“Penn? Penn Scully?” Prichard chokes.
Penn swings the bat, hitting him so hard I actually wince. Prichard faints on his trunk.
By the time we drive back home, Prichard is bleeding and can’t make out shapes, let alone faces. Before we leave, we tuck a copy of Mel’s recording into his jacket’s pocket to make sure he knows not to mess with us. Especially with Penn.
Prichard will take this, like what he did to Daria, to his grave.
“Just gonna grab my shit from Camilo.” I fling my backpack over my shoulder and let Mel kiss my cheek. It’s almost midnight, and it looks like we’re going to eat in the middle of the night, but that’s because the Followhills all understood why Jaime and I had to leave to take care of business before Prichard skipped town.
Mel is chopping vegetables as lasagna bakes in the oven, giving me her stay-safe pleading eyes. Forever the multitasker. Bailey is beside her, squeezing lemons into iced tea. Via is outside, sitting on a lounger by the pool, hugging her knees together. The undercurrent in the house has changed. Via is no longer the prized, newly found miracle. She was dragged down to the status of a mortal.
“Do you need help?” Mel wipes away at her nose with her sleeve while cutting onions. “Packing, I mean.”
“Only if Daria is offering.”
I’ve officially lost my privilege to go up the stairs and ask her myself. Jaime throws me threatening looks when I even look at the stairs leading up to the second floor, and Daria doesn’t seem to be coming downstairs any time before her flight. I wonder if he realizes I’ll have to go up there when I go to bed tonight.
“Jaime can help you.”
“He can carry his half-empty duffel bag on his own.” Jaime is flipping channels, obviously not done holding a grudge.
“I’ll be back before dinner.” I grab my keys and snatch a garlic bread roll on my way to the car. Out of habit, or maybe because I’m not done quite torturing myself, I twist my head to see if Daria is watching me through the window. No dice. Her bedroom light is off through the curtain. Mentally, she checked out of here long before she got on the plane.
As I drive to Camilo’s, I try to call him to make sure he knows I’m stopping by.
He is not answering, and I’m growing irritated. I gave him a direct order to get his ass as far as possible from the snake pit. If I manage to keep my fists to myself when Gus shits systematically through everything I know and love, so can he.
I park in front of Camilo’s door, knowing I can’t knock on it at midnight. Then I hear a baby crying and a woman mumbling in annoyance and know I won’t be waking up anyone. I knock. His sister opens with her toddler on her hip. I push past her to retrieve my duffel bag by the couch.
“Where’s your dumbass brother?” I ask.
“Hell if I know. Maybe that place all the cool kids go to.”
“The snake pit?”
“That what it’s called?” She laughs, opening the microwave in the open plan kitchen to grab a bottle and shove it into the baby’s mouth. “Make sure you protect that pretty face of yours, Scully. Cheekbones like that, you can knock your rich girl up and live off her parents’ money.”
When I drive to the snake pit, my nerves hit an all-time high. Camilo is both hotheaded and easily swayed into doing stupid shit. I know that because for a while, doing stupid shit was our favorite pastime. I kill the engine outside the deserted football field and race my way toward the chain-linked gate. Screams and curses pop in the air like gunshots. There’s a cloud of anger and sweat rising from behind the bleachers, and as I hop the chain-linked fence and get in, I see why.
It’s a goddamn warzone.
There’s a mass fight, and everyone is in it—including Knight, Vaughn, Colin, Will, Josh, Malcolm, and Nelson. Both the Bulldogs and the Saints are in it to win it. Underneath all of them on the dry, brown earth is Camilo, lying on the ground.
I track toward him, shoving people off him as the crowd thickens. Players stomp and kick each other, paying him no attention. Camilo doesn’t move.
“Dafuq happened to you?” I lower myself on one knee. I’m afraid to touch him because I’m not sure of his injuries.
“Broken…I think it’s broken.” He barely finishes, looking down at his leg. I follow his line of sight and see it clearly, even through his jeans. His leg is bent unnaturally. Cartoon-like. His fibula is all distorted. It looks bad.
“We need to get you to the hospital,” I say.
“No shit, Sherlock.” He laughs, his voice dry and crisp. He’s been lying like this for a while, I gather. I call an ambulance while Gus sneaks away from the bleachers, hollering in his wake, “Clear out, clear out, Scully invited the pigs.”