Free Torn by Stefan Petrucha Page A

best.”

7
    The funeral parlor was cheap and dark. A huge stain on the thin, crappy carpet gave off a moldy smell, and everywhere you walked, the floorboards creaked. Some of the bulbs in the lamps had blown, and the surface of the old paneling peeled in spots, revealing bits of straw-colored Masonite beneath.
    But Karston—Karston looked even worse. His face was gray, and whoever had worked on the corpse had put eyeliner on him, badly, so he looked like some old-style glam rocker. The blue polyester suit he was stuffed into must have been worn last at his middle-school graduation, when he was two or three inches shorter.
    It didn’t matter to Karston, though. Karston was dead. If there was any kind of afterlife or whatever, Devin hoped it was at least a place where Karston wouldn’t be afraid anymore. Or embarrassed. Or ashamed. Or picked on.
    As he stood and stared at the body, Devin became aware that his own suit felt really hot, and the too-tight shirt neck was suffocating. If he puffed out his neck, he might be able to get the button to pop.
    â€œCome on, you keep standing there like something’s going to happen. Sit with me,” Cheryl said, tugging at his arm. She looked funny in a black dress. It flattered her figure, but that seemed wrong under the circumstances. Her eyes were puffy from crying.
    Devin nodded numbly. He let her lead him to the third row of folding seats, in front of his parents, where they sat down together.
    As he settled, or tried to, Devin felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing, patting. “Stay in your seat,” his mother said, eyeing whoever came in. “Just stay down, Devin, please.”
    She’d been such a wreck after getting called back in the middle of her short vacation to learnthat her home had been invaded, not only by some killer, but by scores of police. They’d grilled Devin for hours. He told them about the Slits, but nothing about how strange the attacker had looked in the shadow, except to say he was short, stout, and strong.
    They said the damage in the house looked like standard vandalism, but it didn’t look that way to Devin. A heavy end table had been splintered into firewood while a shelf of his mom’s Hummel figures was left untouched. There was a shoulder-high crack in the plasterboard right next to a full-size mirror that hadn’t been smashed. There were tears high up in the wall and even on the ceiling. But he supposed the police knew what they were doing.
    After all, what was standard vandalism?
    Still feeling hot and antsy, Devin looked around. Toward the back were a bunch of kids from Argus High School. Devin figured they didn’t even know Karston, but were just here to gawk. Half were in street clothes, which Devin thought disrespectful, but at least they all wore the green armbands that had been given out in school in memoriam. He hadn’t been back to Argus yet himself, but heknew that was all anyone was talking about. The story of the murder was the biggest thing to hit town in years.
    â€œLook at the flowers my mother sent,” he whispered to Cheryl. “They’re huge and gaudy. Bigger than the ones from his mother. It’s embarrassing.”
    Cheryl shrugged a little. “They’re beautiful. But yeah, tacky. Aren’t all the flowers tacky? Try to calm down.”
    â€œIt’s just…it’s just…I guess seeing him again made me realize he’s dead,” Devin said. “I’d sort of forgotten that part.”
    â€œYeah,” Cheryl said. She took his hand and patted it, trying to make him feel better. But he didn’t. Even her hand felt uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault, you know.”
    Isn’t it? Are you sure? If I had jumped out when he called me the first time, instead of waiting, Karston might still be alive.
    He looked around again. Seeing Torn’s keyboard player a few rows back, Devin managed a weak wave of his