My breath freezes in my lungs. What the hell is this?
I thumb through the pictures. Underneath them is a list. A list written in frighteningly familiar handwriting, done in all different pens, as if it’s been added to over time.
DOB October 3.
Apartment 7A in Iberville Rentals.
Gold ’01 Kia Rio.
Lung disease related to prematurity and cystic fibrosis.
Mom Debbie, sister Jenny.
Absent father—gambling and addiction issues.
Unaware of his current whereabouts.
Page after page of information about me. Things I told him. Things I didn’t…
For a crazy minute I think she’s back. Sam, my stalker from last year. This would be just like her. But that’s impossible. I’m here, in Tucker’s room.
Under the stack of my life is another, labeled FARRAH WEIR-MONTGOMERY.
“What are you doing?”
A bolt of panic goes through me. I spin around.
Tucker is standing in the doorway.
Tucker takes in the open drawer and the notebook still in my hand. Heat blazes on my cheeks. I almost stuff the folder back in the drawer, but what’s the point? He knows I’ve seen it.
“What is this, Tucker?” I demand, my voice cracking as I hold up the notebook. “You’ve been spying on me?”
I want him to deny it. To say it isn’t what it looks like. But he just sighs.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” My voice is as sharp as a blade and thick with emotion. “You’re the one behind the game. Sending those invitations, the gifts. Punishing us. Acting like you had no idea.”
“You don’t understand,” he starts, but I interrupt him.
“I understand perfectly. You were getting close to me so you’d know how to manipulate me.”
“You’ve got it all wrong—”
“You lied about your cousin. I read the newspaper article.”
He ducks his head.
“You—you threw the smoke bomb,” I test.
He doesn’t deny it.
The shock and embarrassment of being caught funnels away, and all that’s left is anger. “I could have died!”
“But you didn’t.” He takes a swift step closer. “I saved you. This is what I was trying to tell you.”
“I’m calling the police.” I shake my head and start to walk around him, but he blocks the path.
“Hope, please. Can’t you just hear me out first? Give me a chance to explain?”
I push him in the chest. He doesn’t see it coming and stumbles back. But when I go to push him again, he grabs my hands.
I level him with an icy glare and infuse as much venom into my next words as possible: “Let me go.” I try to pull out of his grip, but his hands clamp harder.
“Listen, Hope.”
“I’ve heard enough, and I want to go.”
He pulls my arms closer so I stumble into his hard chest. “You need to listen to me.”
“I need to leave.” I pull back as viciously as I can, but his hands are deadly strong. All hints of the begging, pleading Tucker are gone. I can’t believe this is the same guy who wants to travel the world, who ran his fingers delicately over my palm in the dark, who stole my first kiss.
“Help!” I scream. Where is that maid? Doesn’t she care that this is happening? And where is Lyla? She was supposed to call. Why isn’t she helping me now?
Tucker’s parents are at work. Mom thinks I’m at home. No one knows I’m here.
Tucker backs me farther into the room. I trip over a pile of his laundry, but he keeps me upright with his iron grip. I’m not getting away.
The doorbell rings, and Tucker glances over his shoulder. I see my opportunity. While he’s distracted, I kick him in his bum knee. He howls and buckles, and I slip free, running around him toward the door. He limps after me. His fingers graze my arm just before I’m out the door.
I take the stairs two at a time and skid into the front door. I yank on the handle, but it won’t budge. I fumble for the deadbolt, but then Tucker’s at the top of the stairs, and I see the same rage that kid must have seen just before he was beaten unconscious.
He leaps down the stairs. I give up on the door and jump out of the way, stumble-running through the house, my breaths coming in sharp gasps. Martina flattens herself against the wall as I whip past her in a hallway. Something smashes behind me, and I shriek, sprinting faster.
Through a sitting area.
Through a dining room.
Through a kitchen.
A set of patio doors. Please don’t be locked. Please don’t be locked.
They’re not. I fumble with the latch, and the door swooshes open. Just as a pair of hands closes around my shoulders.