Gideon guides me back to the living room. He sits beside me, placing a hand on mine. The phone presses into the underside of my thigh. I dig it out, rubbing my fingers over it, desperate to show him the message.
Asher wanders in holding a glass of water. I take it, my phone sliding to one hand. “Thanks,” I mumble as he moves to the recliner.
If I share what’s on my phone, the two people I love the most will try to intervene. And this maniac will do whatever it takes to protect himself. He’ll make sure I’m locked up, and this town will think Melody was right about me all along.
If that’s not enough, he’ll find other ways to silence Asher and Gideon.
Until I figure out who’s doing this and find proof, I can’t say anything. To anyone. I sip the water, letting the possibilities tumble through my brain.
Brandon hated Melody. The most obvious answer is that the notebook never made it into my purse. It fell and he found it. Or he reached under the diner table and snatched it when I wobbled off to the restroom. I’d had so much to drink that I simply believed he could be trusted.
Still, someone was watching us at Seth’s house. Maybe Melody wasn’t exaggerating when she said he was stalking her. It would explain the scene outside the diner and his presence the night of the party. He could’ve noticed the notebook fall from my purse. It gave him a plan and someone to frame for it. And a smart guy like Seth could’ve figured out her phone password.
“Cass.” Gideon removes his hand, twisting to look at me. “Your mom can drive us to the station. We’d probably be back in an hour.”
“I’ll go first thing in the morning.”
Gideon opens his mouth to protest, but Asher straightens. “Let her sleep, Gideon. You can call and talk to the detectives now. They don’t need both of you right this second.” He rests his head on his palm. “You’re just going to repeat the same story.”
Gideon scoots to the edge of the sofa. “I never know what story Cass is going to tell these days.” He stands and trudges down the hall. Moments later, he returns with his backpack, continuing past us to the front door.
“Gideon.” The phone is heavy in my fingers. No matter what I do, I’m going to lose him.
“Tell your mom thanks for dinner.” He opens the door and strides out. I have the urge to run after him. To show him the text messages. To tell him what Brandon said at the party. Mostly, though, I want him to stay.
And he wants to get as far away from me as possible.
The door clicks shut and Asher raises a brow. “What was that about?”
My phone is starting to slip from my sweaty fingers. “He thinks I’m keeping things from him.”
“Are you?”
If I lie one more time tonight, my soul is going to melt into a black puddle on the floor. I bite my bottom lip to keep the words and the tears back.
“It’ll be fine,” Asher says. “I’ll talk to him.” He runs a hand over his dark hair. I notice the smooth, shiny pink skin that runs along his left palm, puckering into a ridge that disappears beneath his sweatshirt sleeve. The scars continue up his arm. There are more on his right forearm. He shouldn’t have those marks, those permanent reminders of what a disappointment he has for a sister.
When I was seven years old, I was playing out back with a neighbor, Sara Leeds—Melody’s younger cousin and the reason Melody has made my life in Maribel a living hell.
My dad had built us an enormous wooden playhouse with white scalloped trim, functioning windows, and slatted shutters. There was a little plastic table inside, and my mom let Sara and I decorate it with an old tablecloth and some tiny porcelain teacups. Sara and I brought our dolls for a tea party. Mine looked like me, blue eyes and brown hair, and Sara’s had blue eyes and blond hair like she did.
We were being kids, feeding our dolls cakes made of grass and pebbles on the fancy tea set. But I had an idea to make it even fancier. My mom kept some old candles in the garage, and I’d seen where they kept the fire starter in the kitchen drawer. Sara agreed that a candlelit table would take our tea party to the next level.
I dug up the candles and lit them after several fumbled attempts, the scent of apple pumpkin spice swirling around us.
I turned around to bake up some more of those lovely cakes, knocking one of my mom’s china teacups onto the floor. It shattered, and Sara threatened to tell on me.
I moved toward her, begging her to keep quiet. But I bumped the candle. It toppled over, and the whole place went up in flames. Smoke soon filled the space, and before anyone heard our screams, I passed out.
That’s what I think happened. The last thing I really remember is yelling at Sara to shut her mouth about that stupid teacup.
I woke up in the hospital. All I cared about was my doll. I kept asking about it until my mom finally told me it was gone. Burnt up. Later, I learned that Asher pulled Sara and me out, but only I survived.
And I haven’t stopped hearing about it since.
I was closer to the playhouse door when Asher got to us. I bear faint scars on my legs, where some burning boards fell on me. Asher’s scars are from when he went back in for Sara and the rest of the place crashed into a flaming heap. The scars—both of our scars—aren’t just a reminder to Asher; they’re a reminder to me of how I killed my first friend and almost killed my brother.
Now, I tear my gaze from the marks and shake my head. “No, Asher. I can handle Gideon myself.”
His shoulders sag. “Okay. Forget it.” He stands up and walks off down the hall. Regret pinches my insides.
I follow suit, shutting myself in my room. I try to finish my homework, but my mind continues to wander. The closest thing I have to a homework-related thought is about Gideon. Poor Gideon. He’ll never finish his English homework without me. Mostly though, I think about Melody and about the threats on my phone. And if there’s any way to get this guy without losing everything.
* * *
The next morning, two detectives are on my porch. The one who greets me is a tall man with dark curls. “Good morning. Cassidy Pratt?”
I nod.
“I’m Detective Reyes from the Oregon State Missing Persons Division. This is Detective Sawyer.” He motions to a stout woman whose brassy hair is pulled back into a bun.
“Hi.”
“Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?”
I scan the houses around us. Whoever’s doing this could be watching me right now, waiting for an excuse to make good on his threats. “You should come in. My mom will want to know you’re here.”
“Not a problem. Thank you.” Detective Reyes allows his partner to scoot past him inside the house.