Todd Strasser - Blood on My Hands (Wish You Were Dead Trilogy (Hardback))

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First published by Egmont USA, 2010
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New York, NY 10016

Copyright Todd Strasser, 2010
All rights reserved

www.egmontusa.com
www.toddstrasser.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Strasser, Todd.
Blood on my hands / Todd Strasser.
p. cm.
Summary: At a high school party, a girl finds her best friend murdered, only to be discovered holding the weapon and accused of the crime.
eISBN: 978-1-60684-239-3
[1. MurderFiction. 2. LoveFiction. 3. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.S899Bl 2010
[Fic]dc22
2010023901

CPSIA tracking label information:
Random House Production 1745 Broadway New York, NY 10019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

v3.1

To Lisa Dolan,
who lives and breathes literacy

I would like to thank the following people for their contributions toward bringing this story to life:

Regina Griffin, Greg Ferguson, Dr. Petra Deistler-Kaufmann, Tina Pantginis, and Augusta Klein.

You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.

J ULIE -J EANNE - LANORE DE L ESPINASSE ,
French salonist (17321776)

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

S UN-TZU , Chinese general and military strategist (~400 BC)

IN THE DARK woods behind the baseball dugout, Im kneeling next to Katherines body, my heart racing, my breaths shallow and fast, my emotions reeling crazily at the sight on the ground before me. Katherine is lying on her side, curled up, as if she was cowering from whoever attacked her. Her body is still warm, but theres no pulse. I know because I just pressed my index and middle fingers against her sticky wet neck and then to her wrist to feel her carotid and radial arteries, the ones the EMTs told me they checked. And that means shes dead. Dead! It cant be possible. Katherine who Ive gone to school with, been friendsand enemieswith. My stomach hiccups spasmodically and I taste bile burning the back of my throat. I cant believe that this is happening, that Ive just touched a dead person, someone I know, someone my own age.

Someone whos just been murdered.

The hot bile surges up into my throat again and I manage to swallow it back. Despite the cool autumn air, perspiration breaks out on my forehead and I feel its dampness on my skin. The slightest wisps of moonlight trickle down through the branches overhead, which cast shadows on Katherines blood-mottled face. The light illuminates the horrible deep red slashes in her soft pale skin. Her eyes are open, blank, unseeing. I cant look at them.

Something, barely a glint in the dark, is lying on the ground beside her. I reach for it. A knife. The handle is wet, but this wetness has a different feel than water. Thicker, and both slipperier and stickier at the same time. I look down at the blade, blotched with blood, and can just make out near the handle a brand logo of two white stick-figure men against a square red background. Unwanted thoughts invade my brainthe horrible image of the blade slicing into Katherines soft flesh. I feel my stomach churn again, the bile threatening to rise. I swallow hard, forcing it back.

Through the trees, footsteps approach, rustling the brush and branches. People are coming. I feel their shadows looming over me, and I look up at their dark silhouettes.

You killed her! That sounds like Dakotas voice.

What! The words startle like an unexpected punch. No! What are you talking about? Thats not what happened!

Whyd you do it? another voice demands. In the shadows behind the dugout, theres a small crowd now. Their dark faces are a blur.

You know why, Dakota answers before I can even think of what to say.

Theres a burst of light. Someones taken a picture with a cell phone. I look down at the bloody knife in my hand. Oh no! Fear floods through me and I drop it. I didnt do anything! Just moments ago at the kegger, Dakota told me Katherine had disappeared, and said I should go look for her by the baseball dugout.

Theres another flash. I spring to my feet, wiping my bloody hands on my jeans. How could they think Id do such a thing? How could anyone do this to anyone?

Call the cops, Dakota says.

No! I cry. I mean, yes! You have to call them. But not because of me! I just found her here. I swear!

People mutter. Theres another flash. I take a step back. They cant be serious. They cant really believe Id

Dont let her go, Dakota cautions.

But I didnt do it! I blurt.

God, look whos talking, someone says.

Do you believe it? says Dakota. Of all the people?

The words pierce. Everyone knows why shes saying that. Because its happened before. This is the second time in my life Ive been this close to a bloodied, battered body. The second time Ive seen the carnage one person can do to another. Suddenly its obvious theyre never going to believe me. Not in a million years.

Dont let her go! Dakota says with more urgency as I back farther from the body.

Panic-stricken, I turn and dive into the dark, running as fast as I can, crashing through the brush, slapping branches out of the way, stumbling on rocks, my face and arms being scratched by things I cant see.

Get her! Dakota yells, only now her voice is more distant.

* * *

They say I always ran. From the time I could walk. It was almost like I went straight from crawling to running. I was the kid in the hall the teachers were always telling to slow down, the one whod run even when there was no rush. Im little, only four foot ten and ninety-eight pounds. Coach Reynolds, whos in charge of the cross-country team, once told me hed seen my type before. Small girls who could run forever. I didnt like being thought of as a type, but there was some truth to it. I used to see other girls like me at meets. But Id wonder if they ran for the same reason I did. In my family, it was a matter of survival.

I COME OUT of the woods, then dash across Seaver Street and into the Glen. The houses here are big old Tudors with spires, white stucco walls, and leaded windows. My heart is banging in my chest, from both running and fear. Slowing to a jog and weaving away from the bright spots under the streetlights, I know I have to find a place to stop and think. Finally, in a side yard, I see a childs playhouse. Its the size of a small shed, with a miniature porch, windows, and a door.

After tiptoeing across the lawn, I gently step onto the little porch and carefully, slowly, pull open the door, hoping it wont squeak. Im praying that the people who own this property dont have a dog that will start barking. Its dark inside, but with the door open I can make out a small yellow plastic table and two red plastic child-size chairs. I let the door close and find myself in blackness. Cant see my hands in front of my face. But its oddly reassuring. If I cant see myself, then no one can see me, either. I sit on one of the chairs, press my face into my hands, and take steady breaths, trying to calm down.