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

that the late night hours are the only free time Esau has. I’m surprised when he speaks.

“I’ve been wondering why you moved here to live with your aunt. If it has to do with the scar. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.” His nose skims along my cheek before his head sinks back against his pillow.

My lungs squeeze in my chest. I want to tell Esau the truth about Before. Why I’m here. But I can’t. “I don’t… want to talk about it. Why I moved here. But I got the scar in a surfing accident.”

Esau’s arm tenses around me. “Ouch.”

“My best friend wanted to learn, and on my first wave, I fell off. Hit my face on a rock. There was… blood everywhere.” My throat goes dry at the memories that threaten to surface. I wedge my eyes shut and bury my face in the pillow.

“Hey, wanna see something?”

I look at him over my shoulder warily. “Depends.”

“Not like that,” he huffs. “Look.” Sitting up, he lifts his sweatshirt just enough that I can see a jagged scar on his side.

I wince.

“Got it when I jumped off a moving tractor and got run over by one of the back wheels. Sharp rock cut right through my shirt.”

“It looks like it hurt.”

“Like hell. Serves me right for acting stupid around heavy machinery.”

“Won’t make that mistake again,” I tease.

“Nope.”

We lay back down in our bags and stare up at the starry night. I take comfort in the fact that Esau, like me, has scars. Physical reminders of what we’ve experienced. His isn’t on his face, but it still helps a little. Somehow knowing that he’s got scars too helps me feel not so alone.

Later, when Esau drives me home just as pale gray light is bleeding into Earth’s indigo canopy, I delete the texts between him and me. When Aunt Karen checks my phone this weekend, a new rule she’s instituted since she found out about the catfishing, there won’t be anything to see.

Chapter 27

Day 147, Sunday

I run as fast as I can. Like the devil himself is chasing me. Maybe he is.

My feet crash through the underbrush. Twigs and leaves crush under my shoes like brittle bones. A branch whips across my face, lighting it on fire. My eyes water. I have to reach the house. If I ask her, Aunt Karen will fetch my books and backpack from where I abandoned them at the treeline.

My fingers tighten around my phone, and the message I finally got back from CuteAshleeXOXO. My first instinct on seeing the photo was to toss it into the irrigation ditch. Not that it would keep the Mayday Killer from finding me and finishing what he started almost six months ago. Not since he knows exactly where I am due to my own stupid actions.

Harsh, slanted words cut across the bottom of the photo.

Don’t play coy. You know who I am. Do you know this place?

I have to show Aunt Karen the photo. She’ll recognize where it is. She has to. And she won’t be able to explain this away like she did with Justin.

“Help,” I scream as I break free of the treeline. Branches cling to my sweatshirt like tiny hands holding me back. Even the trees are enemies. Swiping at the branches and leaves with frantic hands, I stumble toward the back door. If I can just get inside…

I burst into the kitchen, yelling at the top of my lungs. “You have to see this. He sent me another message. He’s coming for me. Hello?” My fingers tremble as I take another look at the screen. It’s a zoomed in photo of a front door with chipped blue paint. Old terra-cotta pots dripping with succulents flank the portal. I stare at it, willing my brain to come up with the rest of the image. I’ve seen that place. Been there before, but I can’t picture it. Where is this?

The ceiling above creaks. “Aunt Karen? You up there?”

No answer.

My heart pulsates in my chest. What if he’s already here in the house? What if he’s up there waiting right now? Hidden in some darkened corner for me to come close enough to be snatched. I close my eyes against the fearful thoughts spiraling through me. Unbidden, a glinting knife stained crimson with blood appears. My entire body constricts at the memory.

It’s not real. He isn’t here. Yet.

“Are you home?” I call again once I find the courage to utter the words.

The house falls quiet.

It’s strange. She was here in the kitchen attempting to make sloppy joes when I went out back to do my homework in the eucalyptus grove. The pot is still bubbling away on the stove. The meal’s sweet, tangy scent fills the room. A short stack of plates sits on the counter next to it. A pair of wine glasses sit in the sink waiting to be washed.

Shoving my phone into the front pouch of my hoodie, I shuffle through the house, checking in each room.

No sign of her.

A flash of light breaks through the living room window at the front of the house. It’s narrow and cool-toned, like a flashlight. As if someone is sneaking along the front of the building. My eyes fly to the front door, and I halt. The knob and deadbolt are both unlocked.

Come on, I tell myself. Run over there and lock it before he can get inside. You can do this. You have to do this.

Still, I stand there unable to lift even a toe. Petrified by fear.

The flashlight moves outside, electrifying me into movement.

My shoes pound over the wooden floor as I sprint across the living room and throw the deadbolt. Twist the lock on the knob.

Breathing heavily, I let my forehead drop against the door.

I’m safe.

A low murmuring catches my ear. Someone is whispering outside. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but they’re angry. Sick curiosity compels me to ease up just enough to look through the peep