One of Us Read Online Free

standing in front of the entrance, in silence. Each of them holds a candle, and there are more candles standing in jars and cans in a circle on the pavement in front of them. In the gathering dusk they glow with a friendly light, flickering as the wind skates by. I stand still for a moment,counting the candles in the circle. Forty-nine. One for each person who died. The people all have their heads bowed. They almost look like statues in their dark coats and scarves and their stillness. It’s a vigil.
    Are these the relatives? I need to pass them to get to the halfway house, but it feels disrespectful to just walk by. Grandma and I used to light candles when we were sad, or if someone died. I’d light one now if I could. I stare into one of the glowing pools of light, watching the wick stoop into the pool of oil.
    Then I hear chanting in the distance. I turn, looking around to see who’s doing it. A mass of protestors pushes its way along the main street, their Brotherhood clothing vivid red in the fading light. The marchers’ chant cuts through the city’s rumble.
    What are they doing here? Can’t they even leave people to grieve in peace? As they get nearer I see that some of them are holding placards, black and white against the red check of their clothes. I read the words, but can’t take in their meaning. How can they do this, here, and now?
    NO CURFEW
    NO OATH
    NO SEGREGATION
    Movement ripples through the people at the vigil, faces turn in shock. At first they remain silent but then there’s a shout and the orderly crowd of mourners breaks apart as some people hurl themselves toward the marchers, while others slip away.
    I want to run toward them too, rip the placards out of their hands. But instead I stand frozen, smelling the smoke again, seeing the man with the suitcases, his head resting on the edge of the platform, his lips forming soundless words.
    Sirens . . . I really can hear them. Police vans tear across the square from all sides, surrounding the Brotherhood protest. In the stampede a candle jar smashes at my feet. I try to turn and leave but the press of people pushes me toward the Brotherhood protestors. Beside me a hand reaches down to grab a jar and it whizzes through the air over our heads. A woman from the vigil sinks to her knees in the broken glass, but when I try to pull her up, she shakes me off.
    The chanting is all around me now, and screaming too and the screech of sirens. But there’s a gap in the crowd. I duck under a raised arm and weave through the people, tearing away in the opposite direction from the station.
    I keep running uphill toward the Old City, head down, hood up, so that I crash into a man on the curb in front of me.
    â€œHello, stranger.” He grabs my arms to steady me.
    It’s Oskar. He’s wearing glasses today, fine gold-rimmed ones.
    â€œDid you see it?” I try to catch my breath.
    He stares over my head, down to the square, and I turn and look too. The vigil has broken up and the police, shields and batons in front of them, are arresting Brotherhood rioters. Sirens pulse over the shoutingand the smashing of glass.
    â€œMmm.” Oskar smiles. “Busy times.”
    â€œDon’t you have to go down there?” I lean forward, my hands on my knees, sick from running and the lingering smoke and grit in my throat. If I let myself start coughing, I think I’ll throw up.
    â€œThat’s not what I do.” He waves a hand toward the square. “This isn’t a big deal. It’ll all be over in a few minutes.”
    I sink down on the curb. “What do you do?” I ask. “Do you have to stop people and ask them if they saw anything? Is that why you’re here?”
    Oskar takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “K,” he sighs. “You must realize I can’t discuss my work?”
    I feel my face flush. “Sorry.”
    â€œNo, it’s all right. I can see why you’d want