Archive of Our Own ^beta

An ambulance and a dozen police cars strobe red and blue in the Lerners' driveway around one a.m., painting the quiet suburban street in a frantic, pulsating light. The crisp winter air bites, carrying the faint, acrid scent of burnt sugar from the still-standing Christmas decorations. Inside the house, a frantic energy hums. Footfalls thump upstairs, hushed voices murmur, and the distinct, raw sound of Deanna Lerner’s sobs echoes from Luke’s bedroom. She sits on his bed, a protective shield of blankets and arms, rocking Luke as though he is a much younger child, murmuring incoherent comforts, her body a trembling barrier against the grisly horror that has unfolded. Luke, nestled against her, feigns sleepiness, his eyes fluttering open with a practiced slowness.

He stretches, yawns, and asks, his voice a soft, innocent mumble, "Mom? What's wrong?"

"Don’t worry, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Shhhhh..." She tells him, her voice thick with tears, without offering any real answer. Her grip on him tightens, a desperate anchor in a sea of terror.

Outside Luke’s room, his dad, Bob, stands rigid, speaking in low, strained tones with an officer. The hallway light casts long, dancing shadows, making the familiar space feel alien and menacing. Every once in a while, a word surfaces from their calm, almost reverent mumbling. Words like “tragedy,” spoken with a heavy sigh, “lucky,” uttered with a shake of the head, and “so young,” whispered with a chilling finality. Deanna holds Luke close, her face buried in his hair, so she doesn’t see the big smile that spreads across his face, a private, triumphant smirk that vanishes as quickly as it appears.

Downstairs, a paramedic’s shout rips through the house, sharp and urgent. "THIS ONE’S ALIVE!"

Luke’s eyes pop open, wide and alert, the feigned grogginess instantly gone. A jolt of pure, unadulterated frustration shoots through him. Alive? He tries to scramble out of his mother’s embrace, a desperate urge to witness the impossible, but her grasp is too strong, too protective. He spins the other way, pulling her with surprising force towards the window, his small hands tugging at her arm. Through the pane, the flashing lights outside intensify, illuminating the scene below. Paramedics, moving with practiced haste, wheel Luke's babysitter, Ashley, out on a stretcher. Her face is pale, smudged with soot, and her arm is at an unnatural angle. Luke mouths the word 'no,' a soundless, theatrical gasp, as he presses his hand against the cold glass. He was so sure he had killed her. The certainty of his success had been absolute.

They load Ashley into the ambulance, the doors gaping open like a hungry maw. Inside, a flurry of activity: tourniquets are applied to her mangled arm, IVs are quickly inserted into her pale skin, and a breathing tube snakes from her mouth. She looks up, her eyes glazed but focused, directly at Luke’s room. Through the wheezing of the breathing tubes, she manages to pull her arm out from under the blanket, a flicker of defiance in her weakened state, and slowly, deliberately, raises her hand.

Deanna, still clutching Luke, sees Ashley moving. A shudder runs through her, a mixture of relief and renewed horror. She closes her eyes, pulling Luke back into her embrace, a desperate attempt to shield him from the sight, but she doesn't force him to break his physical contact with the window. Luke watches, a cold, calculating glint in his eyes, as Ashley gives him the middle finger, a final, guttural act of contempt before the ambulance doors clang shut, sealing her inside.

The ambulance lights, still competing with the blinking Xmas lights framing Luke’s window, pull away, their red and blue flashes receding down the street. Luke, finally back in his mother’s loving embrace, his head resting against her chest, suddenly laments how short-lived the comfort will be. The fleeting warmth, the temporary solace of her arms, feels like a cruel joke. His mind races, already discarding the failure, already plotting. A new, more insidious plan begins to form, a twisted bloom in the fertile ground of his psychopathic mind.

"Mom?" Luke asks, his voice muffled, laced with a convincing tremor of concern. "Can we go with Ashley? To the hospital? I want to make sure she's okay."

Since Ashley and her family are close friends with the Lerners, Deanna agrees immediately, her heart still heavy with shock and gratitude that Ashley is alive. Within two hours, Deanna and Luke are in the sterile, brightly lit emergency waiting room. The air hums with the low thrum of medical equipment and the hushed anxieties of other families.

Still acting sleepy, Luke rubs his eyes. "Mom, I'm really hungry. Can I get a candy bar? And maybe find something Ashley will like, something to cheer her up?"

He looks up at her with wide, innocent eyes, a perfect picture of a worried, thoughtful child. Convinced by her son's sweet demeanor, she hands him two crisp twenty-dollar bills, and he slips away, melting into the bustling hospital's main lobby.

He walks with a casual confidence, his eyes scanning, assessing. Deciding to test something seen on a medical drama, a fleeting thought that sparks an idea, he takes the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors hiss open, revealing quiet hallways. Instead of walking, he turns and finds the stairwell, descending with silent, purposeful steps back to the first floor. With a stroke of luck, or perhaps a preternatural instinct, the stairs open directly into the back of the emergency room, a less-trafficked corridor away from the main entrance.

He finds a volunteer closet, its door slightly ajar, emitting the faint scent of bleach and clean linen. He slips inside, his movements swift and silent, and searches through the neatly folded piles before finding a child-size hospital gown. It’s a little big, but it will do. He gets dressed, the thin fabric a flimsy disguise, and then begins to search each admittance bay, peering through the curtains, looking for another child. His eyes land on a bay listed as a John Doe. Perfect. No family, no friends, no faculty hovering. The boy inside appears to be asleep, a thin, pale figure beneath the white sheet. Luke walks up, his footsteps muffled by the soft floor, and tries to pry off the other boy's identification bracelet gently.

The blond boy, no older than Luke himself, stirs. His eyelids flutter open, revealing eyes the color of a winter sky. He groggily asks, his voice raspy with sleep, "What's going on?"

Luke recognizes the act immediately, the same sleepy, groggy performance he himself had pulled hours earlier. He doesn't bother with pleasantries. His voice is blunt, devoid of emotion. "What's your name?"

The boy stares, assessing Luke, his gaze surprisingly sharp despite his recent awakening. "Apparently, I'm a John Doe. What about you?"

"Visitor," Luke replies, his eyes unwavering.

"Why do you need my bracelet?" The boy's voice is calm, curious, not fearful.

"To kill my babysitter." Luke states it plainly, a simple fact, no embellishment, no hesitation.

The blond boy stares at Luke, his expression unreadable. He assesses him, analyzing him, his gaze piercing, as if trying to see if Luke is joking or lying, if this is some elaborate prank. Luke stares back, his own gaze unwavering, without breaking eye contact. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken understanding. Finally, a slow, genuine smile spreads across the boy's face, a smile that reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners. It’s a smile that recognizes something dark and familiar. He pushes his thumb's knuckle forward, a small, deliberate movement, and removes his bracelet, offering it to Luke.

"Tell me how it goes," he says, his voice a low, conspiratorial murmur.

Luke smiles back, a mirror image of the boy's own, and accepts the bracelet. He had just killed his best friend of six years, five hours ago. He's due for a new one. Luke slides on the bracelet, the plastic cool against his skin, and then wanders with renewed purpose until he finds Ashley’s bay. She’s asleep, her breathing shallow, the monitors beside her beeping softly.

A nurse, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, catches him watching. "She's in a surface coma," the nurse whispers, "but she should wake up by noon."

He waits until the nurse leaves, her footsteps fading down the hall. He dons a pair of latex gloves, the thin material stretching taut over his small hands, and then, with practiced ease, he transfers Ashley's IVs and EKGs to himself. He pinches her nose, his other hand smothering her mouth, cutting off her last desperate gasps for air. He grins, a wide, chilling smile, as he feels her life ebb away beneath him, a faint tremor, then stillness. The monitors, now connected to him, flatline for a moment, then register his own steady heartbeat. He changes the settings on the EKG, a quick, precise adjustment, reconnects the wires, and yanks off the gloves, stuffing them into his pocket. He dips out of the bay, a phantom in the sterile hallway, returning to the other boy's bay just as the EKG delay hits, and Ashley's bay screams for a Code Blue.

The blond boy pulls his bracelet back on, his eyes gleaming with a knowing amusement. "I'm Henry," he says, extending a hand.

"Luke," Luke replies, shaking it, a silent pact forged in the quiet chaos of the hospital.

“Holly Jolly Christmas” by Burl Ives starts to play over the loudspeakers, a saccharine, ironic melody filling the air, as Henry says, "Be seeing you, Luke."

Luke nods, a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding, and escapes into the volunteer closet, shedding the gown and his temporary identity. He returns to the main lobby, the sounds of the Code Blue fading behind him, a distant echo. He buys a teddy bear from the brightly lit 24/7 gift shop, its fur soft and comforting, and a candy bar and chocolate milk from different vending machines, a calculated move to avoid suspicion. He chugs the milk, the sweet liquid a stark contrast to the bitter taste of triumph in his mouth, and drops half the candy into a trash bin, leaving just enough to appear as if he’d had a snack.

He returns to the waiting room, his face a mask of innocent concern, and proudly shows his mom the "best gift for Ashley," insisting, "This will make her better."