates’ face had shot down his last flicker of hope.
“I’m sorry, Kyle. I really am. But this need-to-know basis is a one way street.” Yates said. “You have much bigger responsibilities than playing detective.”
Kyle perked up at the unfamiliar use of his first name, especially because it was from the last person he expected. It meant a lot of things — Yates didn’t trust him, he wouldn’t budge on his oath to the FBI for some hick town teenage boy. But most of all, it meant that Yates was trying to empathize. Worst of all, it meant that Yates felt sorry for him.
“Like what?” Kyle huffed out a frustrated laugh. “School? Homework? Two people are dead, one of them my best friend, and you think my high school education is more important?”
“I know it’s a tough pill to swallow, and I know how much you want to help. But there’s not much you can do that we haven’t already done, or are planning to.” Yates pointed out. “Plus, it’s— very illegal for you to meddle in an ongoing investigation. So don’t do it.”
Kyle ignored the simmering rage burning beneath his chest, searing his lungs and heart so brutally he felt as if he was going to explode. His expectations for Yates were way too high, meaning if he really wanted that kind of information, he’d have to figure it out himself.
“Whatever.” The redhead spat, unwilling to let his anger go away so easily. “Are we done here? I have to get back to my friends.”
Yates exhaled a soft breath of vexation. Kyle swore he could see the ghost of a smirk on the man’s lips, amused by his attitude. But maybe that was just the lighting.
“Yeah, we’re done.” The man acquiesced. “I’ll, uh.. give you a call if I have any more questions.”
Yeah, you do that, Kyle thought to himself, before rising to his feet and heading out of the room. He pushed the door open and reentered the hallway, casting a quick glance at Detective Murphy, who’d been standing guard outside the room.
Stan’s table had fallen silent quickly after he’d arrived, neither he nor his friends willing to break it. It wasn’t comforting, and it wasn’t warm, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to make it easier. The thought of Tolkien, Craig, and Kevin being so struck with emotion that they felt warranted to jump their peers was hard enough to believe. Stan knew that they wanted someone to blame, he did, too, but every time he tried to picture it – one of their classmates committing the crime – his gut only heaved with a blaring sense of wrong.
He hung his head in his hands, his elbows resting on the table with his fingers locked between his strands. His knee bounced up and down with lingering anxiousness, and he couldn’t make it stop. Stan supposed that he would feel this way about anyone potentially behind this, but he couldn’t shake off the raw fear that festered within him at the idea of it being someone close to him. The killer was making this personal, that much was clear to him, but he couldn’t answer himself upon asking who would be sick enough to orchestrate it all.
When the hinges of the library doors squealed with movement, Stan drew his eyes up from the table to see who had entered. He didn’t know whether to tense up or relax his shoulders when his gaze fell onto Kyle, especially after seeing the unreadable expression on the redhead’s face. He watched him as he descended the stairs and weaved through the groups of students loitering around the room, heading back to his own table.
His eyes darted back up to the door as it creaked again, Yates and Murphy stepping into the room. This time, Stan tensed, his muscles stiff with a new form of apprehension. He didn’t miss the way the chatter of the room quickly died down, every student feeling the same thing.
“Kenneth McCormick?” Murphy’s voice echoed between the walls, carrying over to the blonde boy sitting at Kyle’s table. Part of Stan’s view was obstructed by bookshelves, but he could see a mop of golden hair rise up and move throughout the crowd.
“They’re questioning us?” He asked, purposely keeping his voice low so only his friends could hear. It wasn’t so much a shock to him as it was scary, knowing they were all likely suspects of Scott and Bebe’s murders.
There was a beat of silence, clear hesitation to answer him before Kevin replied, “I think starting a fight just pushed us to the top of their list. Way to go, you guys.”
Stan turned around just in time to see Tolkien and Craig bristle at Kevin’s words.
“You were there, too, dickhead,” Craig pointed out, his eyes narrowed with mild anger.
Kevin crossed his arms, casting a pointed look at Tolkien. “Yeah, but I didn’t throw anyone into a bookshelf.”
“Fuck you, Stoley.” Tolkien shot up from his chair, his voice teetering over the line of yelling.
Stan’s heart skipped a beat as Kevin stood up as well, and he quickly followed suit, reaching out to place his hand on Tolkien’s shoulder. “Guys, guys–” He interjected, his eyes shifting between the three boys. “Don’t be stupid, alright? Fighting isn’t gonna bring Bebe back.”
He let his words resonate, the bitter truth of them causing Tolkien and Kevin to reluctantly back down.
“We all want someone to blame. Someone to be pissed at.” Stan continued, still keeping his voice quiet as he took his hand off of Tolkien’s shoulder. “But you guys can’t jump to conclusions. Not now. Especially not now. We lose our minds, and Clyde will spiral. He needs us right now.”
The mention of their traumatized friend seemed to have sparked guilt within the group, and Stan took in a quiet breath of relief. He hated watching them fight, hated bearing witness to their outlets of grief.
Tolkien sat back down, shooting Kevin an apologetic look. He returned it with one of his own, a silent agreement to not lose their cool anymore. Not with each other.
Tolkien stuffed his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket. “...How do you guys think he’ll be tomorrow?”
Craig huffed out a dry laugh, though his eyes held no sign of amusement. “What kind of question is that, dude? We’ll be lucky if he even talks to us in the morning.”
Stan shut his eyes as the events from the gym played back in his mind, against his will. He could feel every emotion that had surfaced in the moment, of which he’d long since repressed. His throat tingled with a sick feeling, and he swallowed it back down to avoid throwing up the fear broiling in his stomach.
“We just have to be there for him. Any way we can.” He answered after a beat, forcing his eyes open to wash away the horrors hidden in his memory.
The chatter of the surrounding students had gradually picked up again, filling in the silence that wafted between the group. Stan was thankful for the time being, but he wasn’t looking forward to the night.
The lockdown had lasted another three hours before the South Park PD deemed it safe to finally lift it, allowing students and teachers to reunite with their loved ones. Stan and Kyle had both exchanged their goodbyes with their friends, both giving and receiving promises to stay in touch more than usual. The lobby of the school was flooded with distressed parents hugging their kids like lifelines. It seemed like everywhere Stan looked, there was a family thankful to be in the presence of one another, and he couldn’t help the unwelcome, sour feeling that pierced through his chest.
He gripped the strap of his backpack a little tighter as he slowed to avoid hitting a girl who bounded across his path, into the arms of a man he could only assume was her father, meeting her halfway with glossy eyes. His teeth sunk into his cheek as he pushed past them, trying his damn hardest not to wish that were him. He knew his parents could care less about showing up, but this was much different. There was nothing like a tragedy so close to home that put their love to the test, and if it were possible, Stan’s parents had failed ten times over.
He stood by the staircase in the middle of the lobby, staying as far out of everyone’s way as he could. He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, clicking on Kyle’s contact and sending him a brief text asking where he was. He couldn’t believe that even after all of this, he still had to chauffeur his former best friend. But it wasn’t like he was in any rush to get home. He wasn’t wanted there, anyway.
He didn’t even get to put his phone down before a familiar figure appeared beside him, the aforementioned redhead awkwardly coming to a stop.
Kyle’s brain seemed to short circuit upon seeing Stan’s dejected yet hardened expression. He couldn’t imagine what he was going through, even if they’d witnessed the same catastrophe. Stan and Bebe had been much closer than Kyle initially thought, which only added to the heavy weight of the situation. He didn’t miss the obvious absence of Stan’s parents, and the notion of the pair not bothering to comfort their son clearly got to the quarterback. He wouldn’t lie and deny that he wished his own parents were there; Kyle wanted nothing more than to hear his mother’s reassuring voice, listen to his father as he found a way to soothe his unshed tears.
It killed him that neither of them knew what was going on back home. His hand subconsciously squeezed around his phone in his pocket, itching with the urge to call them.
Stan had easily picked up on his inner turmoil, he knew that Kyle was fighting to say something. For a fraction of a moment, he wanted to give him the chance. But he knew it probably wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t need any more pity, especially from him.
Instead, he fixed his eyes on the crowd ahead, looking away curtly. “Let’s go.”
The quarterback began pushing his way through the sea of students, leaving Kyle behind to second guess his actions before following after him.
The storm had eased up to a somewhat tolerable degree, but Stan still drove under the speed limit as he and Kyle peeled out of the parking lot, trying to keep in mind the amount of cop cars surrounding the school’s property. He doubted any of them would have the heart to issue him a ticket, but with everything else happening in this town, he was starting to believe that life was unpredictable.
The windshield wipers of the jeep squeaked as they pushed the raindrops off the glass, sending them flying onto the road and adding to the small puddles forming on the pavement. He didn’t bother messing with his radio, favoring the sound of the rumbling sky over any song on his playlist.
Neither him nor Kyle ever said anything, neither of them feeling the need to talk when they were both feeling and thinking the same things. Kyle’s focus was directed at the passing trees and shrubbery as they drove, his fingers idly fidgeting with the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. He couldn’t decide if he preferred the quiet or not. On one hand, he was itching to talk about what Yates had told him, but on the other– it was Stan. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d willingly shared something with the quarterback. Their friendship was anything but existent, and the silence between them served as a stark reminder.
A bout of lightning lit up the clouds for a long minute, followed by a rather loud crack of thunder. Stan was getting sick of it, sick of the weather, sick of every ounce of familiarity around him. His norm had been screwed beyond repair, and he couldn’t look at anything the same way again. Not even something as simple as the rain.
Suddenly, a distinct pop ripped its way through the silence, drawing sharp gasps from both of their throats. Stan struggled to correct the steering wheel as he felt the jeep’s back tire dragging across the pavement.
“What the hell–?!” He exclaimed, immediately pushing his foot against the brakes and veering off to the shoulder of the road.
Kyle was on full alert now, bracing his hand on the dashboard as the car came to an abrupt stop. He turned to Stan, his eyes widened with momentary panic. “What happened?!”
Stan shifted the gear and put the car in park, peering out through the side mirror. He couldn’t see much through the raindrops stuck to the glass, and he swore under his breath.
“Hold on,” He grumbled out, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.
Kyle tossed his hands up with helpless frustration, the denial of an immediate answer heating up his veins.
Stan slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the storm, using his jacket’s thick sleeve to shield his eyes from the falling rain. He rounded the back of the jeep, stopping near the rear left tire. It didn’t take him long to spot it, the bottom of the wheel completely flat against the ground.
“Shit,” He murmured, barely able to hear his own voice over the thunder. He crouched down onto the ground, running his fingers up and down the sides of the tire to find a hole. But when he did, his eyebrows furrowed, laying his eyes on a thin gash in the rubber.
He stood up straight, turning in the direction they came from and taking a few steps forward, his eyes skimming over the ground to spot anything he may have hit. But even with the streets flooding with water, nothing seemed out of place, nothing sharp enough to cause that kind of damage.
He returned back to the jeep, pulling open the driver’s side door and pressing the lock for the trunk. He glanced up at Kyle. “Tire’s flat. I need to change it.”
“Are you kidding?” Kyle replied, his shoulders slumping with annoyance. “Can’t you just call a tow truck?”
“Why would I call a tow truck when I can just fix it myself?” Stan argued, narrowing his eyes as he sensed an oncoming fight.
“Because you’re not a mechanic?” Kyle told him, as if it were as obvious as the color of the sky.
Stan only rolled his eyes in response, not wanting to put up with his complaints. “Christ, Kyle, I know what I’m doing. I’m not an idiot.”
He shut the door again, this time with much more force as he quickly made his way to the trunk.
“I beg to differ,” Kyle mumbled to himself, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back in the seat.
Stan’s hair was already growing damp as he grabbed the spare tire from the trunk, rolling it out onto the wet ground. He reached over and grabbed the wheel chocks and tire jack before slamming the lid closed again.
Kyle, meanwhile, let out a long sigh as he took out his phone. He knew Ike would be back home by now, likely wondering where his brother was. He didn’t know how long it usually took to change a tire, but since it was Stan doing it, he figured he would give him three hours to be safe. If he was as good of a mechanic as he was a friend, then they were in deep shit.
He began typing out a message to Ike, letting him know what was going on. Just then, Kyle’s eyes flickered up to the top of his screen as a new text appeared. Immediately, his stomach clenched with a now very familiar sense of shock. It only took him a second to read what it said, and who it was from.
From: Scott: Fear brings out the worst in everyone, doesn’t it, Kyle?
Kyle’s fingers darted across the screen, quickly abandoning his chat with Ike in favor of opening his messages with Scott’s contact. His lips fell agape as dread washed over him, his eyes scanning over the text again, and again, and again. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out if it was real. He’d seen a dead body today, trauma like that was bound to have some side effects.
His head snapped up and faced the windows and windshield, frantically looking around as if he were going to spot Scott himself standing outside the car.
His phone then vibrated in his hand, instantly drawing his eyes back to the screen. His breath hitched in his throat, feeling his heart sink further into his gut as he read another message.
From: Scott: Fear prompts people to make rash decisions, even if it means hurting the ones they love.
Kyle’s eyebrows pinched together so tightly it almost hurt.
From: Scott: I know your secret, Kyle. Now let me tell you mine.
His heart nearly leapt out of his throat. Secret? What secret? What the hell were they talking about? Was this really happening? Kyle could feel himself start to spiral, and his control over his mind and emotions was slipping through his fingers.
From: Scott: You can’t protect your friends if you can’t even tell the truth.
His chest heaved up and down with sharp, weighted pants, and he picked his head up again, his widened gaze jumping between the windows around him. His stomach lurched at the idea of being watched, the forest surrounding the road too thick to see through.
Stan let out a grunt as he repeatedly yanked the wrench towards him, tightening the bolts on the wheel cover and following a star pattern. If Randy ever taught him anything useful, it was knowing his vehicles. Too bad he isn’t here to see it, Stan thought to himself.
When he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, he let out a faint groan of irritation, pausing his work to remove it from his jacket. He wondered if his friends were checking in on him, as per their own promises before leaving the school.
But when Stan’s eyes fell over the screen, his grip on the wrench slipped, and the tool clattered loudly onto the wet road, echoing in his ears.
From: Malkinson: I know your secret, Stan. Now let me tell you mine.
Stan shot to his feet, an involuntary chill curling across his shoulders, rivaling the cold temperature of the rain. He didn’t take his gaze off the screen, not even as another text rolled through.
From: Malkinson: You can’t protect your friends if you can’t even tell the truth.
Pure horror embedded itself into his veins, a daunting realization bleeding into his thoughts. Stan turned to the flat tire discarded on the ground next to the trunk, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. It was too perfect a timing, he knew it. The notion bounced around in his mind; whoever was doing this, whoever killed Bebe, whoever was taunting him with Scott’s number — they were here. They had to be.
Stan pivoted on his heels and faced the woods across the street, his heart rate skyrocketing as he tried to distinguish shapes in the darkness. He was so focused on finding the stranger, he didn’t hear the car door closing, Kyle clambering out of the vehicle.
“Stan!” He called, briefly ripping the quarterback out of his panic. Kyle rushed around the car and met him on the other side, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. “We need to get out of here, now.”
Stan swallowed thickly, forcing himself to calm down. He had no plans to argue with that, but he couldn’t let Kyle know his reason. He had to keep up his usual demeanor, even if he could hear his blood rushing in his ears.
“Why?” He asked, shutting off his phone and turning it away from Kyle’s view. “I’m almost done, dude, just wait in the car—“
“No! I have to get home, now!” Kyle exclaimed, praying that his fear wasn’t too obvious in his eyes.
Stan’s expression faltered at the tone of his voice, the look in Kyle’s eyes doing nothing to snuff the flames of his fear. But before he could respond, both of their phones vibrated and lit up as a notification came through. However, neither of them were fast enough to shift away from the other’s line of sight, and all hell broke loose.
Stan’s eyes caught Kyle’s screen, and he felt something within him suddenly shatter. A deep, guttural sort of shock settled in his chest, and he could almost feel the color draining from his face.
From: Scott: See you soon.
He stared at Kyle, his hands threatening to shake. “…Why the hell are you getting calls from Scott?”
Kyle’s eyes immediately met his face, his own look of surprise quickly replaced by confusion. “Calls?” He parroted, his eyebrows creasing. “I didn’t— I only got a text.”
Stan panicked. Shit. “…That’s what I said-”
“No, you— you said calls.” Kyle reiterated. “Are you getting calls from Scott, too?”
“…Wait, what the hell do you mean, too?” Stan looked more confused than Kyle.
Kyle carded a hand through his hair, gripping the strands and pulling softly as he felt his world crashing down around him. What the fuck?
“Kyle?!” Stan shouted, his voice rising with full-blown panic.
Kyle pocketed his phone. “We don’t have time for this Stan, we need to get out of here! Is the car ready or not?!”
“Fucking— yes, it’s ready, but— Kyle!” Stan yelled after him as the redhead then spun around and hurried back into the jeep. He followed after him. “Are we seriously not going to—“
“Just get in!” Kyle demanded, slamming the door closed.
Stan let out a noise of confused desperation, but he didn’t linger in the rain any further. He all but threw himself into the driver’s seat, not even bothering to pick up his wrench and withered tire still laying in the street.
If the silence between them after leaving the school was heavy, Stan had no fucking idea what this was. His heart rate only seemed to pick up faster and faster the more time passed where they didn’t address what had just happened.
His grip on the steering wheel was so tight he could barely feel his fingers, his knuckles fading white from the force of his muscles. He spared the redhead next to him countless amounts of glances on their drive, but not once did Kyle speak up or look back at him. The closer they got to his house, Stan began to realize he wouldn’t have a chance to talk about it. Not without going out of his way.
The panic and fear was still very much fresh and present at the forefront of his mind, and the fact that he and Kyle shared the dread from the same threat was a twist he never would have expected. No way were they sweeping this under the rug. This wasn’t a regular argument. This was something else entirely.
So, making an impulsive choice, Stan flicked off his turn signal leading to Kyle’s neighborhood and instead floored the gas pedal, his hold on the wheel tightening even further. That seemed to catch Kyle’s attention, his body perking up and watching as Stan purposely missed the turn.
Stan swerved the jeep into the parking lot of a shopping center just down the road, ignoring the angry honking of an old woman he’d cut off from the turning lane. The last thing he cared about was the rules of the road; his mind was running a million miles a minute, and if he didn’t address it, he would explode.
He hit the brakes in the closest spot he could find, immediately shifting the car into park and shutting off the engine.
Kyle finally turned to him, a hint of hesitation seeping through his annoyed expression. “What the fuck are we doing here?”
“I’m not taking you home until you tell me the truth.” Stan answered, bristling when it wasn’t obvious that Kyle even wanted to talk about their situation. “Why are you getting calls from Scott Malkinson?”
“This is kidnapping,” Kyle pointed out. “You’re kidnapping me.”
Stan cringed. “Shut the fuck up, dude, this is not a kidnapping—“
“Taking me against my will to an unknown secondary location?! This is literally a kidnapping!”
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, tiredly. “...Kyle, we are sitting in the middle of a Walmart parking lot.”
Kyle let out an angry growl, crossing his arms and slumping back against the seat, feeling defeated.
“Why are you getting calls from Scott Malkinson?!”
“I don’t know, okay?!” Kyle yelled, lapsing into brief silence at the tone of his own voice. He didn’t quite know what he was doing, what was going on, his brain refusing to process that Stan, of all people, was also getting calls from Scott’s phone.
Letting out a resigned sigh, Kyle opened up. “…They started the day Principal Victoria told us he was missing.”
Stan finally loosened his grip on the wheel. “Me too.”
Kyle turned to him, unsure of what to say next.
“The first time. Someone called you from his number, but all you heard was breathing. Right?” Stan asked.
Kyle’s stare turned skeptical. “…Right.”
“And the second time. They talked to you, right?”
“Yeah. How did you—“
“Because the same thing happened to me.” Stan admitted, almost unbelieving of the words himself.
Silence fell over the car. They hated how familiar it was becoming. Kyle faced forward again, wrapping his head around the new revelation.
“…Okay. Okay, so… someone with our dead friend’s phone is harassing us.” He concluded.
“…Yeah.” Stan breathed, nodding his head. Then, he turned to Kyle. “When they called you the second time, what did they say to you?”
Kyle opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. He weighed his options. Should he really be telling Stan everything he knew? It didn’t even matter, he was desperate for answers, too. And now that he knew Stan was getting those same calls, maybe he could finally get them.
“They— called me at Tolkien’s party. I was taking a walk while… crying, and— they saw me. Asked why.”
“Is that all?” Stan asked, ignoring the fact that Kyle admitted to crying at Tolkien’s party. The last time he saw Kyle that night was when he kicked him out of the spare bedroom, Stan remembered that Kyle was already upset when he walked in. The urge to ask for elaboration almost escaped him, but he held it back in favor of realizing Scott’s killer may have been at Tolkien’s house that night.
Kyle shook his head, recalling the bad memory. “I asked who they were and they said, um… that they were someone who ‘knows what goes on behind closed doors’.”
Stan nodded along. “What else?”
“…They said that.. they don’t like what they see,” Kyle explained. “A-And that they’re going to stop it. Whatever that means.”
Stan tapped his fingers across his steering wheel in thought. His mind immediately ran over all the things he’d done in the last week, and the thought of admitting to any of it was nearly enough to send him running for the hills. So, he decided to stretch the truth a little. He didn’t know if he could fully trust Kyle yet. Let alone trust him at all.
“They called me to tell me that my actions have consequences.” A half truth. Stan just left out the part about the stranger threatening to pick off everyone around him.
Kyle threw his arms up, letting them fall over his lap in a burst of rage. “Oh, well lucky fucking you! I get stalked and threatened and you get a life lesson, how the fuck is that fair?!”
Stan’s eyes narrowed with the same feeling. “Hey, nothing about this is fair, alright?! I mean why the hell are they calling us two in the first place?!”
“You’re asking me that like I’m supposed to know!” Kyle snapped.
“Well I would at least expect you to have a fucking theory!?” Stan argued.
“Well I don’t!” Kyle shut him down almost immediately. “Okay, I am just as confused as you are!”
Stan opened his mouth to yell back at him, when his eyes caught a couple walking in front of their car. He quickly shut it and averted his gaze, trying to appear nonchalant until they passed. He took the moment to force the heat of his fury down to a simmer, brushing a hand over his hair.
“…What the hell do we do, dude?” He asked, his voice low and twinged with exhausted puzzlement.
“I don’t know.” Kyle murmured back. He leaned his elbow against the sill of the door, bringing his fingers up to press against his temples. He then spoke up again, his voice trembling.
“Do you think that— that the person who’s harassing us is—“
“—is the same person who killed Scott and Bebe?” Stan finished, locking eyes with the other boy. “…Yeah. I do.”
The redhead sighed, scrubbing his hand over his mouth. “Shit.”
Of course, Stan had better reasoning for his theory. He would even go as far as to say he had clear evidence that that was true. But, Kyle couldn’t know about that.
“Did you tell anyone about this?” He questioned.
Kyle hesitated with his answer. “…Just Kenny.”
Stan opened his mouth to protest, but Kyle beat him to it.
“He won’t say anything.” He promised.
Stan stilled, unconvinced. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because he already thinks I told the cops.” Kyle said, much to the quarterback’s surprise. “He made me promise to, but— I-I didn’t. But he doesn’t know that.”
Stan slumped forward with slight relief. “Good. The cops can’t know. If they find out, we’ll be under twenty-four hour surveillance until this thing is actually solved.”
“So, what, we just— keep this to ourselves? Try not to flinch every time we get a phone call?” Kyle asked, shaking his head with clear disapproval.
“If that’s what it takes to stay off Yates’ radar, then yeah.” Stan shrugged one of his shoulders. “We just… have to keep acting normal.”
“But— w-we can tell each other, right?” Kyle asked, reluctantly. “Because I will lose my mind if I can’t talk about this to someone.”
Stan mulled this over, glancing at Kyle through his peripheral vision. “…Sure. Whatever, just— no one else. Got it?”
“Got it.” Kyle responded quickly, nodding softly. “Now take me home.”
Stan didn’t say anything in reply. He looked away from Kyle, turning his keys in the ignition until the engine started up again. The windshield wipers went back to work, ridding the glass of water while the rain continued pouring from the sky.
There was that silence again, though it seemed calmer than it usually was. Neither of them spoke, but Stan didn’t care, finally satisfied with their secrets. He knew he should probably come clean to Kyle about Scott’s truck, about the call from Bebe’s number he’d received just hours earlier; but his conscience kept a lid on his truth, unable to bring the words to light.
Stan cast a final glance towards Kyle, his chest sparking with a feeling he hadn’t welcomed since middle school. He didn’t want to think about the implications of this, but it was obvious that their situation had just taken a sharp turn.
For worse, or for better, he was going to find out.