Abandon - Meg Cabot [59]
The police didn’t believe Mr. Mueller’s story about my assaulting him — which he apparently delivered to them in what they describe in their report as “a highly agitated manner.”
They so didn’t believe it that they searched the entire school as well as its grounds for “a third party” even before they found the digital camera still running inside my backpack and played back the video.
No one else, however, was found. Because of the rainstorm at the time, anyone who might have jumped from Mr. Mueller’s classroom on the first floor would have to have left trace evidence. But the mud beneath the classroom’s windows was undisturbed.
Of course no such evidence was found. Why would John bother using windows or doors like a normal person? Why would he bother to say hello? Just poof. Crunch. Bye.
Except he hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye.
Although he did stop to hurl another one of those wild, reproachful looks at me with his silver eyes just before he disappeared.
“Wait” was what I’d said to him after he appeared from out of nowhere, took a single step forward, seized Mr. Mueller’s hand from in front of my face, and twisted it with a force that sent the basketball coach falling to his knees in front of me.
It was not so dark in the room that I couldn’t see all the color draining from Mr. Mueller’s face. I would have thought he’d passed out for a few seconds, if it hadn’t been for the bloodcurdling scream he let out. It was only John’s grip on him, holding him half suspended in midair, that kept him from sagging to the floor.
“What?” John already had his other fist cocked, ready to pummel Mr. Mueller into oblivion. He didn’t look happy to see me.
I couldn’t really blame him, under the circumstances. Every time we met, it seemed, it was because I was in some kind of trouble.
John stood there glowering down at me, his chest heaving up and down exactly like that dove I’d found the day we met, his eyes glazed over with the same kind of confusion and pain. I guess throwing yourself around through alternate dimensions isn’t easy.
“Don’t,” I said, flinging my gaze towards Mr. Mueller’s pale face. “Please, John. Just don’t.”
John stared down at me as if he didn’t understand a word I was saying.
I wasn’t sure I understood, either. I just knew I couldn’t watch anyone else — not even someone I hated as much as Mr. Mueller — die.
I reached out and laid my hand on John’s fist.
There were so many things I could have said then. So many things I should have said.
But only a single word tumbled out…the name I hadn’t been able to get out of my head for weeks. The reason I was there, the reason all three of us were there.
“Hannah,” I said. There was a world of hurt in those two syllables.
I couldn’t bear the thought that she might still be by the side of that lake, waiting in the cold for that boat — that other boat. Ever since I’d heard about her death, it had been all I could think about — besides proving Mr. Mueller had been having an affair with her. I had to know if she was all right.
And I knew John would tell me the truth.
As soon as I touched him, I saw some of the wildness leave his expression. His gaze softened, and he seemed to catch his breath. He even shook his head, as if in bemusement, like Really? That’s what this was all about?
“She’s with people who love her,” he said.
My shoulders sagged with relief. That’s all I’d wanted to hear.
John glanced down at Mr. Mueller, who was still moaning and screaming, then looked back at me.
“Are you —”
He broke off, because the door to the classroom was opening. Mr. Marzjak was coming in, having heard Mr. Mueller’s screams.
That’s