Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1)

by Emily Kazmierski

  I’m so absorbed in the darkness of my thoughts that I don’t notice the bouquet of fall flowers on the front porch until I almost knock it over. Gasping in surprise, I scoop it up before the vase can crash on its side. Water dribbles down my fingers as I take in the bouquet. The flowers are beautiful.

  What if he sent them?

  I almost drop them in revulsion.

  “I’ll wait until you’re inside.” Mr. Baugh is standing in the middle of the dead, yellowed grass, watching me warily.

  “Someone sent you flowers?” Esau calls, standing against the door of his truck.

  I shake my head. No one would send me flowers. They’re probably for Aunt Karen. Maybe now that I know about Justin, he won’t have to be so secretive about dating my guardian.

  There’s a white card tucked into the bouquet. I fish it out and open it with one hand, desperately hoping to see Justin’s name. Instead, there’s a note scrawled hastily in cursive.

  Audrey,

  I hope you know it’s all for you.

  Yours,

  I stand frozen, the edges of the card cutting into my palm as I clench it between my fingers.

  Esau’s boots clomp on the wood as he mounts the stairs.

  I should move, run inside before he gets a look at the card. My legs don’t bend under my control. Any magic I had is used up and gone.

  “Looks like they delivered it to the wrong house,” Esau says over my shoulder. “Do you know an Audrey?”

  “No,” I lie.

  Chapter 31

  Day 152, Friday

  School on Wednesday was torture.

  I couldn’t focus on anything but the killer’s calculated trip to the store. The flowers. They were bright red flares fired into the sky. Warnings that the game wasn’t over.

  The entire town seemed to be suspended in a state of wary trepidation. Would the killer strike anyone they knew? Maybe someone who had lived in the sleepy valley their entire life? Several of the students who had stay-at-home parents walked around with their phones clutched in their hands as if waiting for them to ring with the dreaded news.

  I wanted to scream, but the knowledge that all of this was my fault kept me quiet. I floated through the halls like a ghost.

  Thursday was only marginally better. It seemed that because the Mayday Killer had been spotted in town, every teacher had given up on their lesson plans and spent the day tuned in to various news channels. The students bobbed from class to class, catching the new repetitive reports. No more sightings of the fugitive since Tuesday. The newscaster on the late night news said that the authorities didn’t know where the killer was hiding or if he was merely passing through town and would continue the trek north he’d begun in September.

  Talk show anchors in sharp suits and bright red dresses speculated as to his motives. How he chose his victims. Why he used a knife rather than a gun.

  I spent the entire day trying to drown out their voices with the music streaming through my earbuds. I kept thinking one of the teachers would confiscate them, but if they noticed they didn’t care.

  I already knew the truth.

  None of the town’s people were in any real danger. Not if the killer sticks to his established modus operandi.

  The town’s people weren’t the reason the deranged killer had made his way up the state with such single-minded focus, only taking breaks to slake the blood-thirst that drove him.

  No, I was the reason.

  It was me.

  Vehicles from the sheriff’s department passed the school at a near constant rate. Or at least they seemed to whenever I looked out one of the windows. I longed to be out there with them doing something. But my guardian had assured me that the best thing I could do was to stay inside. Stay safe. My time to step up would come, God willing.

  Aunt Karen picked me up from school without a word. Her mouth flattened in a grim line. You’re safest at school, she’d said when I balked at going. You’ll be surrounded by people, all of them on alert. Try not to worry. Like that was possible.

  Today, the town-wide frenzy seems to have broken. The teachers are back to their various subjects. My friends have begun to relax, drawing their shoulders down from their ears.

  The killer hasn’t been spotted again. He hasn’t spilled even a drop of blood. And I have it on good authority that the police are on high alert in case he tries.

  “He must have moved on,” Fiona says at lunch. “There’s nothing interesting about this town.”

  “I hope so,” Viv says, looking up from the notebook where her doodles expand over the page like black and white galaxies. She’s been texting back and forth with her mom constantly for the past three days. She said it was because her mom worried, but I could see the line between her brows every time she checked for new messages.

  “It blows my mind that there was an actual killer in our town. I go to that grocery store all the time,” Marisa says, adjusting the scarf looped around her neck. “I wonder what made him go in there anyway. He’s been hiding out for months. Why go someplace so public now?”

  My mouth drops open.

  She’s right. The man has proven he’s more than good at staying out of the public eye. Evading the police for days and weeks and months. Why did he allow himself to be seen on Tuesday? They played the surveillance footage on the news. The Mayday Killer had the gall to stroll up and down the aisles, even glancing at the cameras mounted on the ceiling more than once. It was as if he was daring them to identify him, since they hadn’t been able to yet.

  Not even when they showed me the surveillance footage from the supermarket and I confirmed it was him

  Ice cuts through me like a sharp winter wind. He did it on purpose.

  He wanted to be seen.

  He wanted me to know he’s here.

  The time is right. He’s coming for me.

  Cold weather has blown in with conviction, thrashing the trees until their leaves concede the battle and fall. Crystal white dew clings to the roofs of all the houses when morning breaks. The library door opens and an icy gust slices through my sweater, chilling me to the bone.

  I whip around, hoping to see Noah walking this way. Finally.

  Instead, two old women cluck at the cold as they walk past the front desk toward the romance section. They’re so bundled up against the autumn chill they’re waddling like penguins.

  Forcing my gaze down, I try to focus on my homework, but the words in my textbook might as well be in ancient Greek. I’m not getting anything done tonight.

  The deputy in the corner who the sheriff tasked with keeping an eye on me doesn’t help my focus.

  My eyes drift toward the large window and the moonlight beyond. It’s already dark; the days are getting shorter. And fewer in number, I think, unable to shake off the macabre idea. I run my fingers inside the rim of my bracelet, absently wishing for survival.

  Police sirens ring outside the building, and when I look up a sheriff department vehicle rips up the street as it passes. I wonder where they’re headed. If they spotted the serial killer who haunts my waking hours as well as my nightmares. My eyes fall on my phone, which is still open to my photos. The photo of Noah’s front door, specifically.

  Terror chokes me. What if they’re going to Noah’s house? What if something happened to him or his family? The sirens recede in that direction.

  Crossing the lobby, I plant my feet in front of the deputy. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  The man looks up with a stern face. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Please?”

  “No can do. Sorry.” With a sympathetic tilt of his head, he shifts his attention back to the card game he’s got open on his phone.

  Putting my hand on top to block his vision, I lower my voice. “Please. I just need to know my friends are safe. The Lopezes?”

  The man’s expression softens. “There’s a fire at a storage unit across town. Nowhere near the Lopez house. Nothing to worry about.”

 
It still doesn’t explain why Noah is so uncharacteristically late. Scooping up my phone from the table where I’ve been working gives me something to cling to as I send a message asking where he is.

  A frigid wind slams into me as the library door opens.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Noah says as he slides into the chair across from mine. “My mom took another shift, so I had to take Anza and Mattie to my abuelo and abuela’s house for their party. Where are we at with our project?”

  “Party?” I ask absentmindedly, sinking in my seat in relief that he’s sitting across from me hale and whole.

  Noah gets a stack of books out of his backpack and flips through until he finds the one he wants.

  “Tomorrow’s their birthday. My grandparents will keep them and bring them back to our place when we’re all ready. Speaking of, how are you at hanging streamers or stuffing piñatas?” His eyes are warm behind his thick frames, but his smile starts to teeter under my horrified gaping. “You don’t have to come, but Anza asked about you, so I was thinking—”

  “They share a birthday. Are they twins?” I choke out the words, my mind careening around my skull like a bug trapped in a jar. I blink when Noah gives a slow nod.

  “I thought you knew.”

  “But they’re different heights. They don’t look the same age.” I mumble, connecting the dots. The Mayday Killer must know that the youngest Lopez kids are twins. That’s the reason he sent me that photo. Not because I’m friends with Noah, but because their family makeup fits his sick criteria. My throat feels stuffed with cotton and I can’t seem to wet even though I swallow over and over.

  I work my tongue, trying desperately to quell the panic clawing up my throat. I can’t breathe. Can’t look at my friend.

  His parents are in danger. He could be an orphan tomorrow. Because of me.

  Noah leans across the table, nudging my hand. “Megan? You’re freaking me out a little. What’s wrong?”

  The textbook pages cut into my fingers, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip on them. The lemony sharp pain is the only thing grounding me right here, right now. My eyes flit absently around the library, to the window. I’m trying to figure out how much to tell Noah. If there’s anything I can say to help him without ruining everything. His deep brown eyes are on me, filled with concern.

  I have to tell him. There’s no other choice.

  “Are there any other sets of twins in town?” I manage.

  “Not that I know of. Why?” Noah’s head angles to one side.

  “You said your mom was working. Is your dad home?”

  “Yeah. Again, why?”

  I lick my lips. Once I say this I can never take it back. Noah will never look at me the same. All of the warmth and openness I see in his eyes will be replaced with pity. Revulsion. Still, it’s no reason to keep him in the dark. Even if he never speaks to me again, I have to tell him.

  “The cops don’t call the Mayday Killer by that name. They use another one, but they kept it out of the press. The Gemini Killer.”

  “Because he only kills Geminis?” Noah looks incredulous.

  My entire body trembles as I shake my head. “Because he only kills the parents of twins. They buried that fact to keep people from panicking, but it’s true. He always goes after families of twins.”

  Noah’s brown skin pales. “How— Megan. How do you know that?”

  “He killed my parents,”—I gulp—“and my sister.”

  Noah’s eyes skim over my scar. His gaze darts from me to the deputy sitting in the corner of the room with her nose buried in a thick history book. Abruptly, he stands up. His backpack falls off the table with a thunk. “He came here for you. You’re the reason he’s here.”

  My head hangs heavy with guilt. My eyes drop to the floor. “I’m his unfinished business. And once he’s done with me, he’ll target your parents. I know it. I didn’t tell you, but he sent me a photo of your house. I thought it was just to taunt me, but I think it was his way of telling me his plans.”

  He knifes a hand through his hair. A hiss escapes from his lips.

  I keep my eyes down, unwilling to look into his eyes and see the disgust I’m sure is there.

  “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

  When I refuse, he walks around the table. Kneels at my side. With gentle fingers, he lifts my chin until our eyes meet.

  My breath hitches.

  The things I see in his eyes are not what I expected. No hatred or revulsion or anger.

  “It seems like you’re blaming yourself for this, and it’s not your fault. None of it.”

  Noah’s eyes are filled with conviction, compassion, and more I can’t afford to name.

  “You don’t get it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Aunt Karen made me swear not to. To protect my identity. I moved here to lie low until they catch him. Because I saw him. He’s here to silence me. I brought him here.”

  Noah shakes his head gently. My knee is warm under his gentle hand. He looks in the deputy’s direction. “You’re not responsible for that psycho’s actions. We have to tell someone though.”

  “The sheriff already knows. He knows all of it.”

  Chapter 32

  Day 156, Tuesday

  The pumpkin field is quiet except for the rumble of the tractor’s engine between my legs. I let its loud hum overtake the swarm of thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me.

  It’s been four stifling days since Noah found out the truth about the Gemini Killer. Four days of him eyeing me warily in hallways and classrooms. Four days of waiting for the gossip and rumors to start, for the furtive, curious glances to begin again.

  But for whatever reason, the contents of my late night conversation with the sheriff haven’t spread. Nor have the revelations I shared with Noah. He might be wary of me, but he hasn’t told anyone.

  At home, Aunt Karen keeps constant tabs on me, constantly checking to make sure I’m wearing my bracelet. I’d had enough of the scrutiny, so I’d texted Esau. I’d hoped he’d be up for hanging out, even though we haven’t really talked since he found out I’d been lying to him about how I got my scar.

  My bracelet sits on my wrist. Despite everything, I put it back on. Your parents would have wanted you to wear it.

  “There are so many,” I say, looking at each row of leafy green vines as we pass to see all of the different varieties of gourds. Esau’s arms sling casually on either side of me as he steers the big three-wheel tractor between two fields of pumpkins. Some are smooth, vivid orange while others are white and wart-speckled. There’s something unsettling about the way the vines sprawl over the ground, as if they’d grab my ankle and drag me under if given the chance.

  The frigid weather of a few days ago has given way to an Indian summer. Despite being mid-October, it’s a hot day. I opted for a cute dress, even though it wasn’t from Aunt Karen’s closet of approved wardrobe choices. I had hoped that the frivolity of it would take my mind off the shadows closing in. A breeze flutters the ruffles along my shoulders. It’s not really working.

  “Twelve varieties,” Esau says. “Mr. Dell’Osso loves pumpkins. Grows more kinds than any other farmer in the area. You should see the place once Halloween hits. It’s a zoo.”

  “Sounds fun,” I say, forcing my interest. I used to love Halloween. Morbid costumes. Horror movies. Going to haunted houses with friends. But now it all seems far too real. My fists clench on my knees. I’m not going to let him ruin it like he has everything else.

  The tractor hits a rut in the dirt and I bounce back against Esau’s chest with a surprised squeal.

  One of his arms bands around my waist. “Stay close,” he whispers in my ear. “Wouldn’t want you to end up like me, or that guy in that old Reese Witherspoon movie.”

  My eyes widen in dismay. “There’s no plow on the back of this thing!”

  He chuckles, doesn’t remove his arm from my waist. Instead, he steers one-handed. Whistling. Esau is whistling. It’s such an astonishing, happy sound that I can’
t stop the genuine grin that splits my features.

  For once I’m not tiptoeing around wondering when everyone will connect the dots and accuse me of luring a serial killer to Hacienda. When they’ll ask me what happened that day. To recount what I saw when I stepped into that kitchen, painted red with blood.

  I force the memories away, focusing on the cheery orange of the growing pumpkins, the sun shining in a cloudless blue autumn sky. Esau’s warmth at my back. His arm resting on the tops of my thighs.

  “Do you miss your parents?” I ask before I’ve even fully decided to.

  Over my shoulder, he nods. “My mom calls me pretty often, so we talk. My dad sends me texts with random emojis. Not sure what he’s trying to say, but yeah. My tia and tio are great, but…”

  “It’s not the same.” I understand. Aunt Karen tries. She does. But she doesn’t know from years of experience making my lunches that I don’t eat mayo. That I love having piles of blankets on the end of my bed for when I get cold. That I would occasionally climb into my dad’s lap to cuddle for just a minute, even though I’m far too old for stuff like that.

  “I’m sorry about your parents.” His words are kind and matter-of-fact. Not whispered like grief is something to be hidden and ashamed of.

  “Thanks. What’s the thing you miss most, about home?” I ask, not sure if the boy steering the machine under us can hear me over its grumbling.

  “The ease of it,” Esau says immediately. “Being with people who know me without constantly expecting something. I can just be myself, you know?”

  I nod. I get it. More importantly, Esau gets it. The constant nagging at the back of my mind that everything I do is a performance. Not for my benefit, but for the benefit of the people around me. Aunt Karen. My classmates and teachers. The sheriff and his deputies.

  “I feel a little of that. When I’m with you,” he whispers in my ear.

  My cheeks warm. “Me too.” It’s the reason I came out here. Because as much as I told myself I was using Esau as a distraction, it becomes less and less true with each minute we spend together. I’ve learned so much about him these past few weeks. And I’m starting to give him glimpses of the real me in return. The version I hide underneath. He never rejects the flashes of truth I show him.