A breeze ripples over me, making me shiver and sink deeper into the sleeping bag.
“You cold?” Esau asks, his attention on my face. When I nod, he opens his arm.
I scoot my sleeping bag next to his and snuggle down beside him. Wrapping one arm around me, he lays back and stares up at the sky.
I play up how cold I am just a little, throwing in an extra shiver. Letting out an amused huff, Esau nudges me onto my side and scoots closer behind me, shielding my entire back from the wintery air. “Better?” he whispers in my ear.
I’m glad he can’t see me because I’m grinning. “Better.”
“Good.” He tucks his chin over my shoulder and goes quiet.
Here and there I see a shooting star, but the meteor shower seems to have stopped.
Esau’s breathing evens out, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm against my back. He’s asleep.
“Thanks for tonight,” I whisper, feeling free enough to talk since the boy who’s nuzzling my neck in his sleep won’t hear it. “I had to get out of that house. Ever since… I’ve been so scared. Every day it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to jump out of nowhere and scare the daylights out of me. It’s hard. Living like that.”
“Mmm.” It’s almost a sigh. He must be stirring. He’s probably exhausted from school, theater, and his job at the farm. I get the feeling that the late night hours are the only free time Esau has. I’m surprised when he speaks.
“I’ve been wondering why you moved here to live with your aunt. If it has to do with the scar. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” His nose skims along my cheek before his head sinks back against his pillow.
My lungs squeeze in my chest. I want to tell Esau the truth about Before. Why I’m here. But I can’t. “I don’t… want to talk about it. Why I moved here. But I got the scar in a surfing accident.”
Esau’s arm tenses around me. “Ouch.”
“My best friend wanted to learn, and on my first wave, I fell off. Hit my face on a rock. There was… blood everywhere.” My throat goes dry at the memories that threaten to surface. I wedge my eyes shut and bury my face in the pillow.
“Hey, wanna see something?”
I look at him over my shoulder warily. “Depends.”
“Not like that,” he huffs. “Look.” Sitting up, he lifts his sweatshirt just enough that I can see a jagged scar on his side.
I wince.
“Got it when I jumped off a moving tractor and got run over by one of the back wheels. Sharp rock cut right through my shirt.”
“It looks like it hurt.”
“Like hell. Serves me right for acting stupid around heavy machinery.”
“Won’t make that mistake again,” I tease.
“Nope.”
We lay back down in our bags and stare up at the starry night. I take comfort in the fact that Esau, like me, has scars. Physical reminders of what we’ve experienced. His isn’t on his face, but it still helps a little. Somehow knowing that he’s got scars too helps me feel not so alone.
Later, when Esau drives me home just as pale gray light is bleeding into Earth’s indigo canopy, I delete the texts between him and me. When Aunt Karen checks my phone this weekend, a new rule she’s instituted since she found out about the catfishing, there won’t be anything to see.
Chapter 27
Day 147, Sunday
I run as fast as I can. Like the devil himself is chasing me. Maybe he is.
My feet crash through the underbrush. Twigs and leaves crush under my shoes like brittle bones. A branch whips across my face, lighting it on fire. My eyes water. I have to reach the house. If I ask her, Aunt Karen will fetch my books and backpack from where I abandoned them at the treeline.
My fingers tighten around my phone, and the message I finally got back from CuteAshleeXOXO. My first instinct on seeing the photo was to toss it into the irrigation ditch. Not that it would keep the Mayday Killer from finding me and finishing what he started almost six months ago. Not since he knows exactly where I am due to my own stupid actions.
Harsh, slanted words cut across the bottom of the photo.
Don’t play coy. You know who I am. Do you know this place?
I have to show Aunt Karen the photo. She’ll recognize where it is. She has to. And she won’t be able to explain this away like she did with Justin.
“Help,” I scream as I break free of the treeline. Branches cling to my sweatshirt like tiny hands holding me back. Even the trees are enemies. Swiping at the branches and leaves with frantic hands, I stumble toward the back door. If I can just get inside…
I burst into the kitchen, yelling at the top of my lungs. “You have to see this. He sent me another message. He’s coming for me. Hello?” My fingers tremble as I take another look at the screen. It’s a zoomed in photo of a front door with chipped blue paint. Old terra-cotta pots dripping with succulents flank the portal. I stare at it, willing my brain to come up with the rest of the image. I’ve seen that place. Been there before, but I can’t picture it. Where is this?
The ceiling above creaks. “Aunt Karen? You up there?”
No answer.
My heart pulsates in my chest. What if he’s already here in the house? What if he’s up there waiting right now? Hidden in some darkened corner for me to come close enough to be snatched. I close my eyes against the fearful thoughts spiraling through me. Unbidden, a glinting knife stained crimson with blood appears. My entire body constricts at the memory.
It’s not real. He isn’t here. Yet.
“Are you home?” I call again once I find the courage to utter the words.
The house falls quiet.
It’s strange. She was here in the kitchen attempting to make sloppy joes when I went out back to do my homework in the eucalyptus grove. The pot is still bubbling away on the stove. The meal’s sweet, tangy scent fills the room. A short stack of plates sits on the counter next to it. A pair of wine glasses sit in the sink waiting to be washed.
Shoving my phone into the front pouch of my hoodie, I shuffle through the house, checking in each room.
No sign of her.
A flash of light breaks through the living room window at the front of the house. It’s narrow and cool-toned, like a flashlight. As if someone is sneaking along the front of the building. My eyes fly to the front door, and I halt. The knob and deadbolt are both unlocked.
Come on, I tell myself. Run over there and lock it before he can get inside. You can do this. You have to do this.
Still, I stand there unable to lift even a toe. Petrified by fear.
The flashlight moves outside, electrifying me into movement.
My shoes pound over the wooden floor as I sprint across the living room and throw the deadbolt. Twist the lock on the knob.
Breathing heavily, I let my forehead drop against the door.
I’m safe.
A low murmuring catches my ear. Someone is whispering outside. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they’re angry. Sick curiosity compels me to ease up just enough to look through the peep hole toward the driveway.
A beat-up old truck is parked there, running with its headlights off. Aunt Karen is leaning against the driver side door with her head nearly in the window. Her face is twisted into a snarl. Her phone flashlight in her hand casts swaths of light against the truck’s side as she makes an angry gesture.
Dizziness makes me sway. My roots, which so recently have begun to cling to the safety of Aunt Karen’s solidness, pull completely away from their foundation.
The man in the driver seat pulls her face downward and silences her with a kiss. She fights it for a second before giving in.
My brain doesn’t compute what my eyes are seeing. My guardian is kissing Justin back.
When they part, he hands her a large, stuffed manila envelope. Just like the one I found in the garage. But why would Justin be giving her that?
If Justin is helping the Mayday Killer keep an
eye on me, why would he show Aunt Karen more evidence of his nefarious hobby?
My joints lock up as an evil epiphany lights up my brain: she’s in league with them. Somehow, she has to be. It’s the only explanation that makes sense given her nonchalance when confronted with the evidence that Justin is not one of the good guys. Despite the fact that she’s been tasked with protecting me.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. That day, the day I found the murder board. Aunt Karen must have lied about finding it to keep herself and Justin out of hot water with Sheriff Lamb. She covered for them. I’m certain of it.
Chapter 28
Hours Later
The old house falls quiet on a sigh as, down the hall, Aunt Karen closes the door to her bedroom. The low glow of the light from the hallway disappears, leaving the slim track under my door dark.
My guardian knocked before she retired for the night, feigning concern. Are you all right, considering everything? She’d asked through my closed door. Considering that the Mayday Killer is slithering ever closer even now, waiting for his chance to end my life in a cruel finale to the game he began in the spring? Considering that my protector is somehow involved with his little helper? That I can’t trust her at all. Not after tonight.
I’m fine, thanks, I’d said, sure that she would hear the tremor in my voice and push the door open to look me over. But either she’d missed my fear or ignored it. I don’t know which is worse. Do I want my guardian to be oblivious to the terror ripping through my body, or to be indifferent? It’s an impossible choice.
I hold my breath the entire time I’m on the stairs, afraid with every step that the ancient planks will groan their protest and wake Aunt Karen. If she catches me trying to sneak out, I have no doubt she’ll go through with her threat to slap an ankle monitor on me.
When I reach the first floor, I sag against the wall with relief. The hardest part is over. But still I linger there, indecision making it impossible to move. If Justin is watching the house, no longer safe in his nest across the street, would he be watching the front door or the back door? Which should I take?
Minutes tick by as I stand frozen against the wall, my eyes moving between the street lights glowing beyond the living room window and the pitch dark square of glass in the kitchen door. Digging up my courage and pulling it up into the gloom, I move to the back door. Slipping my feet into my worn Converse, I turn the knob so painstakingly slowly it takes me an aeon to get it open. Mercifully, it closes on a silent axis.
A twig snaps in the eucalyptus grove, making my heart skip a beat. There’s a low shuffling sound in the dark.
I’m off like a shot, barreling around the house toward the street. I run like a spooked horse, my arms flailing at my sides. Down the street. Out of the neighborhood. Toward the small main drag of town.
I don’t dare look behind.
Noah’s house sits nestled between the trees, my only safe haven in the dark. The building lies asleep and unlit since it’s so late. Gravel crunches under my feet as I finally slow my pace. My lungs heave in my chest, feeling like they’re about to pop.
The low growl of a car approaching makes me squeak and jump behind one of the trees even though it’s not nearly wide enough to hide me from view.
This was incredibly stupid. Justin followed me here.
He’s going to nab me and bring me to the Mayday Killer. Right now.
Just like the brainless victims in a horror movie, I left the relative safety of the old house and delivered myself straight to him.
Fear fogs my brain as the car approaches, its headlights bright.
I blink as they wash over me, clamping my eyes shut as I wait for the inevitable. What will he do with me once he gets me in his grip?
A shudder runs through me as the car, a white delivery van with the company’s logo emblazoned on the side, passes my hiding place without slowing.
My breaths come in shallow pants as I round the house to stand under Noah’s window. Inside, it’s dark and quiet. He’s likely asleep. I feel bad waking him up, but I need to see a friendly face. The ghost of a smile parts my lips at the thought of a groggy Noah adjusting his glasses over his nose.
I tap on the glass twice and wait. Twice more. Brace myself against the house with one hand.
The curtain whooshes to one side and a blinking Noah appears, shirtless. He’s wiry and toned like a dancer. I pull my attention back to his face, my cheeks reddening.
“Megan?” Noah mouths. He wipes at his eyes sleepily, swiping his glasses off his desk and putting them on. Only then does he seem to realize that he isn’t wearing a shirt, because he slowly pulls the curtain in front of his chest.
I point to the front door, and he nods before disappearing.
Rounding to the porch, I sink down on the top step. Despite the clamminess of my skin, goosebumps break out along my arms at the damp, night air. I wish I’d thought to bring a jacket.
“Here,” Noah says at my back, dropping a fuzzy cojiba blanket onto my shoulders. “You’ve gotta be cold out here.”
“I’m freezing,” I admit, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Noah sinks down on the step beside me, pulling a blanket patterned with wild horses around himself. Taking in a long breath, he stares out at the yard. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you. I know you’re not this anxious about our art project.” His sleep-tousled curls fall over his forehead as he turns his eyes on me.
I try to smile but find I can’t. “I… didn’t want to be home.”
His brows furrow. “Why not?”
I hesitate, torn between wanting to tell him everything and wanting to keep him out of it. Noah doesn’t deserve to have all of this dumped in his lap. I don’t know what kind of trouble he’d be in if anyone found out I’d told him the truth. “I just couldn’t sleep.”
“And you came all the way out here?” Even in the dark I can see the sheen of longing in his eyes. It twists in my chest like a knife.
“It’s not like that, okay? It’s just… Can I tell you something? You promise not to tell anyone?”
Noah’s jaw twitches as he considers this for a long moment. Finally, he inclines his head.
“I just saw Aunt Karen kissing Justin.”
Noah’s expression widens in surprise. “You saw your aunt kissing the guy who was stalking you? Just now?”
“A couple of hours ago. Yeah.”
“Even after everything?”
I bob my head.
“I know I promised not to tell, but Megan, you have to tell the sheriff.” He readies himself to stand.
“He won’t listen to me. And even if he does, he won’t do anything about it.”
“You don’t know that. You have to try.”
When I shake my head wildly, he stands. “Then I will.”
“You promised,” I cry, standing too. His blanket billows around him like a superhero’s cape.
Carefully, Noah steps closer, curling one hand around the edge of my blanket. “You have to tell someone. If your aunt is still with Justin, after knowing what he is, you’re not safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
My grip loosens on the blanket and one corner falls off my shoulder. Noah’s fingers graze my skin as he lifts it back into place.
“You’re a good friend,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Noah whispers, looking out into the yard again. “Let me get some shoes on and I’ll walk you to the station.” He flicks on the porch light, digging around in the pile by the door.
My mouth hangs open as I stare at the door behind him. Horror pools in my gut, its level rising until I feel like I’m drowning in it, unable to breathe or speak. My ears pop as if they’re underwater, failing to adjust to the pressure pulsing through my head.
Terra-cotta pots filled with succulents line the porch, flanking an old door with chipping blue paint.
Chapter 29
Even Later
Sheriff Lamb hates me. Th
at much is obvious.
From the moment I told the deputy on duty about the photo I’d received. My suspicion that it meant the Mayday Killer was in Hacienda. He’d insisted on calling the sheriff, and that’s when I’d known I was screwed.
Noah waited with me in the chairs by the door while the deputy dialed the sheriff’s number, woke him up, and asked him to come down to the station. I stared at the floor, my fingers gripping the armrests so tight my palms hurt.
After what seemed like an hour, Sheriff Lamb walked into the building. He looked washed out and tired. His graying hair haphazardly combed to one side. His tan uniform shirt half-buttoned over a white undershirt and hanging untucked over his broken-in jeans.
Without a word, he’d pointed to his office.
I’d stood shakily, making to follow, but when Noah stood too, I’d gestured with one hand for him to stay. He didn’t need to witness the humiliation of having the sheriff accuse me of trumping up lies for attention a second time.
Sheriff Lamb’s weathered hands are splayed on top of the large wooden desk that sits like a canyon between us. The tab of one thumb taps the scratched and gouged surface in a rhythm as he stares at me.
“Let’s go through this one more time,” He says. “You received a photo that appears to be of the front door of the Lopez residence—”
“It is their residence.”
“Don’t interrupt me. You received this photo from an account on your social media that appears to be run by a teenage girl named Ashlee, who you think is actually the Mayday Killer toying with you.” Cynicism drips from every word.
“I know it’s the… him. All of the quotes he’s posted match the ones found at the crime scenes. And there’s no one else who would play a joke on me like this. I don’t have a lot of friends, much less people who want to scare me.”
Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) Page 16