Emma catches my arm after class. Her voice is maternally fierce. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I look down at my trembling hands. I twist the cap off my water bottle. “Fine,” I say.
“Sophia, you’re not fine, you’re white as a ghost—”
“It was hot in there.” I swallow the water, avoiding eye contact with Emma.
After so long, the places from my past all blend together, like a watercolor in a puddle—murky layers of incongruent memories.
Everything about my past scares me.
Every place has a story.
I need to find out why Aksel was in Berlin.
CHAPTER 20
My parents encourage me to sleep in, but by seven I am dressed and in the kitchen.
“No running today,” my mother says, eyeing my sneakers. She is pulling baking ingredients from the cupboard and tapping her foot to Nina Simone.
I push aside the curtain—another blizzard.
“The point,” she laughs, “is to relax.”
Relax? The woman talking looks like my mother, and is dressed like my mother, but she sounds nothing like my mother.
For Thanksgiving dinner, we order Indian food from the one ethnic place in town and eat two apple pies I help my mother bake. In the evening, we watch American football on my father’s laptop. I learn all sorts of rules about a game that makes little sense. Why do they wear so much padding? Rugby players don’t wear pads.
Friday, we decorate the living room with white ceramic stars, boxwood wreaths with red velvet bows, and a Swedish angel chime I haven’t seen since I was eleven. However, after two days of hygge, I’m eager to get out.
When Emma honks outside, I step into my parents’ study to say goodbye.
“Be safe,” my father says, looking up from his book. “No avalanches.”
My mother is standing at the bookshelf, admiring her antique encyclopedia collection—faded binding, gold lettering, and purchased at an auction in England.
“Have fun, darling,” she says over her shoulder.
“See you at midnight,” I respond—I adopted Charlotte’s curfew weeks ago, and my parents didn’t object.
As I turn on my heel to leave, my father holds up his forefinger. He reaches into the drawer of his desk and removes a shiny black box with a white ribbon tied around it.
Passing me the box, he motions for me to open it. I unravel the ribbon and lift the lid.
Stunned, I stare at it. “I can have one?”
My father lifts out the cell phone, drops the box into the trash, and hands it to me. “After a long and thought-provoking discussion—”
“Fourteen seconds,” interrupts my mother, smiling.
“We decided it’s time you become a typical American teenager.”
Although it is only five o’clock, the twilight sky is a velvety blue scattered with an endless sea of crystals.
It’s something I like about Waterford—seeing the stars Botswana bright.
Plump mounds of snow barricade the sidewalks. Around us, the shops are decorated with pine boughs and ribbons; lights strung from the lampposts form an awning of twinkling lights above us.
Beside the entrance to the Creamery, a man wearing an oversize fur parka, its hood drawn low over his face, watches us.
I’ve become accustomed to this—Charlotte is possibly the only 178-centimeter Dominican-Korean American girl in Waterford. She’s stunning. Everyone stares.
Inside, we partition ourselves into snug booths. I sit across from Charlotte, who sits down between Mason and Henry.
“You made it.” Mason grins at me.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I say.
“No, no. Thanksgiving finished, so now you say Merry Christmas.”
“Joyeux Noël,” I laugh.
Tate strolls over, nudging everyone aside to make room for himself in the booth.
Zipping down my Moncler puffer jacket, I reach into my pocket to pull out my phone.
A typical American teenager.
I turn it around in my hand, wistful. Tate peers over at my lap. “What is that?”
“My new phone,” I say proudly.
Tate snatches my phone from my hands. He guffaws so loudly he nearly chokes. “This is not a phone.” He inspects it. “This is an antique.”
The phone is fifteen centimeters tall, and nearly three centimeters thick. From 2002, my father said, ancient. But it can text, and it can make and take calls, and most importantly, it has no GPS. Only a satellite transponder, which is activated by a distinctive SOS power-on-power-off system my father installs on all our phones.
I move to snatch it back, but Tate is swifter; he passes the phone behind him to Oliver who passes it to Emma, who passes it to others, who each take a turn examining it.
Mason holds me hostage, keeping it firmly in his hands. “You have to press buttons?” he mutters, squinting to read the dim screen. “And scroll with an arrow? Each time?”
“It’s sophisticated,” I divulge. “In Shanghai and Tehran, journalists utilize old school tradecraft to protect their sources. An electronic trail is transparent. My parents …” I falter at Mason’s confused expression, “… read about it online …”
Laughing, I slide my phone out from Mason’s fingers and return it to my pocket.
When Charlotte prances away to collect her waffle cone from the counter, Tate puts his arm around my shoulder. “I was hoping you would be here tonight,” he says.
Emma once said memories of kissing Ryan Rice in ninth grade give her the “heebie-jeebies.” This is what I feel when Tate puts his arm around me—the heebie-jeebies.
Across the table, Henry glances discreetly at me before typing into his phone.
Tate’s fingertips touch my knee. “Want to hang out later?” he asks me. Behind his leering eyes I sense an arrogance. “You’re coming to the movie, aren’t you?” He is attractive, and well built from basketball, but his playful, predatory smile unnerves me.
He drums his forefinger on my kneecap, the muscles in my thigh tense.
I swirl out of the booth so quickly I bump into Charlotte.
“What’s wrong?” She stares at me, puzzled.
Tate raises both his arms in surrender. “I scared Sophia,” he snickers.
Charlotte’s puzzled frown breaks into a stern look. “You didn’t tell her about last summer when you were attacked by a bobcat—”
“Cougar.” Tate rolls up his sleeve, showcasing his forearm. “I still have the scar.”
“Kitten, whatever.” Charlotte’s mouth curves upward. She tosses her glossy hair over her shoulder. “Because Sophia has a habit of running into bigger game.”
Once everyone finishes their ice cream, we migrate to the doors—it takes time in such a herd.
I stay close to Charlotte and Mason, but Tate slinks his arm around my waist. “Sophia, you’re coming with me.”
“I’m riding with Emma,” I counter.
Tate nods to Emma and Oliver, entangled in a flirtatious, embracing argument. “You don’t want to ride with those two.” Tate’s hand moves from my waist to the top of my butt.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I shrug away from Tate.
“Here!” Charlotte waltzes toward me.
“Aren’t we riding together?” I ask her.
“We’re going to the same theater,” Charlotte says airily. Waving me ahead, she glides her hand through Mason’s arm. “We’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
“You heard her,” Tate laughs. “Come on. I’m parked around the block. We’ll beat her there.”
Reluctantly, I trudge forward with Tate.
Outside, Main Street is bustling, thick with the smell of winter: roasted almonds and cinnamon and fresh snow.
Tate chatters ceaselessly, “I’ve been playing basketball as long as I can remember …”
Passing Charlotte’s dad’s ski shop and Waterford Bakery we walk down Main Street. However, as we turn onto Second Avenue, my hex sense flips on like
a switch.
Twenty meters farther down is a man standing alone, with the bottom of his left shoe propped against the wall—him.
Same height. Same fur trim on his parka. His elbow bent at the same awkward angle. It’s the same man who watched us enter the Creamery an hour ago.
A sedan turns onto Broadway; its headlights illuminate the man briefly. He’s casually using his phone; bowing his head, his hood conceals his face.
Something in his stance discomforts me.
Tate continues talking. “I’ll get a scholarship … my dad played at Montana too … that is if I don’t fail German …”
As we draw nearer, the man in the parka steps away from the wall, alert, like he’s been waiting. Anticipating. Preparing.
A stiffness seizes my limbs. I am not afraid. Not in Waterford. I’ve incorrectly evaluated threats since I arrived. I am safe here.
Parked on Broadway, beyond the intersection, I see a red truck. Rusty, with a broken taillight. Though there are plenty of beat-up trucks in Waterford, fear tingles my nerves.
I recall the night at Fish Market a few weeks ago—why didn’t I scan its plate?
“Sophia?”
I blink up at Tate. “Yes?”
“I can teach you to drive if you want,” he suggests. “You should never do that move in a vehicle with a high center of gravity.”
“What move?” I ask, perplexed.
“Your spin-charade at the dance? That was dangerous.”
“That was an escape-and-evade maneuver, Tate. We were evading you.”
He nudges my arm flirtatiously. “I’m not that easy to avoid.”
“Evade,” I say softly. I’m preoccupied with watching the man, who is still a distance away.
Tate snakes his arm around my shoulders again. For the first time all night, I let him. I even put my arm around his waist—insurance.
As we near the man, he remains on the far side of the street, still staring at his phone, still not flinching. My tension dissipates. My body begins to decompress.
But then Tate drops his arm from my shoulder.
Fumbling around, he groans. “I left my keys.” He pats his pockets. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Seconds later, he’s jogging around the corner back to Main Street.
I am alone.
At once, my eyes snap to the man. He lifts his eyes slightly. As if he’s been observing us all along. He watches Tate disappear from view, then he looks at me, then quickly looks down at his phone.
He fiddles with his headphones. Then he holds his phone casually to his ear.
In the distance, I hear everyone laughing and shouting—Mason’s laugh is so loud it echoes. My friends are a block away. Thirteen seconds, if I sprint.
Ahead, the man starts walking along Second Avenue toward Main Street, toward me.
Abruptly I turn on my heel.
I divert toward Broadway, intending to loop back to the Creamery. I walk faster, eager to put distance between us.
A crunch of salt on the sidewalk—a thick grinding sound of soles scraping along concrete—causes me to glance back.
The hooded man has crossed the street and is stepping onto the sidewalk behind me. His footsteps beat rhythmically in time to mine, quickening as they get closer.
My pulse thumps in my chest. He is so close I can hear the cadence of his ragged breath—ten meters. Five.
I’m not afraid. I shouldn’t pull out my Ladybug.
Compromising, I unlatch my silver watch and wriggle it off.
The ragged breathing nears.
I’m almost to Main Street. I walk faster.
His gait loosens. His stride lengthens.
Heavy boots hit the pavement.
I position the clasp in place atop my second knuckle, listening.
Every walk has a signature. This one is familiar.
Behind me, a smooth engine approaches, braking fast. A door opens. Footsteps hasten.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, coursing like lava.
I have to confront him. Them.
At once, I reach into my waistband and spin around.
The man in the fur-trimmed parka jerks to a stop.
Someone is standing between us.
CHAPTER 21
“Back off.”
The man in the parka steps toward me.
Aksel puts his hand on my hip, sweeping me completely behind him.
“I said, back off,” Aksel snarls.
The man goes still—too still—like he is contemplating how to react. Then, he pushes off his hood.
He has brown curly hair and hazel eyes; I don’t recognize him. At all.
I drop my fingertips from my waist.
He stares at us wide-eyed—startled. Dumbfounded. Shoving his phone into his pocket, he tugs the headphones out of his ears.
“Ex-excuse me,” he stutters, pointing ahead. “I’m on my way to Alpine Market.”
My ears buzz. Nine words that should sound like basic Montana English … except something about his velvety voice … the way he pronounced his r in a guttural way …
“Market,” I whisper, imitating his accent.
Aksel looks at me sharply.
“Excuse me.” The man offers another polite nod—a request to pass.
Reluctantly, Aksel steps aside, keeping me squarely behind him.
As the man passes, I smell it.
Cologne. Cigarettes. Not just any cigarettes—Ziganov cigarettes.
Adrenaline converts to panic.
The man disappears into Alpine Market. Aksel’s hand glides up from my hip, where he holds my forearm gently yet firmly, as if he’s trying to get my attention.
“Sophia, do you know him?” Aksel searches my face.
Behind him, a Range Rover idles on the side of the road. I realize my fingers are tangled in Aksel’s sleeve. Instinct tells me not to let go.
I shake my head, swallowing the fear, calming myself. “I don’t … I thought … for a second … but it … wasn’t …”
Why does he always have to see me this way?
Aksel swivels his head toward the voices and laughter coming from the Creamery.
“Hey, there you are!” Tate jogs toward us. “I found my keys. They’d fallen behind the booth, and we had to remove the cushion …”
Slowing to a stop, Tate notices Aksel.
“What’s going on?” He looks between me and Aksel.
I let go of Aksel’s jacket. “Nothing, I—”
“Were you meeting Fredricksen here?” Tate asks me accusingly.
“No, I—”
“You’re coming with me, remember?” Tate takes his keys out of his pocket. He presses the fob. An Explorer, parked a few spots down, lights up and beeps.
Another car turns onto Broadway—Emma.
Crammed inside her Jeep: Oliver, Abigail, and Cole watching us like spectators.
With disjointed movements, I fumble with the clasp on my watch. It takes two attempts to latch it back on.
I can’t do this. I can’t stay here. I am barely keeping rationality ahead of paranoia.
“Can you take me home?” I ask Aksel.
“Sure.” Aksel steps toward the Range Rover and opens the passenger door.
“I can drive you home,” Tate interjects angrily, stepping between me and the door.
“I don’t mind,” Aksel says coolly.
Although the same height, Aksel has about thirty pounds of muscle on Tate and looks like he could squish him between two fingers. Right now, he looks like he wants to.
I notice it now—it’s not only Aksel’s build that’s intimidating; it’s him. Fearless and confident, Aksel isn’t scared of anything, or anyone.
Certainly not Tate McCormick.
For that matter, neither am I. “I’ll see you later,” I say to Tate.
“Seriously, Sophia?” Tate says belligerently. “You’re ditching—”
“Let it go, man,” Aksel orders.
Ignoring the accusation
s and caustic remarks, I get into the Range Rover.
We drive in silence. At the end of my driveway, Aksel shifts into park.
A car drives past. We watch the headlights dissolve into the night.
“Thank you,” I say, composing myself. “I didn’t mean to overreact—”
“You didn’t,” Aksel interrupts curtly.
“My nerves got the best of me—”
“He was walking behind you,” Aksel says, cutting me off, “close—really close—with his phone out, awkwardly ahead of his body, like he was filming you.”
Filming me? A sharp ping hits my gut.
“Some guys are creeps.” I shrug it off. “Thank you for the ride.”
I put my hand on the door handle, but Aksel reaches across my body and puts his hand on mine. “Sophia, that’s not all.” His fingers meet my wrist beneath my jacket. I am acutely aware of how close his forearm is to my shoulder, of how near his beating heart is to mine.
Sitting back, Aksel drags a hand through his hair. He seems uncomfortable. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen him near you.”
Tentatively, I let go of the door handle. “Sorry?”
He drapes his hand on the back of my seat, facing me. “You were jogging alone when you came upon that grizzly, right?”
I nod. The grizzly? That was weeks ago.
“When I heard the grizzly, I scanned the forest. First, I spotted a guy, farther back on the trail. He was stopped—motionless. When the grizzly roared a second time, he took off and that’s when I saw you a few meters ahead.”
“It’s a trail,” I point out. “People jog there all the time.”
“Not people from Waterford,” Aksel says, exasperated.
I remember what the plow driver said. Tourist.
“You were there,” I say.
“Target shooting,” he explains. “I expected the other runner to show. I assumed you were together, and he’d gotten spooked and would come back to check on you. But when I lifted my scope, he was sprinting in the opposite direction—”
“There was a grizzly! I tried to run too, remember?”
He eyes me warily. “My scope has a x400 magnification. I saw him clearly, Sophia. Same profile. Same build. It was the same guy tonight. And I’m guessing it’s the same guy you thought was following you at Fish Market,” he adds darkly.
“Waterford is small,” I say, trying to placate him, not wanting to assemble these pieces. “It’s just a coincidence.”
Girl from Nowhere Page 10