“No. Apparently his parents didn’t realize it was a war game, and saw some of Abe’s online communications and were horrified by the violence.”
“What did those idiots think? The game is called Foxhole.”
Colin laughed nervously as Jen knocked on Abe’s door.
“Wait. Before you go in—”
Jen opened the door.
“Abe had a strong reaction.”
The desk chair had been overturned and the video monitor was upside down and unplugged. A red beanbag chair had been eviscerated. Its white-bead filling covered the entire floor of his room like a fresh blanket of snow.
Abe was hunched like a turtle in the middle of the room, head tucked into knees; a pair of scissors were clutched in his fist.
“I have a new enemy,” he said. His voice was muffled.
Jen tiptoed through the beanbag filling and sat beside him, placed a hand on his spine, which felt damp and knobby.
“Holla123 is not the only game in town,” Colin said. “We’ll find another Foxhole mate.”
“The same thing will keep happening,” Abe said quietly. “The same exact thing.”
This is what the experts didn’t get: Abe was vulnerable, not some sophisticated villain.
Yes, said the Scofield voice, but every villain starts out vulnerable. In superhero movies and life.
“Why are we moping about a nine-year-old?” Colin said. “What happened to the power of positive thinking?”
Jen and Abe watched him curiously. Given the choice, their family would always hunker down to mope. She had been about to suggest they open the Oreos.
“Let’s go do something,” Colin said. “Let’s play hoops.”
“Now?” Jen said. “It’s ten o’clock on a school night.”
“I don’t feel like it,” Abe muttered.
“I’m sure your mom will let you earn points for it, right Jen?”
“It might be fun,” Jen offered.
“Come on, Abe,” Colin said. “A change of scene.”
“I really don’t want to,” Abe said, more firmly.
“For points,” Jen said. She felt a little guilty backing the idea when Abe was against it, but Colin was probably right. Doing something was better than wallowing.
“I have to go if it’s for points,” he said bitterly. As they left the room, he shot an exaggerated angry look in Jen’s direction.
She started to shovel the tiny white balls into a pile, an impossible task, given how they clung to her clothes. Abe’s look had unsettled her, and Jen wondered if it had been wrong to force him outside. But it was only basketball, she reasoned, and he was with Colin.
She peeked out the window, caught the two of them as they rounded the corner.
Abe followed after Colin in quick steps, like he was trying to keep up, but if Jen didn’t know, if she were one of her neighbors glancing out the kitchen window, she’d assume they were two friends around the same age, meeting up for a casual night game.
Jen did not like the way her heart lifted. Ordinariness should not be aspirational, and she did not want to care what her neighbors thought.
Her eyes caught on a flash of light farther up the road. A runner’s reflective vest. The figure was slight, their pace even.
A child, Jen guessed, all alone, late at night. That familiar rising tide of disapproval: What parent would allow this?
Jen was aware of the irony. She should be more compassionate toward other parents and their choices, but could judgment ever truly be suppressed? It was always there in the wings, certain and outraged.
And it felt so much better than doubt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was a chilly dark morning. As Annie waited on Lena’s doorstep, she balled her fingers inside the sleeves of her thin sweatshirt.
Maybe Lena hadn’t heard the knock? Annie shook out her hands and pressed the doorbell. Its ring echoed through the house.
She peeked into the dark front window. Lena was probably sleeping in. Or out running an errand.
There was probably an excellent reason why she hadn’t returned any of Annie’s texts from earlier this morning, but Annie sensed it was a reaction to seeing those photos of Bryce Neary last night. When she’d turned around, Lena’s eyes had been cold and hard, her mouth had been a straight line.
Annie had never seen Lena look so—
Mean. Lena had looked mean.
After the kids and Mike had gone to sleep, Annie had tiptoed to the den and lifted the photo from the wall. She’d sat with it on the couch, remembered the last time she’d seen Bryce alive, on the night of the Meekers’ last party.