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

“What… what…?”

He trails a finger through the dirt at our feet. “Someone robbed the gas station. They killed the cashier, and Simeon. All for some measly cash. If I hadn’t begged for a popsicle...”

Horror fills me at this. My heart breaks for Noah as I realize that he blames himself for his brother’s death. “That wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for that. You were just a kid with a popsicle craving. You weren’t the one with the, the gun.” I swallow. His brother’s death wasn’t his fault. Not like me.

Because my parents’ death? That’s 100 percent my fault.

“It was a knife.” The last word is hesitant, as if it’s still difficult for him to say all these years later. Maybe it never gets easier at all.

I focus on the crawdads in the water, hoping to distract myself. Keep the threatening tears at bay. I do not want to cry out on a levy next to a bucket full of miniature lobsters. Once there are half a dozen clinging to the bait with their tiny pinchers, I glance at Noah. “Ready?”

He nods, holding the pool net low over the water.

I withdraw the chicken leg with a quick jerk, and he scoops up the crawdads before they realize they’ve been pulled out of the water. Dumping them in the bucket, he counts with one finger. Then he sets the net down and meets my eyes.

Somehow, despite the heartache Noah has carried since his brother’s death, he hasn’t let it stifle him. Noah is passionate about his family, school, his favorite anime. Noah is still among the living. He smiles easily, for goodness’ sake. Not like he has to dredge it up from the bowels of his sadness.

“That’s how I got into true crime. I thought I could solve it.” He goes quiet. He never managed it. They never found his brother’s killer. Just like they can’t find the man who slaughtered my parents.

Even so, Noah hasn’t let his tragedy stop him from growing, from reaching.

I can’t let it stop me either.

“Hey Noah?” I ask, knowing that once I utter these words, I can’t go back. I’m going to find proof that Justin is helping the Mayday Killer. No matter what Aunt Karen thinks. This is so much bigger than her now.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s solve it together.”

Chapter 23

Day 136, Wednesday

After my parents were murdered, I never thought I’d be in the right headspace to try growing orchids again. I stalled, all growth stunted by the grisly images that filter through my mind every other second of every day. But as day after day passes, I think about the blood, the screaming, less. Not never, just less. The worst part is no longer the mental picture of my parents’ bodies sprawled on the floor in pools of their own blood, but the guilt. The knowledge that I could have stopped it.

Or that my body should have been crumpled and broken on the ground beside them.

That buzzing in my fingers has returned. The desire to touch something green and watch it grow under my tender, careful care. I’m blaming it on Noah’s optimism and strolling between field after field of growing pumpkins on Sunday. Amid all those signs of life, how can I not want to be a part of it?

Aunt Karen said there were grow lights in the garage.

My head cocks to the side as I unlock the door leading into the unfinished room, wondering what other junk the previous occupants abandoned.

Shelving lines three of the walls, boxes in tall, rickety stacks. Their labels are almost indecipherable. It doesn’t matter, though. On the bottom shelf in the corner are the grow lights. They’re huge, long and industrial. Whoever was using these was serious about their weed. I sniff, trying to detect the smell of pot, but all I get is must. Damp cardboard. It’s been so long all traces are gone.

I draw up short. After a time, are all traces of my parents going to disappear from my life? Already my memories of them are growing softer, their edges blurry. I press my eyes closed, trying to picture them. I let out a relieved breath when they materialize in my mind, reading companionably on the couch after I’d headed to my room for the night.

Running my fingers along one of the long industrial lights, I shake my head. These fixtures are way too big to use in my bedroom. Maybe Aunt Karen will let me grow a couple of plants in the east-facing window in the kitchen instead. Small ones with bright blooms.

In the house a door shuts, making me jolt against the nearest shelving unit. On the bottom shelf, a large manila envelope slides out of a half-closed box and onto the concrete floor at my feet. Bending down, I pick it up. Peek inside.

My eyes expand as my heart thuds against my ribs. What the hell? Trembling fingers make the image shake even as I try to absorb what I find. It’s a photograph of me talking to Esau, sitting on his truck’s tailgate. The same photo that was on Justin’s murder board in his house.

Tremors cut through me as I dump out the items in the envelope. A gasp tears from my mouth when I see the contents—photos, articles, maps. All of the bits and pieces from Justin’s stalker board are here, stuffed into a box in Aunt Karen’s garage.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. With shaking hands, I take out my phone and snap photos for evidence. That way I’ll have it on me if I need it.

When I’m done, I shove them all back into the envelope. How did this junk get in here? How did Justin sneak it past the sheriff’s department and into this house?

My eyes land on the windows along the outer wall of the space. They’re not too small for someone to climb through. Not barred. I creep closer to get a better look and see one of the