TAKYLAR

I fluffed the set of pillows strewn across the couch in Dash's living room, widening a space for Cody as Grey and Dash slid over a desk for him to type on. Brayden carried in the minestrone and set it on the coffee table, then hooked up his iPad to the TV, a wave of white projecting at all of us as Brayden scrolled to the top.

"That's it alright," I confirmed. "That's the last article Jacquarious wrote."

Cody's eyes narrowed as he lifted his head to stare forward, analyzing every line. "Lots of soft syntax," he mused, stroking his chin. "Subtle stops without closure, zooming lines when he's trying to pull you in and push you along...Methodical contrast, haphazard paragraph sizing."

Brayden shook his head. "Mind translating that for everyone who doesn't speak—"

"Doesn't speak what?" Cody sniggered. "English?"

Brayden huffed. "You know what I mean!"

"Yeah, yeah, man. I'm just kidding." Cody elbowed his arm. "Basically, this is some seriously good writing. I can see why Mrs. Cabot loves him so much."

"Guess it'll take a long time to copy, huh?" Dash sighed, eyebrows sinking.

Cody cracked his knuckles, winking up at him. "I didn't say that." Both hands found his keyboard, and he started typing away.

Paragraph after paragraph, it seemed like he'd never stop. I could hardly believe my eyes—

Perhaps you've not heard, but there's a reward out for me—or rather, for my identity. I assume if this narcissistic thief of human vitality ever once encountered the real me, he'd swiftly reconsider. Not because I'm thoroughly intimidating and decidedly unafraid—after all, I'm neither—but because the genuine proclivity of human consciousness tints inexorably toward shades of fear and avoidance. The peculiarity about rewards, however, is that even when issued by cowards, their potency proscribes the quotidian brand of effectual deterioration so prolific within (and so characteristic of) human desire.

Had a reward been issued for Devon Cartrell's murderer, there mightn't have been any need for me to throw my own hat into the ring. But for better or worse, here we are, gazing down the barrel of a petulant mangenue fluffing his lapels as he struts across the stage of public opinion. It's calculated, almost cinematic, that such a purveyor of terror would leverage an image so fraught with brutality. But I digress. For I suppose no true "reward" has been offered, only threats of violent recrimination. Yet in this malicious myriad of ménage-à-trois morality—a triptych of affrontery, murder, and identity—it's ironic that the most fundamental question is left overlooked in the media.

Even in our own paper.

Thusly, I'll raise it myself.

Who are you, slaughterer of many, to make demands on my identity when you remain terrified to unshutter your own? I'll lay down my makeup brush, the powdery waves that shield my visage, once you've found the courage to do the same.

"There," Cody breathed. "That's at least two hundred fifty words. Officer Longchamp texted you that he just needed two hundred—right, TaKylar?"

I nodded, still in shock as I stared at his screen. "How...how did you do that so fast?"

He grinned. "That's nothing. Trust me."

"I'll call Gavin back. He said he has you guys' English teacher on speed dial—"

My phone buzzed in my hand before I could even tap in Gavin's number; but the name flashing back at me wasn't Gavin Longchamp. "What the heck?" I pressed the screen and held the phone to my ear. "Zaja?"

"Girl, where are you!?"

I winced away from the phone, Zaja's scream throbbing at my ear. "I'm...with friends—"

"Oh, no. Don't tell me you with that Grey kid again!"

"So what if I am? Not like he's pimping out a drugstore running bricks underground."

"Girl, keep yo' voice down! I'm tryna save you."

"Save me? From what?"

"From these psycho white boy's out here mad at us for takin' over the game." She hesitated. "I just made a delivery to this bougie old house in Goldengate. Had padlocks and everything."

My eyes narrowed, and I put my phone down. I pressed speaker and held a finger to my lips, staring back at Grey and the others. "So what happened, Zaja?"

"I found out it wasn't just some house. It was Fenton Maverick's. He was meeting with some lady, but I couldn't see her face."

I gasped. "Wait. You were running drugs to Fenton Maverick? Since when do you push in Goldengate?"

"Like I said, girly, we takin' over the game. All these boys mad out here, but these bricks good enough to shut 'em up. Fenton Maverick ain't the one that shot at me though."

"Shot at you!? Someone tried to—"

"Yes! That's what I'm tryna tell you! I ran outta there as fast I could. When I got out on the street, I looked back and saw through Maverick's window. Looked like he was out cold."

"Someone...shot him too?"

"I ain't said all that—I just tellin' you what I seen. And I tell you what else. You and yo mama and daddy better lay low. Drugs ain't the only thing that man's hidin' in that mansion."

I pursed my lips. "Zaja, what does that mean?"

"It's somebody at Browning, girl. They after one of us...that's why they shot Montrelle at that game."

"And what, you think it's me?"

"I don't know. I got more diggin' to do, and I got another run to make. But make sure you careful."

I rolled my eyes. "So that's it? That's all you called for? To tell me Fenton Maverick's a crackhead?"

"You said yo' grandpa was adopted right?"

I lifted an eyebrow. "What does that have to do with—?"

"Nothing! Just...remember what I said." Her voice fell. "Watch yo' back, girl."