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.
She sifted through smiling profile pictures on the student page until she found the one that she wanted.
“Hello?” He answered on the first ring, and Sawyer recognized Logan’s voice immediately and hoped that he didn’t recognize hers.
She cleared her throat. “Um, hello. Can I—may I speak to Stephen, please?”
Logan paused for a beat, and Sawyer’s heart clanged like a fire bell.
“Stephen?”
“Yes. Please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
Sawyer went back to pacing. “Um…”
“Sawyer? Is that you?”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, hi, Logan.”
“I didn’t know you and Stephen were friends.” Logan’s voice had changed. It was slow, even.