Who was watching him.
Even so, the bike felt better to him than the new car. It was weird, but he knew he didn’t deserve the car. Every time he got behind the wheel, he felt worse. The guilt was everywhere. On the fancy navigation screen. In the leather-wrapped steering wheel. In the engine.
He didn’t deserve it. He deserved nothing.
No, that wasn’t it.
He deserved to be in prison.
And he was going to confess. (He really was.) He just needed to figure out how. What he was going to say. When he was going to say it.
And for now . . . now, he was heading over to Kinley’s, on the other side of town. It was a half-hour bike ride. She’d called him, and she’d sounded nervous. Scared.
He remembered how calm she’d been that night. How utterly in control of the situation.
Something had her bothered now. She was really, truly scared. And he didn’t like that.
It had to be something big.
He wasn’t friends with Kinley, or anyone else involved besides Ivy, really. She wouldn’t just call him and ask him to come over for fun. He’d never been that guy—the one people wanted to hang out with.
He pedaled hard. His leg muscles were tight, and they screamed at him to slow down. He didn’t. He couldn’t.
What if someone had been messing with Kinley, too? Maybe he wasn’t the only one.
Maybe someone was screwing with all of them.
Mattie knew one thing with certainty:
He had to confess.
They all did.
But until then, he was going to show whoever was messing with him that he wasn’t scared. And that meant riding the bike. That meant acting like nothing was off.
He crossed the railroad tracks in the center of town, his tires bumping over the rails. The bike rode a little differently now, like something had been changed in transport. It wasn’t bad, per se—it was just strange. He’d tested his brakes, but they were fine. His pedals were moving smoothly. Maybe it was the seat, since his feet had to stretch to reach the pedals. (But why would anyone have taken the time to mess with the seat, just to return the bike?) Behind him an engine rumbled, heavy and loud.
He moved to the left side of the road, to allow the car to pass.
He looked over his shoulder. It wasn’t just a car; it was a truck. It was a huge gray pickup truck with a thick chrome grille. It was lifted, with an extended cab.
It was a monster—the kind of truck that smashed smaller cars.
And it was coming toward him. Fast. Down the middle of the street.
He eased his bike a little farther to the left.
The truck sped up and veered with him, the engine revving.
It was following him.
Mattie looked back and saw the truck was closer, the engine roaring like some sort of wild animal. He couldn’t see the driver. The windshield was tinted heavily, making the machine seem less like it had a human behind the wheel and more like it was some sort of creature come to life to kill him.
And it would. It would squash him like an insect, leave him flattened and dead on the street.
Mattie pedaled faster. Harder. He was almost to Kinley’s house—could he make it there before the truck caught him? Or should he try to hop the curb, to go somewhere the truck couldn’t? The engine roared louder in his ears, and the sweat beading on his forehead began to fall into his eyes. He blinked quickly, his vision blurring, and used his forearm to wipe the moisture away.
The truck advanced, the chrome glinting sharply in the hot sunlight. Mattie could almost feel the heat of the engine. The fumes of the exhaust reached his nose.
It was after him. The truck was trying to kill him.
And Mattie couldn’t outrun it.
He jerked the handlebars sharply.
His bike tire hit the curb and skidded. Mattie slammed on the brakes hard. Too hard. The back wheel of the bike popped up, propelling Mattie over the handlebars.
He hit his head on the sidewalk.
The last thing he saw before everything went dark was the black tires of the truck, bearing down on him.
Kinley
Monday, June 29
“Holy shit, Kin. Holy shit.” Tyler stood at the front window, his mouth slightly open.
“What?” she asked. “What is it?”
Tyler didn’t answer. He threw open her door and sprinted outside. She followed him, her braid bouncing against her back.
He knelt down at the sidewalk.
Beside Mattie.
She rushed to the street. Mattie lay there, sprawled out next to his bike, his hair matted with blood.
A lot of blood.
It was more than his hair. A wide pool of red was spreading out beneath him, and his face was white.
As white as Stratford’s face had been.
“Is he alive?” Kinley asked, her heart racing. “Is he okay?”
“He’s not okay,” he said. “But he’s alive. Kinley, call 911. Now.”
Kinley sprinted into the house. It crossed her mind that her parents would probably find out about this, and that meant they’d realize Tyler had been here, but for once, she didn’t care.
She couldn’t have someone else die.