Scorecard

By Ian Augustine

Life in a small town is tough when you’ve been accused of a crime you didn’t commit. Pearson Reed and five of his friends know this from experience. In high school, they were known as “The Sophomore Six”— six thoughtless pranksters who pulled a stunt that resulted in a tragedy. Flash forward ten years — each of “The Six” struggle to make a life.

Drawn together once again, opportunity comes knocking for the group in the form of Joseph Murray, a crooked businessman hiding a treasure trove of paintings and a safe full of cash in the basement of his home. Years ago, Murray attempted to swindle Pearson’s family in a real estate deal. Now it’s payback time.

Driven by desperation, Pearson’s old pals agree to help him burglarize Murray’s home. In the hours following the job, however, Murray ends up dead. With law enforcement scrambling for answers, and Murray’s business associates prowling about, The Sophomore Six once again find themselves in the crosshairs. As the violence escalates, Pearson and company have more to worry about than simply being arrested. Someone wants them dead. And they’ll do anything to see that it happens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Augustine
• Release date: Jun 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985696900

Ian Augustine

Ian Augustine is the co-author of Scorecard, the first novel in the Pearson Reed Trilogy, as well as Turnball City Tales. He attended the University of Memphis before transferring to Flagler College where he graduated with a degree in History. He has worked as an archivist, docent, and technical writer. A lifelong sports fan, he hopes to visit every professional ballpark in Major League Baseball. He puts hot sauce on everything, and never met a bowl of chili he didn't like. He lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with his girlfriend, Melissa, and a fat dog named Topper.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Miguel’s mobile home sat at the dead end of a long dirt road north of the city. Mold and bird shit spotted the trailer’s sour milk complexion. Most of the windows were cracked or covered with plastic, and rotten insulation peeked through pock marks along the exterior. Countless years of exposure to the harsh Florida elements had not been kind to the structure, but then the years hadn’t been kind to the men waiting inside either.

When Miguel had volunteered his place for the reunion, Pearson had been leery. Given the nature of what he had planned, it seemed far more prudent to gather the group back at his house and lay out the burglary there.

Seeing the trailer now, though, he had to admit: the place was damn near perfect.

In the middle of nowhere, no prying eyes, no interruptions.

Nothing around for miles but empty fields littered with abandoned cars and rusty tractors, burned out trailers and dilapidated barns.

Perfect…

From the trunk of his car, Pearson gathered a tattered North Face bag and a case of cold beer. He shouldered the load up the gravel drive, past a line of bug-spattered cars and trucks, careful to negotiate his way in the humid darkness. Raucous laughter drew him around the side of the mobile home to a dimly lit screened porch that jutted out from the rear of the trailer. There, five men sat gathered round a poker table, cursing one another with lighthearted slights. The game was Texas Hold’em, and the playing cards appeared to be much like the men themselves, serviceable but showing definite signs of wear and tear.

Pearson loitered in the shadows, watching with a touch of trepidation as the scene played out before him. He had spent many a night these past weeks lying awake, worrying about whether he could convince these men to cast aside their shared history and bury their long held grudges. From the sound of things, the night was off to a good start, but Pearson knew all too well how quickly the tide could turn. Listening to the boisterous laughter and jovial banter, he should have been relieved, but doubt coiled tightly inside him once more.

Doubt… or guilt...

He pushed the unsettling thought aside and edged closer to the porch, listening to the men’s words, gauging the temperature of their tones and body language. From what he could see, the current round of poker was nearing its conclusion and only two players remained: Miguel Arias and Sean Clayton, two of the more combustible members of the group.

Sean waved his cards playfully at his opponent, a devilish smile plastered to his face.

Time to lay our cards on the table, fat boy, he teased.

Miguel glared at him with eyes that would have sent dogs fleeing for safety under a neighbor’s porch. It was true he had packed on weight. Of the five men seated at the table, he had noticeably changed the most since high school. Years of hard labor had added layers of mass to his large and rangy frame, but none of it looked soft. The mop of black curls he had hidden behind as a troubled teen were long gone as well. What little hair he had left was coarse like sandpaper and shaved close to the skull. Perhaps the most noteworthy change, though, was the jagged scar that stretched up his right bicep -- a permanent reminder of the seven months he had endured in county lock-up. Miguel wore it like a badge of honor.

"The hell you calling fat boy, cabron?" he asked.

I only see one fat boy at the table, Sean said. He turned to the others. "And now comes the part where Miguel proves once and for all that watching poker on television doesn’t actually make you better a poker player."

Pearson chuckled to himself. If Miguel had changed the most, then Sean had changed the least. Lean, tanned, and blond, he could still be mistaken for a model in Surfer magazine. These days his hair was spiked short instead of loosely tucked behind his ears, but even with the more conservative cut, he radiated youth and mischief. A sardonic smile was forever glued to his face, the type of toothy grin that seemed to indicate he was the guy that was always in on whatever inside joke was currently at hand. You in or out, fat boy? he asked.

Seated next to Sean, Jasper Stanton said, If nothin’ else, Miguel, at least make whistle-britches here show you his cards. Jasper’s laconic southern drawl transformed Miguel’s name into MEE-GELL. Four damn hands in a row he’s taken, Jasper continued, and I’m callin’ bunk.

Sean burst out laughing. Did you really just call me ‘whistle-britches’? he asked. What the hell does that even mean? Is there like a red-neck dictionary I can consult to understand this language you speak?

Jasper grinned, a toothpick clenched between his teeth. I’m sayin’ you’re full of shit. This hand, last hand, the hand before that. Full… of… shit.

Like Miguel, Jasper had gained weight, but his added mass was much less imposing. His dark hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail that bobbed up and down whenever he spoke. Sometime in the past year he had developed an affinity for tattoos. His left arm was now completely inked from his wrist to his elbow with intricate art, and his right was well on the way.

You want to make a side bet I don’t finish him off? Sean challenged. How about you, Luke? You want in, or would the good Lord look down on that?

Seated next to Jasper, Luke Miller mumbled, I don’t have a dollar to spare.

Been giving it all the church, I bet, Sean chided. It’s a bitch when your pastor’s Cadillac runs on high test, isn’t it, Luke?

Church? Miguel grumbled. More like the strippers down at Crazy Girls. Probably know’em by name now, right, Holy? Probably identify them by the smell of their twa—

Miguel, stop, Luke pleaded. I’d never go into a place like that.

Yeah, I know, Holy, Miguel said. Sins of the flesh and all that.

Pearson couldn’t help but shake his head as he watched Luke shy away from yet another confrontation. Luke had changed along with the others, but in many ways he was exactly the same as he had been high school. He hadn’t gained an ounce of weight since age seventeen, but he had gone prematurely bald due to a thyroid condition. His hands were always trembling with nervous energy, and his eyes never seemed to settle on any one item for longer than necessary. Occasionally Pearson would bump into him at the flea market, where he sold handcrafted crucifixes and doled out religious pamphlets. He still wore the first cross he had ever carved on a leather strap around his scrawny neck. He had a habit of fidgeting with it when he was nervous or angry -- he was fidgeting now.

No takers? Sean asked. When nobody responded, he grinned at Miguel. "I guess it’s just your dinero I’m jacking tonight, amigo."

"Okay, maricon, Miguel said, splashing the pot with his remaining chips. Show."

Sean dropped two nines on the table, pairing them perfectly with two others in the flop to make four of a kind. Laughing, he snatched up a pile of crumpled bills from the pot.

I believe this is going to pay for tonight’s alcohol.

There’s enough there to buy you a week of that shit you drink, Deon Rice said from his corner of the table. He collected the frayed cards in his large ebony hands while Sean counted his winnings out loud -- much to the chagrin of Miguel. Like the others, Deon had put on weight. Even so, he still looked like the athlete that used to lead block for the DeLand Bulldog’s halfbacks. With his wide shoulders and muscled arms, he appeared youthful and powerful, but Pearson knew that wasn’t the case. A crippling injury, followed by a botched surgery, had left Deon with structural damage to his right knee. He often joked that there were peg-legged pirates that walked with more comfort than he did.

Of all the men seated at the table, Deon was the one Pearson trusted most.

And he was about to put that trust to the test… right now.

Pearson drew a deep breath and hiked the remaining distance to the porch. The metallic spring on the screen door yawned as he opened it and climbed the steps. The group’s attention shifted in his direction.

Holy shit, Jasper called. I didn’t know the gay rodeo was back in town.

Amused, Pearson flipped his friend the bird.

So the puppet master has finally arrived, Miguel said, rising to his feet. He strolled over and casually draped his scarred arm around Pearson’s shoulders. "Como te va, amigo? What took you so long?"

Pearson raised the twenty-four pack of beer. Man’s got to have his priorities.

Damn, straight, Sean called, downing the remainder of his beer.

Pearson tore open the cardboard container, tossed cans to open hands. He made his way around the table, shaking hands, catching up. Only Miguel was a bit vague about what he’d been doing since being released from lock-up last fall.

Workin’ for a cousin, was all he would divulge.

When everyone settled down, Pearson drew a seat up to the table.

Deon shuffled the deck of cards. So what’s up? You didn’t call us all out here to drink piss beer and bullshit.

Pearson nodded. You’re right, I didn’t.

From his North Face bag, he extracted a file folder and placed it gently on the table. He flipped the cover open and removed a collection of eight by ten photographs.

Pass these around. Take a look and tell me what you think.

The group sifted through images with an air of bemusement.

Miguel held one of the photos up to the lone light bulb suspended from the ceiling. Paintings? he said. You wanted us to look at pictures of paintings?

Pearson spread the photos out in a wide arc. You recognize any of these?

Luke picked one up. No, but the colors are great. What are they?

"That one’s called Woman in Chains."

"Woman in Chains? Sounds kinky. Miguel waggled his eyebrows. But I don’t see anything that looks like a woman or chains."

Yeah, where is she? Sean asked, taking the photo. I see something that looks like tits but— he squinted harder, as if by sheer willpower the female form might materialize.

Miguel snatched the photo back from him. Where do you see tits?

As Sean pointed at something in the frame, Luke grabbed the photo from them and placed it with the others. It’s an abstract. It’s not meant to be taken literally.

Miguel’s face twisted in anger. He plucked the picture off the table once more. Holy, I know cha-chas makes you blush and all, but some of us would like to see the painted titties.

Sean and Miguel laughed while Luke slouched against the edge of the table.

Tits or not, what’s this got to do with us? Jasper asked. I mean, ain’t no painter goin’ to be usin’ any of us as models. He pointed at Luke. We’ve got a bald ferret, a fat Mexican -- Miguel flipped him off -- my shit skin. Pearson, you’ve never liked havin’ your picture taken, and Deon, no offense, but you look like the black Unabomber with that beard. Which leaves Sean.

And a painter can’t use him for nudes because of his small dick, Miguel added.

Sean held up his pinkie finger. "You shouldn’t be so quick to talk, Miguelito."

Pearson cleared his throat to get them back on topic. The convivial nature of the evening was beginning to shift into something more serious, and he needed to keep the group on topic. Any of you remember Gabriella Murray? Everyone used to call her Ella.

Deon crossed his arms. Shit. Tell me this isn’t about that asshole, Joe Murray. You’ve got to give that shit up. Christ, man, you’re like a dog with a bone.

Pearson avoided looking directly at any of them. It didn’t hurt to have an axe to grind with Murray, but this has to do with his daughters, Ella, and her sister, Julie.

Jasper picked up one of the prints. I don’t remember the sister, but I remember the chick you’re talkin’ about -- Ella. She painted the mural on the side of the elementary school off Graves Ave. Kind of a chunky girl with dark hair. Always dressed like a gypsy. Had all them bracelets and shit on her arms.

That’s her, Pearson said. Julie is Ella’s younger sister. She would’ve been in middle school the year we all checked out with our diplomas. She came to me a few weeks ago and told me about a problem they have. I want to know if you guys are interested in helping them out. There’s money in it.

Five sets of eyes locked on his own.

What kind of money? Sean asked.

Pearson smiled. Take a wild guess how much the painting is worth in the picture Luke is holding.

The others craned their necks to get a glimpse of the photo.

Jasper shrugged. Maybe a thousand? I hear artists make pretty good scratch if they’re any good.

Pearson shook his head. Try adding nineteen grand to that, and then add a shit load more on top of that for the signed prints.

Sean whistled. Damn, dude. We ought to head home and bust out the crayons.

I got the construction paper, Jasper added.

A few of the guys chuckled.

But not Miguel. His eyes were still locked on Pearson.

Okay, he said, so Gabriella, or Ella, or whatever you call her is the next… he paused to download an artist’s name to his shallow memory, ‘uh, Picasso, and is going to be rich as hell. Where’s the money in that for us?"

Pearson withdrew a single four by six snapshot from the folder and let it drop onto the table. The photo showed a wrecked Honda Civic wrapped around an oak tree.

They actually had to cut the tree down to free the car, Pearson said.

Sean picked up the image. Damn.

Pearson nodded in an agreement. Our future Picasso’s bright future ended three months ago on a slick highway west of Samsula. She swerved to miss a deer, ended up jumping the shoulder into the tree line. Screwed her up real good -- compound fractures to both arms, shattered hand. Worst of all is the nerve damage in her entire right arm -- her painting arm.

Luke’s voice was soft. You’re saying she can’t paint anymore?

Looks that way, unless she gets the help she needs. Her car insurance was bottom of the line, so there was no medical coverage. Her medical insurance was even worse. As successful as she was as a painter, the bills have eaten through her savings.

Can’t her family help out? Sean asked. Her dad is loaded, right?

No doubt about that, Pearson agreed, but he’s refused to fork over a single penny.

Bullshit, Deon said. You’re telling me Joe ‘Moneybags’ Murray won’t help his own daughter? Guy probably carries around enough pocket change to pay her bills twice over.

I’d sell everything I owned if it were my boy, Jake, Jasper whispered, eyeing the wrecked car in the photo. So what’s the real story? Why ain’t Papa Peckerhead steppin’ up?

Lots of bad blood. It all goes back to the death of the mother. Mrs. Murray had cancer. Apparently treatment couldn’t keep it in check. She was in bad shape by the time Ella was set to go to college. So bad, Murray insisted Ella stay home to look after her sister and mother. Murray apparently didn’t want to be troubled with any medical or child rearing issues while he was out swindling good people out of their property.

Pearson heard the bitterness in his voice and fought to keep it in check. It kind of worked out for Ella. She had plenty of time to paint. Built up quite a body of work. Plus, the way I understand it, she wasn’t really that interested in college to begin with.

Sounds like us, Luke said with a chuckle that fell flat.

Pearson winced and hoped for Luke’s sake the moment passed quickly.

As always, though, Miguel couldn’t let it go. Sure thing, Holy. That’s what kept us out of college...lack of interest.

Before Luke could respond, Pearson pressed on. Things got real bad the final couple of months. Murray wasn’t happy with how long things were taking with his wife’s demise, and he didn’t hide it very well. He was hitting the titty-bars and casino boats, chasing ass all over town.

Deon shifted in his seat. And the girls knew?

Pearson nodded. Oh, yeah. They hung around until their mother passed away and then didn’t look back. According to Julie, Murray wasn’t exactly sorry to see them leave either. In fact, he pretty much kicked them out with just the clothes on their backs. Julie swears her father never forgave them for not being sons. That sounds a little Dr. Phil to me but who knows. Personally, I think the guy is just scum.

What happened after they left? Luke asked.

Julie went on to work her way through community college down in Tampa. Ella set up a studio in New Smyrna and started selling her paintings.

And then the accident, Deon added.

Pearson sipped some beer. After it happened, Julie went to see her dad. First time she’d seen him in years. She pleaded for help, he refused.

Luke shook his head. His own flesh and blood. How could someone do that?

Ain’t everyone as Christian as you, Luke, Jasper grumbled.

And here’s what makes it even worse, Pearson said. Julie didn’t even want money. Ella had left dozens of paintings in the house when they moved out. Julie figured they could sell those to get by. Murray admitted he still had them but flat out refused to hand them over. He told her they could make do on their own.

Sean snorted. What the hell is wrong with this guy? It’s his daughters.

Miguel placed an unlit cigar between his teeth. Well, that’s a real sad story, Pearson. None of us are going to be able to fix her up, though. What are you getting at?

Pearson waited until all eyes were on him once more.

I want us to steal those paintings back for Ella.

CHAPTER TWO

Are you out of your mind? Luke hissed.

Shut up, Holy! Miguel shouted. I want to hear what’s in it for us.

A half a million, Pearson said, in cash.

The men fell silent. The sounds of the night filled the void. Westerly winds, rich with the scent of pine tar, rattled wind chimes fixed to the side of the mobile home. Bugs worked incessantly at the screens, bouncing off the loose microfiber as if it were a vertical trampoline.

Jasper whistled through his teeth. I think I need somethin’ stronger to drink than this piss beer.

Sean laughed. Me too, bro.

Miguel stood. Let’s talk about this inside.

Luke fidgeted with his cross. Pearson, you shouldn’t joke about stuff like this. This kind of talk places us all—

Shut up, Holy, the group said in unison. All except Deon.

He looked as if he thought Luke might be on to something.

They followed Miguel inside and waited in the heat while he flipped on lights and turned on a small window mounted air conditioner. The unit rattled to life and leaked cold, damp air down onto grungy carpet. Grab a seat, he said. I’ll get the rocket fuel.

The interior was decorated scavenger style. Mismatched furniture from decades past sat at odd angles in the cramped confines. A television, absent a few buttons, rested atop a milk crate in the corner. For a coffee table, Miguel had spray-painted a half-sheet of plywood and laid it across two columns of stacked cinder blocks. Marijuana stems and seeds were scattered atop the surface. Pearson dropped the folder with the pictures onto the table along with his North Face bag and cupped some of the seeds in his hand.

I see Mary Jane stopped by, he said.

Miguel returned from the kitchen with a frosted bottle of clear liquid and a stack of Dixie cups. What can I say? M.J.’s the lady of the house. He poured a hearty slug of liquid into five separate cups and handed them out. The group grabbed seats where they could and settled in.

Pearson took a sip of the oily grain alcohol and fought to keep it from coming back up. The others struggled with Miguel’s rocket fuel as well, save Luke, who eyed the drink with distaste and set it aside.

So let’s hear it, Miguel said, sipping from the bottle as if it were water.

I’m going after those paintings, Pearson said. To do it the right way, I need to clean that house of everything. Electronics, all the knick-knacks, anything that’s worth a dime -- I need it swiped. I’d take the furniture and tear out the carpet if there was time but there isn’t.

Miguel took another swig. You’re wanting to make it look like you weren’t just there for the paintings.

That’s the idea.

Miguel considered this for a moment. How’s it break down?

This is crazy, Luke said. I mean you can’t seriously be—

Let the man talk, Sean interrupted.

Luke sighed heavily. He eyed the drink again, took a tentative sip, and coughed violently.

The deal is Ella gets the paintings. They’re hers, after all, and—

A judge might say otherwise, Luke said.

Shut up, Holy, Miguel snapped. If she painted them, she has a right to them in my book. Now pipe down and let the man speak.

Totally, dude, Sean agreed. She was the one that thought them up, put the time and energy into them, brought them to life. Not Murray. Fuck him. Let’s see if we can help her.

Caught off guard by Sean’s eagerness, Pearson took another sip of alcohol.

Christ, how easy was that? he thought.

It wasn’t as if he had expected Sean to be particularly difficult; the man was hardly a paragon of moral virtue. But Pearson certainly hadn’t expected him to enlist so readily either.

Pearson studied his old surfing buddy from the corner of his eye.

He must be more desperate than I thought, he reasoned.

Maybe they all are…

Emboldened by this bit of good fortune, Pearson felt the tension ebb from his shoulders. Things were going better than he ever imagined. With Sean and Miguel apparently onboard, the momentum was his to lose. He eyed his target audience, tried to gauge their reactions. Deon sat opposite Pearson, his face expressionless, eyes fixed on the floor. Impossible to tell what he was thinking. As far as Jasper went, he appeared to be interested but disbelieving, like maybe he thought it was all just a joke.

And Luke…

Well, he was back fidgeting with the cross hanging from his neck.

Pearson started again. As I was saying, all the art is going to Ella. It’s not like we could drive to Daytona and ask the first hooker we meet, ‘Hey, where’s the stolen art black market’.

Okay, then where’s my share coming from? Miguel asked. Where’s this money you’re talking about?

Sitting in a safe in a hidden room in the basement of Murray’s house. At least a half million dollars just waiting to be taken and split into equal shares. That’s our end.

In the silence that followed, Pearson felt himself gaining ground on the remaining holdouts. While the group silently worked the math in their heads, he finished the remainder of his drink and placed it on the plywood coffee table.

Holy shit, Jasper said. Where would a person even get that kind of cash?

It’s unreported income from Murray’s motels and some of the dirtier deals he’s worked in real estate, Pearson explained.

How do you know the cash is real? Miguel asked.

The day after Murray refused to help, Ella and Julie snuck into the house when he was gone.

Bullshit, Deon said. How did they get in?

A Hide-a-Key their mother had placed in a planter years before. They wanted to see if the paintings were even still there or if Murray was just lying. Once they discovered the art, they went poking around. That’s when they found the safe.

They knew about the hidden room? Jasper asked.

They used to play in it as kids.

How did they know the combination to the safe? Miguel asked.

According to Julie, her father always uses the same set of numbers for all his security, he just mixes up the order. He was still using the same combination on the security system as when they lived there. The arrogant bastard apparently thinks he’s so untouchable he doesn’t have to bother changing things up.

Why didn’t they just take the paintings then? Miguel asked.

Well, for one, there’s over fifty of them. There was no way they were going to be able to take them all. More importantly, though, if the paintings disappeared a day after Julie had come asking about them, how long do you think it would take for Murray to put one and one together and call the cops, or worse, send one of his collection goons over to get them back?

About half a second, Sean answered.

Deon cleared his throat. If Ella needs money, why is she giving us the cash? Why even bother with the paintings? If she’s got the combination, why not just run with the cash herself?

Same problem as with the paintings, Murray would know it was them. One day Ella needs money for surgery, the next day his safe is empty?

Yeah, but that’s what’s going to happen anyway, Deon pointed out. "He’s going to suspect them either way. How are they going to sell the paintings, and get her fixed up, without getting busted? And why not just split the cash with us and be done with it? Why not junk the paintings?"

Julie says Ella would rather never paint again than touch a dime of Murray’s money. It is slum money, after all. She only wants what’s rightfully hers -- the paintings. And as for her surgery, they’re planning on doing it in New York this fall. Ella’s got a private buyer on the west coast set to take the bulk of the work later in the year. All of it behind closed doors. As long as she and Julie have a solid alibi the night of the burglary, they’ll be fine.

So when do we do it? Sean asked.

Before Pearson could tell him to hold his horses, Luke bolted to his feet. Hold on. Am I missing something here?

Miguel sipped from the bottle. That would be my guess.

Luke ignored him. Sean, are you out of your mind? You’ve got a job, man, a life. He stared at Pearson. We all do.

"Some of us have more than one job, Jasper griped. Some of us have three jobs and still can’t feed our kid anything other than canned chili from the Dollar Store. This damn downturn has everyone spinnin’ their wheels, and the only people I see gettin’ ahead are the ones out there screwin’ other people. That ain’t much of life if you ask me, Luke. I work so damn much I can’t remember the last time I saw my boy."

Luke shook his head. That’s honest work, though, Jasper. Not this. He turned to Pearson. I want to know why you thought we’d ever agree to this? We’re not all Miguel. I’m certainly not—

He suddenly shut his mouth, realizing he had said too much. All eyes swung to Miguel in anticipation of the coming explosion.

You’re not what, you piss-ant? Miguel yelled. He slammed the bottle down on the table. You’re not a criminal? You’re not a piece of shit Mexican living in a trailer in DeLeon? You’re not what? What are you not?

When Luke failed to answer, Miguel bullied his way toward him, pushing Pearson aside. Deon stood up and limped forward, raising his hands.

Chill, he said. Just chill.

Miguel bounced in place like a boxer preparing to spar. Don’t tell me to chill.

Just because you’ve signed onto this caper, Deon said, doesn’t mean the rest of us have. Luke has a point, Pearson. Why bring this to us?

Sean moved into the group. Deon, nobody will get hurt. Nobody’s going to—

I wasn’t asking you, Deon shouted.

Sean stepped back, hands held high in surrender.

Pearson guided Miguel away from Luke. Let’s all just calm down. Miguel, I’m sure Luke didn’t mean anything by it. It just came out wrong.

Despite the palpable friction, everyone retreated to their respective corners.

Luke settled in his chair. You’re wrong, Sean. Someone does get hurt. Murray gets hurt.

To hell with Murray, Sean snapped. Weren’t you listening? The guy cut his own daughter off, his own flesh and blood, as you pointed out, and you’re worried about that prick? Besides, don’t you remember what he tried to do to Pearson’s family? Guy tried to swindle their house out from under them.

Like you ever cared about that, Luke accused. Sean, you always want something for nothing, you know that?

Now it was Sean’s turn to be furious. He shot forward with his fist raised. Pearson stepped between them and held up his hands. Hold it! Hold it! Listen.

Sean stopped dead in his tracks, face flushed, hands trembling.

You want to know why I brought this to you? Pearson asked the group. Do I really have to say it? Do I really have to go down this road? All night long, and nobody’s brought it up even once? Not one goddamn time?

When no one answered, Pearson grabbed his backpack and withdrew a sealed manila envelope with the words Do Not Bend printed on the side. He ripped open the top, pulled the lone photo that was inside clear, and held the image up for all to see.

This is why, he said, shaking the image. This is why I came to you.

The reaction was immediate. The hostile atmosphere dissipated like fog burning off in the sun, and in its place an introspective silence pressed at the walls. A mixture of emotions ranging from grief and embarrassment, to resentment and animosity registered on the faces around him.

Where the hell did you get that picture? Jasper asked.

"Photo archive at the News Journal. The paper couldn’t use this at the time because we were all minors, but that didn’t stop that asshole Warder from taking pictures. There’s plenty more there. Anyone can walk right in off the street and read all about us. All the gory details. The Sophomore Six, frozen in time."

Pearson studied the image closely.

The six teenagers in the photograph looked frightened. To be more precise, they looked scared to death. As a group, they were old enough not to be mistaken for children, but nobody would confuse them for men either. They were at that time in their lives when they seemed to be made up of nothing more than skinny limbs, pimply faces, and peach fuzz mustaches. The in between years.

Seated shoulder to shoulder on a wooden bench in the hallway of a police station, five of the teens stared with vacant eyes at the photographer while the sixth openly wept. In the frame, a sheriff’s deputy advanced toward the camera, waving the photographer away with a blurry hand, his mouth in the shape