He’s right, of course.
“Scared?” I mock him, to take the edge off the conversation.
He doesn’t take the bait. “Prepared,” he says seriously.
We make the turn onto Generals Highway, a two-lane road that stretches for miles all the way to Annapolis. Out here, the houses are few and far between, and the speed limit is high. In her email, she said she was missing a tire. Did that mean she’d had a blow-out, or had someone stolen it?
We come around a bend, and I see a car way up ahead, parked on the shoulder. Strips of rubber litter the road and make little bumps under my wheels. I take my foot off the accelerator, preparing to pull over behind her. My heart has picked up a staccato rhythm in my chest. I’m excited. I’m terrified. I want to throw myself out of my car, jump into hers, and say, “You. You understand me.”
And after that, I want to sit in the car with her, breathing the same air, just being present with someone else who gets it.
Then my eyes register the color of the vehicle on the shoulder. The bright yellow side panel is like a beacon in the path of my headlights.
My heart stops. Freezes over.
I hesitate, just for a moment, still allowing my car to drift onto the shoulder.
Then I jerk the wheel back into the traffic lane and downshift into third to accelerate past her broken-down car.
Rev turns to me, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
I can barely speak around the block of ice forming in my chest. “Going home.”
“Why? What happened?”
“You were right. It was a setup.”
“What? Who? How do you know?”
I don’t answer him. I have to focus on the road, on remembering my best friend is seated beside me, because otherwise I might drive straight off a cliff.
“Dec,” Rev says, his voice quiet. “Talk to me.”
“That’s her car.”
He hesitates. “Right . . . ?”
I glance over. “Juliet Young’s car. Don’t you remember? We jumped her battery.”
“Yeah, but—how are you sure it’s her car?”
“Because I looked at it.”
He’s quiet again, studying me. “You genuinely think she’s setting you up?”
“Yes. No.” I run a hand through my hair, then punch the steering wheel. I’m halfway yelling, and I know I need to get my emotions under control, especially if I’m going to face Alan anytime soon. I clench my teeth and grit out the words. “I don’t know, Rev. Just—I don’t know. Forget it.”
I know you’re a loser with a record.
Everything I’ve felt has been an illusion. Everything. Juliet Young doesn’t know anything about me. She sees the same thing everyone else does: a guy killing time until he’ll be riding the government’s dime, being told when to sleep and when to eat.
My throat feels so tight I don’t think I can swallow. Heat is building in my chest, melting the block of ice. This feels like fury. This feels like betrayal.
I can’t believe I told her about my father. I can’t believe I told her about Kerry.
Thank god we kept it anonymous.
I jerk to a stop in front of Rev’s house like an impatient taxi driver. I don’t look at him. I don’t even move. I keep my eyes fixed on the windshield.
“We could go back,” he says.
“No.” My voice is rough.
“Dec. She’s stuck there. Anyone could—”
“Good for her.”
“But we should call—”
“Rev.” I swing my head around to glare at him. “Are you going to get out or what?”
He stares back at me. The judgment in his eyes is killing me.
I turn my eyes back to the darkness. My fingers are knotted around the steering wheel. “Get out, Rev.”
He gets out, but he stands there looking at me.
“Where are you going?” he says.
“Home,” I snap. I reach out, grab his door, and slam it.
Then I put the car into gear and drive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
INBOX: CEMETERY GIRL
No new messages
I’ve refreshed my inbox at least a hundred times. Maybe two hundred.
He told me he was on his way twenty minutes ago. I probably could have walked to school in twenty minutes. The rain has slowed, and now it’s a steady tap-tap-tap-tap on the roof of the car. The headlights went dim a few minutes ago, which must be a sign the battery is getting ready to give up the fight. I kill the headlights, but I leave the parking lights on. The last thing I need is some half-drunk kid slamming into my parked car because he didn’t see me sitting here. I already had a near panic attack when one car veered onto the shoulder, only to swerve around me and accelerate like a bat out of hell.
My dress has started to dry, and for some reason that makes me colder. I keep shivering intermittently.
I try my dad again. No answer.
I try Rowan again. Straight to voice mail. Her phone must have died.
I stare at the screen, willing The Dark to send me a message. Something. I’m going to have to call 9-1-1 in a minute. I don’t know what else to do.
I’ve been sitting in my car for half an hour, not doing a thing to help myself. I try to imagine what Mom would do in this situation. She would have gotten out in the rain and flagged someone down. She would have ended up getting a ride from the ambassador to Australia, and his wife would have offered her a wrap, and Mom would have been invited to dinner at the embassy.
I’d get out, start waving, and end up under some idiot’s tires.
Against my will, tears flood my eyes. Before I realize it, I’m sobbing into my hands. The emotion warms me up from inside, but not in a good way. My shoulders shake from the force of it, and I don’t try to stop them. Why bother? There’s no one here to see.
Knuckles rap on my window.
I gasp and jerk my hands down. A man stands in the rain beside my car.
He’s here! Oh, he’s here! I swipe at my face. My heart cavorts and prances and leaps.
But then my eyes process what they’re seeing. Headlights shine behind us, lighting half his face and filling my car with light.
It’s not The Dark. It’s Declan Murphy.