Chapter 1: The Stand and the Storm

The three classmates who invited me out to hang are dead. Their faces still flickered behind my eyelids, more vivid than the sunburn on my neck. When the police found me, I was helping my grandma sell apples at her roadside stand.

As the sun beat down on the patchwork canvas shade above us, I blinked my pale artificial eye—sometimes I swear it sees more than my working one—and turned to the officers with a crooked half-smile. "Want an apple? My grandma says they keep the bad stuff away. I’m still waiting to see if she’s right." I offered it like a charm against the world’s ugliness, hoping that perfect crunch might keep something dark at bay, if only for a moment. The police didn’t bite; they traded glances, the kind that said this was way past anything they expected on a Tuesday afternoon in Maple Heights.

1

Three students from our middle school died, and it happened after they took me out yesterday.

Word tore through our little town like a brushfire, leaping fences and burning up every secret. When their parents found out, they stormed straight down Main Street to my grandma’s apple stand by the Walgreens lot. They boxed me in, faces contorted with grief and rage, and started swinging—open palms, fists, elbows, every bit of pain and suspicion they had funneled straight into me.

I saw Mrs. King’s mascara streaked down her face, and for a split second, I almost reached for her hand instead of covering my head. I curled up, arms over my head, but it didn’t dull the blows. They landed heavy, all their heartbreak and fury driving each punch and kick. My world shrank to a tight tunnel of noise and pain and the taste of blood in my mouth. Someone’s wedding ring scraped my ear. Someone else’s breath was hot and sour, yelling words I couldn’t even hear over the roar in my head.

Grandma, tough as nails, tried to wedge herself between us, but she got shoved hard, her cane skittered across the Walgreens parking lot, landing next to a crushed Sprite can. She stumbled back, voice breaking as she screamed at them to stop, pleaded with them—"Please, he’s just a boy! He wouldn’t hurt anyone, please!"—but they weren’t listening. Her words grew desperate, then shattered, then finally faded to a rasp as she dropped to her knees, sobbing and grabbing at my arm. Every shout seemed to weigh her down, like she was trying to take the blows for me.

By the time the sirens cut through the chaos and the police dragged the parents away, my face was twice its normal size, and grandma was clutching her chest, her sobs so rough I thought she might pass out right there on the sidewalk. One of the officers helped her up, muttering about calling an ambulance.

They pulled the parents off me and said, "We have some questions about the deaths of your three classmates. Please come with us..."

The young officer—he looked barely old enough to shave—gave my bruised face a glance and seemed to falter, sympathy flickering in his eyes before he caught himself. He cleared his throat, shifting his stance awkwardly, and quickly amended, "Let’s get you to the hospital first, then we can go to the station and talk." His badge read GRANT in sharp black letters.

I didn’t answer. I just lowered my head, blood trickling from my nose, and, with my blurry right eye, managed to spot an apple that hadn’t been stomped flat by the chaos. My fingers shook as I picked it up, wiping the dust on my jeans. I wondered if my hands would ever stop shaking, or if this was just how things worked now.

I raised the apple, blinking back a tear. My artificial left eye caught the sunlight and flashed that weird, ghostly pale light—sometimes it creeped people out. I mustered as much dignity as I could and said, "Want an apple? My grandma says they keep the bad stuff away. I’m still waiting to see if she’s right." Even with my lip split and cheek swollen, I tried to sound like the host of a fall harvest fair.

Officer Grant just stood there, saying nothing, like he wanted to say something human, but the badge on his chest wouldn’t let him.

But the shouting from the parents surged again, splintering the silence: "Why are you being nice to a murderer like him, Officer Grant? Just cuff him and take him back to the station!"

Grant stiffened, jaw tight, but kept his focus on me. "Can you cooperate with the investigation?" he asked, gentler now, like he was hoping I’d trust him if he sounded like a teacher instead of a cop.

I lowered my hand and bit into the apple. Juice ran down my chin, sweet and almost comically normal. "It’s really sweet. Grandma’s hard work paid off. Officer Grant, when someone dies, you look for the person responsible. But when someone’s stand—their only way to get by—gets trashed, shouldn’t you care about that too?" My voice trembled, frustration leaking through. I could see him wrestling with what to say, stuck between duty and decency.

Before Officer Grant could reply, the parents jumped in again, even louder: "You murderer, you deserve a beating! You’d better confess, or every time we drive by this stand, we’ll wreck it again. We’ll tear it down to the last apple core, you hear me?"

Ignoring their threats, I staggered over and helped grandma to her feet, her hands still trembling. I looked Grant straight in the eye, or tried to. "Grandma’s apples are all ruined, and I was beaten so bad my ears are ringing—probably a concussion and hearing loss. Isn’t it reasonable for me to press charges?" My voice was low, but steady. I needed him to know I wasn’t just a victim.

Officer Grant pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously feeling the headache coming on. For a moment he just looked at the mess—broken apples, angry parents, a scared old woman, and me, barely standing. "Would you accept mediation?" he finally asked, his tone somewhere between tired and pleading.

I managed a crooked smile, the kind that says I know how these things work. "You have ten minutes. After ten minutes, I’ll go to the hospital for an injury assessment and then file a report. Only after my stuff is settled will I cooperate with your investigation." My voice was firmer now. For the first time that day, I felt like I had some control.

Officer Grant nodded and went to talk to the parents. They huddled by the curb, voices low and anxious, casting nervous glances at me and grandma.

It only took him eight minutes to come back with six hundred dollars, a fistful of crumpled bills and a couple twenties. He handed them to me like he was ashamed to touch them.

Looks like they’re really anxious to get to the bottom of this murder case. I could feel the tension in the air, the weight of small-town rumors about to explode.

I took the money and stuffed it into grandma’s hands, her fingers still shaking. I kept my eyes on the ground and said to her, "We have to believe that good and evil get what they deserve... If not, then we have to fight for justice ourselves." My voice was so quiet only she could hear. I squeezed her hand, promising myself I’d see this through for both of us.