Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) by Emily Kazmierski (summer reads .txt) 📗

My guardian studies my face for a moment, as if weighing what to say. Finally, she opens her mouth. “I don’t believe Justin is dangerous.”

I close my eyes, unwilling to show her my tears. “And the sheriff agrees.”

“He doesn’t know what to think.”

“Maybe he has a tool shed or something? Maybe he hid everything in there?”

“Megan. The sheriff got there less than ten minutes after you called. Even if Justin had been home, he wouldn’t have had time to get rid of anything. Much less hide it in a tool shed.”

I shake my head. It’s clear from Aunt Karen’s tone that she’s skeptical. It’s implied. What I’m saying is impossible. Why would she believe me when I tell her that the guy she’s been seeing is a murderer’s apprentice, and he’s after me? Of course she’d want to poke holes in my story.

But it’s not a story. I saw it.

“The sheriff is going to have one of his deputies patrol our neighborhood tonight to keep an eye out for Justin. If they find him, they’ll talk to him.”

“A lot of good that’ll do.”

Aunt Karen’s sigh is long and labored. She stands, pushing down her slacks as she straightens. “I told you I’d keep you safe, and I will. Try not to dwell on it, okay?”

Easy for her to say, I think once she’s gone. Her disbelief hurts more than I can comprehend. Like the sheriff said, Aunt Karen must think I made it all up for attention. As if I’d want more attention. I’ve already had enough of that.

Day 8

The crowd of reporters hovers near the iron gate that bars entry into the cemetery. The security guard was decent enough to keep them out during the funeral. But even from that far away, their focus is like a laser pointed at my back. Burning my skin. Cutting through to where my heart feels completely numb, or perhaps frozen solid.

Gray clouds sit low, smothering the sky. At my feet, stiff green grass tries to swallow my only pair of high heels. Mom had put off buying them for me for so long, saying I’d have plenty of time to have them when I was a grownup. As if being seventeen isn’t close enough. When she’d finally caved, she’d made a day of it. We’d gone shopping for new shoes and then out to my favorite ramen place for lunch. We’ll never go shopping together like that again.

At my feet, the ground drops off into two long, six-feet-deep holes. The caskets have already been shut tight and lowered into the earth. I will never see my parents’ faces again, except in photos and old videos.

I’m surrounded by friends and family in a sea of quiet, sniffling black. Aunts and uncles and cousins have come to show their love and support on this day. But even though I’m surrounded by people I’ve known all my life, I feel completely alone. None of them look directly at me, only out of the corner of their eyes. My pain is too raw, too ugly.

I don’t blame any of them as they hover around me, afraid to speak. To extend the kindness of a hug or a tender touch. Their silent eyes graze the back of my neck, making me wish I could run. Hide. Never show my damaged face again.

The minister begins to speak, but all I can hear is the screaming in my head. A high, shrill keening that rends my soul. Echoes of that day. The day my parents were divided from me by death.

I pinch my eyes shut to ward off the gruesome images that threaten to invade. Wish someone would take my hand, squeeze my fingers to distract me from the hollow gulf that has opened in my chest, threatening to swallow me whole.

The scream replays in my mind.

I’ll probably never stop hearing it.

That scream.

I’ll never stop hearing it

because

it’s

me.

Chapter 21

Day 130, Thursday

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My eyes pop open. There it is again—a high, tinkling rap. Not something I’ve heard in the old house before. Maybe it’s water moving through the pipes, or a drip from the faucet in the hall bathroom. It stops, and I roll over to my other side, pulling up the sheet I kicked off in the middle of the night. My legs are cold.

The barest light is pouring over the horizon, lightening my room through the slats in the blinds.

Tap. Tap.

I sit up abruptly. That wasn’t dripping water.

Tap.

“Megan?”

The name is barely a hint on the air, but I recognize that voice. I press my ear against the wall but hear nothing. I straighten the camisole I slept in and slide nimbly off my bed. My ears strain in the silence. The hallway is empty, all other doors still closed against the night.

The low voice comes again.

Spinning around, I tiptoe across my room and peek through the blinds. See a pair of black plastic frames over wide brown eyes.

I let out a surprised yelp and snap the blinds shut. I grab a t-shirt out of my dresser and yank it over my head before adding a pair of shorts. My cheeks burn in mortification at the thought of Noah seeing me in my cami and pale pink thong.

He’s still crouching on top of the patio cover when I open the blinds and slide the window open.

“What are you doing out here?” I whisper.

Noah glances past me into the house. “Can I?”

“No! No,” I say, quieter. Crawling out beside him, I sit carefully on the rough wooden shingles, hugging my knees to hide the fact that it’s still a little cool out this early in the morning.

Some kind of bird is trilling in one of the eucalyptus trees, so I cock my head to listen. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that particular whistle before. It sounds lonely, but beautiful.

“I went through all the photos for our collage, and I think we’re pretty much set. We just need a few more black ones and