“I see,” Cooper said with a grin. “So vanilla ice cream and root beer, that’s what made you a tough girl then?”
Sawyer feigned anger. “What do you mean, ‘then’? Cooper Grey, I’ll take you down right here.”
“I kind of wish you would.” The comment was suggestive and raced like lightning through the car, hanging heavy in the air. The thrilling zing rushed through Sawyer, and as quickly as it came, it was gone, replaced by that same sense of shame, of betrayal. She saw Kevin’s narrowed eyes, saw the blood seeping from Chloe’s wound.
“This is my street,” she said quickly.
Cooper slowed. “Which one is your house?”
“You know, don’t worry about it. You can just drop me here. It’s right there.” She waved in the vicinity of her house, hunkering in the darkness.
“What?”
Sawyer clicked open the door, and Cooper slammed on the brakes. “I’m just going to get out here.” She gathered her purse and hopped out of the car. “Thank you so much, Cooper, um, it was fun—well, not fun fun, but—you know. Thanks.” She snapped the door shut before Cooper could say anything and gave him a curt finger wave before turning on her heel and heading toward the bank of dark houses. She hated the way they seemed to leer at her, these gaping skeletons, but all at once the air in the car had gone from barely noticeable to so heavy it pushed all the air out of Sawyer’s lungs. She ran to her house and disappeared through the front door without waiting to see Cooper leave.
***
Sawyer couldn’t remember when—or if—she fell asleep, but she was staring at the ceiling by the time the sun started to tinge the ink-black night a pinky yellow. It had been too quiet to sleep; with every breath she took, Sawyer imagined the deathly silence filling her lungs, soaking through her body. When the first finger of light broke its way into her room, she kicked off the covers and wrestled her way into a sports bra and track pants, pulling on a long-sleeve shirt and running socks. She kicked through the mess of discarded clothing and random junk on her bedroom floor until she found one sneaker; she was on the floor, flat on her chest, reaching under her bed when the palm of her hand landed on the crumbs of something cold. She withdrew her hand and wrinkled her nose at the beads of dried mud that had embedded themselves in her palm. She brushed the mud off on her T-shirt and gave the bed a good heft with her hip, moving it a few inches. Her one errant shoe was there, flopped on its side, wedged between some books she was planning to shelve when she got around to getting shelves and a single metallic flat. Sawyer snatched up her sneaker and brushed off the dirt, trying to remember the last time she trail ran; the muck that usually clung to her shoes was red track dust. She slid the sneaker on and glanced back to the heap of books and the single shoe, the littering of dried mud. She edged the bed back in place and told herself she’d vacuum later.
The cold was overwhelming and bone deep when Sawyer stepped onto the porch. Her breath came out in puffed white clouds, and her muscles seized up as her lungs sucked in the icy air. She launched herself anyway, hands fisted, legs pumping. It didn’t take long for the warmth of motion to surge through her body. She zipped past three half-built houses, studs exposed like spindly skeletons as the warm air surged through her lungs, broke through her muscles.
Sawyer was a distance runner, not a speed runner, but she left her house quickly, clearing her street and her block in record time. As she ran she could feel the memory of Kevin, of the note, of Chloe and the oozing red gash pulling her back, doing its best to weigh on her, but she pushed harder, faster, her fists punching at the air in front of her, her heart metering out a quick, hot rhythm with her footfalls as they rang out hollow in the empty street. As she ran, something nagged at her periphery—something she was missing. She was deep in thought, trying to grab the missing piece, when she heard the footsteps behind her. They were quick, keeping easy pace with her, their echo cracking against the empty streets, bouncing off the model homes. Sawyer slowed and the footsteps mirrored her rhythm.
She stopped.
Suddenly the silence was too deep, too thick. It sunk into Sawyer’s chest, enveloping her so that she felt claustrophobic. Her fingers clawed at the zipper of her windbreaker, then pulled at the collar of her shirt. The street was deathly silent now.
Had she imagined the footsteps?
A branch broke behind her, and Sawyer sucked in a breath and held it, afraid to turn around—afraid not to. Her eyes searched the horizon in front of her and the breath seeped out of her body little by little as she saw each cookie-cutter house in front of her, each as perfect and as empty as the last.