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

fall. Crystal white dew clings to the roofs of all the houses when morning breaks. The library door opens and an icy gust slices through my sweater, chilling me to the bone.

I whip around, hoping to see Noah walking this way. Finally.

Instead, two old women cluck at the cold as they walk past the front desk toward the romance section. They’re so bundled up against the autumn chill they’re waddling like penguins.

Forcing my gaze down, I try to focus on my homework, but the words in my textbook might as well be in ancient Greek. I’m not getting anything done tonight.

The deputy in the corner who the sheriff tasked with keeping an eye on me doesn’t help my focus.

My eyes drift toward the large window and the moonlight beyond. It’s already dark; the days are getting shorter. And fewer in number, I think, unable to shake off the macabre idea. I run my fingers inside the rim of my bracelet, absently wishing for survival.

Police sirens ring outside the building, and when I look up a sheriff department vehicle rips up the street as it passes. I wonder where they’re headed. If they spotted the serial killer who haunts my waking hours as well as my nightmares. My eyes fall on my phone, which is still open to my photos. The photo of Noah’s front door, specifically.

Terror chokes me. What if they’re going to Noah’s house? What if something happened to him or his family? The sirens recede in that direction.

Crossing the lobby, I plant my feet in front of the deputy. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

The man looks up with a stern face. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Please?”

“No can do. Sorry.” With a sympathetic tilt of his head, he shifts his attention back to the card game he’s got open on his phone.

Putting my hand on top to block his vision, I lower my voice. “Please. I just need to know my friends are safe. The Lopezes?”

The man’s expression softens. “There’s a fire at a storage unit across town. Nowhere near the Lopez house. Nothing to worry about.”

It still doesn’t explain why Noah is so uncharacteristically late. Scooping up my phone from the table where I’ve been working gives me something to cling to as I send a message asking where he is.

A frigid wind slams into me as the library door opens.

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah says as he slides into the chair across from mine. “My mom took another shift, so I had to take Anza and Mattie to my abuelo and abuela’s house for their party. Where are we at with our project?”

“Party?” I ask absentmindedly, sinking in my seat in relief that he’s sitting across from me hale and whole.

Noah gets a stack of books out of his backpack and flips through until he finds the one he wants.

“Tomorrow’s their birthday. My grandparents will keep them and bring them back to our place when we’re all ready. Speaking of, how are you at hanging streamers or stuffing piñatas?” His eyes are warm behind his thick frames, but his smile starts to teeter under my horrified gaping. “You don’t have to come, but Anza asked about you, so I was thinking—”

“They share a birthday. Are they twins?” I choke out the words, my mind careening around my skull like a bug trapped in a jar. I blink when Noah gives a slow nod.

“I thought you knew.”

“But they’re different heights. They don’t look the same age.” I mumble, connecting the dots. The Mayday Killer must know that the youngest Lopez kids are twins. That’s the reason he sent me that photo. Not because I’m friends with Noah, but because their family makeup fits his sick criteria. My throat feels stuffed with cotton and I can’t seem to wet even though I swallow over and over.

I work my tongue, trying desperately to quell the panic clawing up my throat. I can’t breathe. Can’t look at my friend.

His parents are in danger. He could be an orphan tomorrow. Because of me.

Noah leans across the table, nudging my hand. “Megan? You’re freaking me out a little. What’s wrong?”

The textbook pages cut into my fingers, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip on them. The lemony sharp pain is the only thing grounding me right here, right now. My eyes flit absently around the library, to the window. I’m trying to figure out how much to tell Noah. If there’s anything I can say to help him without ruining everything. His deep brown eyes are on me, filled with concern.

I have to tell him. There’s no other choice.

“Are there any other sets of twins in town?” I manage.

“Not that I know of. Why?” Noah’s head angles to one side.

“You said your mom was working. Is your dad home?”

“Yeah. Again, why?”

I lick my lips. Once I say this I can never take it back. Noah will never look at me the same. All of the warmth and openness I see in his eyes will be replaced with pity. Revulsion. Still, it’s no reason to keep him in the dark. Even if he never speaks to me again, I have to tell him.

“The cops don’t call the Mayday Killer by that name. They use another one, but they kept it out of the press. The Gemini Killer.”

“Because he only kills Geminis?” Noah looks incredulous.

My entire body trembles as I shake my head. “Because he only kills the parents of twins. They buried that fact to keep people from panicking, but it’s true. He always goes after families of twins.”

Noah’s brown skin pales. “How— Megan. How do you know that?”

“He killed my parents,”—I gulp—“and my sister.”

Noah’s eyes skim over my scar. His gaze darts from me to the deputy sitting in the corner of the room with her nose buried in a thick history book. Abruptly, he stands up. His backpack falls off the table with a thunk. “He came here for you. You’re the reason he’s here.”

My head hangs heavy with