Chapters (79)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Praise for Destroy All Monsters
- Books by Sam J. Miller
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
It’s true that Solomon was unstable. But why was he so afraid of Mr. Barrett? And why had Mr. Barrett come to get him out of jail? There was no way Solomon called him. Why was he here?
There was something about this, I told myself. This moment. The truth I’d been after was inside it somehow. I knew it. I could feel it.
“Solomon!” I called, stopping.
They stopped too.
By now I was close enough to see that Solomon was crying. I hadn’t noticed with the heavy rain streaming down his face. And he was shivering.
“Ashley,” said Mr. Barrett, his voice firm, bossy, used to being obeyed. “What are you doing here?”
“Ash,” Solomon said, or anyway his mouth made the shape of the word. I couldn’t hear him.
“It’s all under control, Ashley,” Mr. Barrett said. People only ever used my full name when they were trying to make me feel small. “Go home. We’ll call you tomorrow.”
Movie heroes always know what to say. I didn’t.
With a strangled cry, Solomon ran. He pushed past Mr. Barrett, ran past his car—which I hadn’t noticed when I pulled in—and ran to mine. Pulled the handle. It was locked, but he pulled it again and again.
“Ash, please,” he called.
“Don’t do something stupid, Ashley,” said Mr. Barrett. “Solomon is very sick. We got lucky—one of the guys at the station knew Solomon, gave me a call, and I was able to get the charges against him dropped, but only on the condition that he—”
“Ash!!” Solomon wailed.
I was not interested in anything Mr. Barrett had to say. Maybe he was right, and I was doing something stupid. But I couldn’t not do it. I couldn’t let Solomon go home with him. I fumbled in my pocket for the key fob, and unlocked the door. Solomon scrambled inside. Very calmly, very slowly, I turned away from Mr. Barrett and walked to my car.
“Ashley,” he called. “If you leave with Solomon, there will be consequences.”
I opened the car door, and I heard a new sound in Mr. Barrett’s voice. Fear.
“For god’s sake, Ashley! You can’t—”
I slammed the door. Locked it. I didn’t care what he thought Solomon needed. I started up the car.
“Drive,” Solomon hissed. “Fast.” Mr. Barrett was walking toward us, and he had completely lost his Good Guy Composure. I put the car in reverse and the lights lit up his face a bright, angry red. I slammed my foot on the gas, turning the wheel in a wide arc, and then put it into drive without braking. I fishtailed away.
When we were out on Route 66 and the miles between Solomon and Mr. Barrett piled up, he finally spoke. “Oh my gods, Ash,” Solomon said, “thank you.”
“Any time,” I told him.
Wind howled.