THIRTEEN
Sawyer gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles going white as she sped past the police station, then made a U-turn around it. She wanted to go to the police, to talk to Detective Biggs or Stephen Haas, but somehow her admirer knew she was there once.
He would know again.
She sighed and drove away, aimless. Though when she found herself pulling into the Hawthorne High student lot, she wasn’t surprised.
A slow drizzle started to fall, and Sawyer wrestled a zip-up hoodie that lived in her backseat. She slid it over her goose-pimpled flesh and zipped it up to her neck. When she slid the hood up over her hair, Kevin’s scent—cologne and a football field’s worth of cut grass—enveloped her. She closed her eyes and breathed heavily, the weight of remembering heavy on her chest.
Kevin’s fingers slid down her bare arm and laced with hers. She turned to him, startled—they were still a brand-new couple, and the topic of PDA hadn’t been broached yet—but Kevin’s eyes were warm, held that playful crinkle that she loved so much.
“What are you so nervous about?” he asked, squeezing her hand and pulling her closer. “You’re with me now.”
Sawyer caved to the gentle pull and snuggled into Kevin, who brushed a soft kiss over her lips. The fire that started in her belly ran through her bloodstream, warming every limb. I want to feel this way all the time, she told herself.
They broke their embrace—too soon, in Sawyer’s opinion—and turned the corner toward the cafeteria. They were still hand in hand, shoulders pressed together, heads bent as they whispered and giggled and breathed in the comforting scent of one another.
They nearly ran headlong into Maggie, whose gasp was sharp, her cold eyes more so as they shot daggers at Sawyer. She and Libby stood in the hallway directly in front of them, blocking the cafeteria doors.
“Bitch,” Maggie whispered between pursed lips.
Sawyer stiffened, tried to shake Kevin’s hand from hers, but he held tight. Sawyer went from fear to guilt as she noticed Maggie working to look hard, angry—but the glossy sheen on her eyes gave her grief away.
“We broke up months ago,” Kevin muttered. Whether it was a reminder to him or to Maggie, Sawyer couldn’t be sure, but the sweet, warm feeling she reveled in was gone, replaced by something else—something wanting and steel-cold.
“Maggie, I’m really sorry—”
“Shut it,” Libby spat at her, linking arms with Maggie. “The least you could do is not flaunt your new relationship”—she cut the word, hard—“right in front of her face. You’re trash, Sawyer Dodd. You two deserve each other. You two and your trailer trash third wheel, Chloe.”
Sawyer stiffened, the old anger boiling up again. Maggie, Sawyer, and Chloe had been friends—but that was a long time ago. Maggie and Kevin had dated too, but that was also a long time ago. Sawyer had nothing to be ashamed of, to feel guilty about. At least that’s what she told herself when Kevin tucked her under his arms, guiding her into the lunchroom, Maggie’s ice-cold glare left in their wake.
Sawyer swallowed back a sob and jammed her hands in the sweatshirt pockets, crossing the parking lot and ending at the edge of the football field. The drizzle had dipped into a thick, gray mist now that dotted her face with a cold sheen, but she liked the cold, slick feeling, the slight discomfort giving her something else to focus on.
Maggie hadn’t left a note. She hung herself; she must have talked to Libby about the way she was feeling. Sawyer’s stomach lurched painfully. Whether or not her admirer was involved, Maggie’s death was her fault. She either caused it or drove her to it. The tears rolled down her cheeks now, dripping from her chin and disappearing into the well-kept lawn as she crossed it, her heels barely sinking in but causing a muddy, sucking sound. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and hugged herself tightly until her feet were moving faster, even though her calves and her feet protested against the ache of her shoes. By the time she had reached the stands, mud spattered her calves and the hem of her dress; her shoes were ruined and snot ran over her lips, mixed with tears, and dribbled down the front of her sweatshirt. She didn’t care.
The sound of a car engine roaring to life was muffled but discernible, and Sawyer whipped around. She hadn’t noticed the other car in the lot. It wasn’t one she recognized—an old-model red Celica, sporting three mismatched hubcaps and a rust stain that ran the length of the trunk. She couldn’t see who was inside, either, but she knew they were in a hurry. The driver didn’t turn on the headlights as he stamped on the gas, the Celica’s tires spinning once on the slick asphalt before they dug in and lurched the car forward with a high-pitched squeal.
Sawyer pulled the sweatshirt tighter across her chest and jogged back to her own car. Her heart lodged in her throat when she saw the folded mint-green envelope tucked under her windshield wiper. Her breath came in short gasps and she ran to the look where the car had gone. Was he her admirer? Was he waiting, watching right now, getting off on her terror?
The car was long gone and Sawyer spun back to her own, her fingers on the note. It was damp—not quite wet—and Sawyer’s hand recoiled.
Had it been there as she left Maggie’s house?
She slid into the driver’s seat and glanced out the front windshield. The small note was visible, but to a distracted driver…
She yanked the note out, fingers shaking.
No one will ever hurt you again, Sawyer.
Not while I’m watching you.
•••
Sawyer drove home in a fog, the raindrops starting with a gentle patter on the hood of her car, then moving to a loud rumble by the time she drove into Blackwood Hills Estates.
When she stepped through the front door, her father and Tara immediately stopped talking, looking up at Sawyer with eyebrows-up stares. Tara was curled on the couch, her belly swollen and huge, her bare feet tucked underneath one of the hemp pillows that Sawyer hated so much. Her father was leaning against his wife; the one hand that was tenderly massaging her back stopped and held her protectively.
Sawyer felt sick to her stomach. The image of her father and stepmother afraid, accusing, was almost too much to take. Her eyes started to water.
“I’m so sorry, Tara,” she said, “but I promise you—”
Tara held up a silencing hand and forced a small smile. “It’s okay, Sawyer. We can work all of this out. I know there must be a lot going on that we don’t understand.”
Sawyer pumped her head. “Yeah. But no more. I’m going to—I’m going to figure this out.”
She spun on her heels and took the stairs two at a time, peeling off her mud-soaked clothing when she got to her room. Sawyer dumped the soiled clothes into the hamper and choose a pair of warm, dry sweats, but the chill in her bones stayed with her, and she shivered, her teeth chattering as she clicked on her laptop and dug out her cell phone. While she waited for the Hawthorne High student page to load, she paced, chewing on her bottom lip and praying that she was making the right decision.
She wasn’t going to the police, after all.
Not exactly.
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