by S. Massery
I’d burst into the room, panicking, and I hadn’t seen her in the corner. I had a meltdown. She’d calmed me down, read some of her book out loud to me, and our friendship was pretty much cemented after that moment.
“Does this have to do with the flash drive you got?” Parker asks.
“Maybe.”
She nods once. “We’ll keep people out.”
“Thanks.”
I pick a computer in the back and fire it up. There are only four desks in here, spread out around the room, and a lot of plugs for chargers and things. It’s like they know they don’t have enough outlets in the rooms and want to make up for it.
I plug in the USB and hold my breath. It has a single file on it, a video.
It’s shaky, handheld and sort of staticky—the type of filter social media influencers like to put on their posts—but this doesn’t seem intentional.
I can’t really tell what I’m looking at until the camera suddenly tips down. Running shoes and a packed dirt trail.
The person stops.
A second later, I hear, “Who’s there?”
Goosebumps rise along my arms.
That’s my voice.
I squint into the swirling white, barely making out what I imagine is me. I’m turning slowly.
Footsteps pound closer, and someone knocks into me.
That same person runs close enough to touch the person videoing.
And then laughter. Sick, deep laughter.
My stomach somersaults violently, and I push back the chair.
I didn’t imagine the laughter, or the feeling of being watched.
I knew it.
It doesn’t make me feel better—in fact, the opposite.
The video cuts out, snapping to black, and then a blinking cursor appears in the middle of the screen.
It types one letter at a time: You’re next.
Oh god.
I’m going to be sick.
I close out of it and eject the USB, rushing to the trashcan. I barely make it before I throw up, falling to my knees beside the door.
Parker and Jake burst into the room.
She pulls my hair away from my face and rubs my back. “What the heck did you see?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“It must’ve been something disturbing,” she pries.
I wipe my mouth and straighten, narrowing my eyes. She’s the one who gave me the envelope. Who insisted I open it. Who came to Emery-Rose about the same time I started feeling watched all the time.
I take a step back.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I’m not sure why I’m suspicious, but I trust my gut. And right now, it’s screaming to not say anything.
Dad’s a lawyer. He can help me.
I rush back to the first floor and the glass walkway, then freeze. I have that sensation of being watched again—but this time, I don’t think it’s my imagination. The lights of the walkway bounce against the glass, hiding anyone who might be lurking in the dark. They could be in plain sight, and all I would see is my own reflection.
Someone is out there.
And you know what?
I’m sick of this feeling.
I raise both of my hands, flipping off whoever’s watching.
But in the pit of my stomach, I know I’ll probably end up paying for that.
22
Riley
Dad comes back into the waiting room shortly after I sneak back in, no apparent worry or relief on his face—which means he didn’t notice me leave. I’m not sure I like that.
It means I could disappear, and by the time he realized…
“We can go see him,” he says to me.
I shake out my arms and follow him. We go back into the hospital, and I shake my head. Of course they would’ve admitted him immediately—why were we even waiting in the emergency department?
And then I notice how rigid Dad is, and it hits me: this is hurting him, too.
I hurry to catch up to him and slip my hand in his. He glances at me and squeezes my hand.
“He’s okay,” he says.
“I know. But this place is hard to be in.” I’m just telling him what he’s already feeling.
He sighs. “Yeah. Sooner we can get Noah home, the better.”
It doesn’t take long to find his room. This hospital can be tricky to navigate, but Mom and I used to explore it when she had the energy. There’s a pool for physical therapy, the computer lab, a rooftop garden.
A doctor is leaving Noah’s room as we approach, and he pauses to wait for us. “He’s stable. We did have to call the police and report it. They’ll be by soon to take a statement.”
Dad nods. “Thank you.”
The doctor motions for Dad to step away from the door, and I take the opportunity to slip into the room. It’s dark except for a bedside lamp and the flicker of a muted television.
I almost expected a million tubes to be coming out of him like Mom, but he just has one leg elevated, casted, and an IV taped to his hand.
His gaze snaps from the TV to me.
We stare at each other for a moment.
“Is Mom here?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Dad’s outside.”
He scoffs. “Is he pissed he was dragged away from work?”
“I doubt it.” I drag a chair closer and sit, tapping his cast. “Broken?”
“They, ah, hit it with a bat.” He closes his eyes. “Terrible aim, if they were going for my head.”
“Who did it?” I ask. “The hospital had to call the police, but—”
“But?” Noah glares at me.
I pull the photograph from my pocket and hand it to him. “Someone’s stalking us.”
He looks at it for a solid thirty seconds.
The door opens, and he crumples it. Shoves it back into my hand.
“Hide it,” he snaps. “And stop digging.”
I sit up straighter. Dad and the doctor are still talking, so we have the barest moment—
“Who did this?”
He grabs my hand. “The more you dig, the worse it’ll be. This was a random mugging, got it?”
“Noah,” Dad says. “How do you feel?”
I gently pull away from my brother. The flash drive in my pocket burns where it rests on my skin, and I put the now-crinkled photo in with it.
“I feel like I went three rounds with Muhammed Ali,” Noah says.
I roll my eyes. “You wouldn’t make it past round one.”
He grunts.
Dad smiles. “They’re keeping you overnight to make sure everything is okay, and you’ll go home tomorrow afternoon.”
Someone knocks on the door, and a familiar face strides into the room.
Detective Masters.
He questioned me when Margo went missing, and it left a rather bad taste in my mouth.
But your brother is the victim.
“Detective Jim Masters,” my father says.
I’m shocked into stillness for a moment, but then I realize of course Dad knows him. Not only was he there during my interview, but they’ve probably been on the same side of a case or two.
Before Dad took a job in the city, he worked as a prosecutor for Hillshire County. It was a flexible job at the time, enough to cover the bills that Mom’s insurance wouldn’t, the mortgage, school… but once she was in remission, he stepped up his game.
Worked harder, got bigger cases.
Won the attention of the District Attorney’s office in Manhattan.
They offered him a job, and he took it.
That was pre-rehab, post-remission. The perfect time for change.
“Riley,” the detective greets me. “How are you doing?”
Everything out of his mouth sounds like a trick question. If I’m good, does it mean I don’t care about my brother? If I’m not good, am I being overly dramatic and negative?
So I settle for a sarcastic, “Well, the hospital is the last place I’d wa
nt to spend my Friday night.”
Dad groans.
The detective’s eyebrow jumps up.
And Noah makes a noise that sounds like he’s dying.
I rush to him, leaning over his bed, but he’s just glaring at me. “It’s almost midnight, Riley. You have a meet tomorrow.”
You know, the first step to getting a scholarship for college, he says with his expression.
I swallow. “There’s no way I was going to let you go through surgery and not be here—”
“He’s right,” Dad says gently, holding out his keys. “He’s okay, and you should go home.”
Noah loosens his grip on me. “Get some rest and kick butt tomorrow.”
Their attention stays on my back as I leave.
How I get home is a blur. I vaguely remember locating Dad’s car in the parking garage and navigating the dark streets. Once I’m parked next to my car, I shudder. Mom’s light is still on.
Dad probably didn’t tell her—or maybe he did, and that’s why she’s awake.
I tiptoe into the house, dropping his keys on the hook next to the door and kicking off my shoes. All I want is to fall into bed and forget this happened.
But I can’t.
Mom sits on the staircase, her chin in her hand. Worry creases her face. “Were you going to tell me something happened?”
I shrug. “Probably not.”
She lifts herself up. “And now?”
“Noah was mugged.” The lie comes out easily. “He’ll be home tomorrow.”
“And your father?”
I wish she would react. I want to press the buttons until she does—but that would probably just make everything worse.
“He’s staying there, I think.” I don’t know.
Noah’s an adult, but he’s still a child in a lot of ways.
“I need to go to bed.” I move past her up the stairs, locking myself in my room. I lean against the door and hold my breath, waiting for her footsteps.
They don’t come.
My phone vibrates on my nightstand, dragging me from sleep.
I grope around for it and flip it over. It takes a second—more than a second—to register the name on my caller ID.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Hey.” Eli’s voice is husky, almost too quiet.
I roll over. I put the phone on speaker and tuck it—and my head—under the covers. It’s habit. I do it without even thinking about it.
“Why are you calling?” I ask. The glow of the phone illuminates my little hideaway. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Were you?”
“Yes.” I close my eyes. “He came out of surgery just fine.”
He hesitates.
“It wasn’t worry over Noah that made you call.” It isn’t a question. I guess, even after all this time, I can still get a feel for him through the phone.
“No.” He exhales. “That photo…”
“I’m sure it’s just a prank. Heard from Amelie lately? Maybe she’s bored.” I force a slight chuckle, but it sounds wrong in my ears. “There isn’t really anything we can do about it, anyway. What’s going to happen will happen.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Ri.”
I wince.
“We could tell Masters. He doesn’t have a vendetta against your family, so if you give him the evidence—”
“I’ve seen too many movies where stalkers are escalated—”
“Riley.”
I pause.
“Is that what you think this is? A stalker?”
Well, shit. I click the volume on the phone lower, paranoid that Mom can hear me. She’s probably taken her pills and gone to sleep, but I can’t be sure. And I don’t want her to freak out on me.
“I don’t know. There’s a video…”
He makes a strangled noise.
“Someone was following me in the fog. They recorded me calling out, getting knocked by the other jogger… They laughed. I ran the whole way home—minus my fall.”
“I’m coming over,” he says abruptly. There’s movement on his end of the line—rustling and a door closing, creaking steps.
I sit up. “What?”
“Jesus Christ, Riley. You have a stalker? And only your mother is home with you? Yeah, no.” Keys jingle. “Be there in five.”
The call ends, and I’m left staring at my darkened screen.
Shit.
I glance around my room, and I’m shocked at the butterflies that erupt in my stomach. Eli is coming here. To my house. To my room.
Unless he stays downstairs, but I sincerely doubt that.
I fly out of bed and scramble to clean, scooping up the pile of half-dirty clothes and depositing them on the floor of my closet, straightening my desk. I tuck my hamper in the closet, too, and yank the doors shut.
There.
My phone buzzes.
I go to the window. Eli’s truck is at the curb.
My butterfly-filled stomach ramps up a notch—or ten.
He’s at the front door when I get downstairs, but he’s not focused on the door. His back is to me when I open it. His shoulders are tight.
“Eli?”
He spins around and smiles, then frowns.
It’s like he’s happy to see me, but it isn’t the emotion he wants to feel.
“Someone drove off when I pulled up. Isn’t that weird?”
Goosebumps crawl up my back and down my arms. I grab his wrist and tug him inside, then close and lock the door.
“Weird?” I echo. “Scary, maybe.”
He grins down at me. “Ah, so you are scared by this.”
“I’d be a fool not to be.” I cross my arms. “Just because I didn’t run to you when I was scared—”
“Obviously you’re not good at running scared.” Without warning, he pries one of my arms away and flips my hand, running his fingers over my palm.
They’re healed, but…
I take my hand back. “Do you want the couch, or are you going to stand guard all night?”
“Are those my only two options?”
He’s my shadow up the stairs, into my bedroom. But he doesn’t try to touch me again.
He turns on the light and winces.
I try to see it through his eyes—the complete difference I made after we broke up. The walls, the furniture.
“You removed every aspect of me from your life.” He rotates in a circle, his frown getting deeper. “And not just on the surface level, either, I’d bet. You scrubbed me right out of your heart, too.”
He faces me and stalks closer.
“How did you do that, Riley? Get rid of me so completely?”
I square my shoulders. I’m not afraid of him—now or then. “Systematically.”
He stops just in front of me, a hair’s breadth away. He gently traces his finger up my arm.
I hold my breath. My chest aches.
This is too similar to the past—a past, mind you, that detonated in our faces.
What’s to say this will be any different?
“You know, I wanted to come back here and destroy you,” he says softly. “To hurt you after you hurt me. But I think you’re already hurting. Aren’t you?”
I lift my chin. “Am I?”
“Do you even have parents anymore, or are they just housemates?”
That fucking hurts. A stab, sharp and quick.
“And what about you, Eli? College dropout. Your one relationship in high school was a fucking lie, so—”
He tilts his head, and it’s the confusion more than anything that catches my attention.
“A lie?”
He can’t be serious.
I step back, rubbing my arms to get rid of the feel of his hand on my skin. “Yes. Of course. You were playing me the whole time.”
His expression darkens. “I think you better start from the beginning.”
Sudden fatigue slams into me, and I sag. “No. I’m going back to bed.”
I
can’t read the shift on his face, and right now, I don’t want to. We both need to be up early tomorrow—him probably more so than me.
He stands in the center of the room while I climb into bed, lifting the covers back up to my chin.
“I’ll…” He looks around and pulls out my desk chair. He drops into it and leans back, kicking his feet up. “I’ll be here.”
“What, in case someone comes in through the window?”
He’s tried that before, and maybe it was his lack of grace… but he couldn’t manage it.
So I’m hopeful no one else will be able to, either.
“You think those guys will come through the front door?” He rolls his eyes.
“Or maybe the back door. Perhaps you should guard the mud room.”
He groans. “Go to sleep, Riley. Pretend I’m not here.”
“Fat chance of that happening,” I whisper.
“What?”
I push up on my elbow and stare at him. “Can you at least turn off the light?”
He reaches over and clicks it off. All I can see is his outline in the chair.
I roll over, facing the wall, and try not to think about how he’s probably still watching me. Why is he even here? A misguided attempt to right things? Or another way to ruin me?
“Do you remember why we stopped talking?” he asks in a low voice.
He’s closer than he was, but I don’t move.
“Sophomore year?” I ask.
“Yeah.” His breath hits the back of my neck—or maybe I’m just imagining things. “I’m sorry about that.”
He’s never apologized for that. We just kind of glazed over it…
I sigh. I don’t know what to do with it, so I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
Maybe he’ll be gone in the morning.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
23
Eli
I wake up to an elbow in my face.
Eyes still closed, I twist out from under the arm and sling my own across her body, burying my face in Riley’s neck.
Wait.
Neck?
I pause, because I definitely didn’t start here. I started on the chair, resigned to a night of hard surfaces and sore muscles. It was worth it. I’d be able to react faster if someone wanted to hurt Riley while she slept.
Ever so carefully, I crack my eyes open and raise myself. Yep, I’m in Riley’s bed. Under the damn covers, too.