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

guilt. My eyes drop to the floor. “I’m his unfinished business. And once he’s done with me, he’ll target your parents. I know it. I didn’t tell you, but he sent me a photo of your house. I thought it was just to taunt me, but I think it was his way of telling me his plans.”

He knifes a hand through his hair. A hiss escapes from his lips.

I keep my eyes down, unwilling to look into his eyes and see the disgust I’m sure is there.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

When I refuse, he walks around the table. Kneels at my side. With gentle fingers, he lifts my chin until our eyes meet.

My breath hitches.

The things I see in his eyes are not what I expected. No hatred or revulsion or anger.

“It seems like you’re blaming yourself for this, and it’s not your fault. None of it.”

Noah’s eyes are filled with conviction, compassion, and more I can’t afford to name.

“You don’t get it. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but Aunt Karen made me swear not to. To protect my identity. I moved here to lie low until they catch him. Because I saw him. He’s here to silence me. I brought him here.”

Noah shakes his head gently. My knee is warm under his gentle hand. He looks in the deputy’s direction. “You’re not responsible for that psycho’s actions. We have to tell someone though.”

“The sheriff already knows. He knows all of it.”

Chapter 32

Day 156, Tuesday

The pumpkin field is quiet except for the rumble of the tractor’s engine between my legs. I let its loud hum overtake the swarm of thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me.

It’s been four stifling days since Noah found out the truth about the Gemini Killer. Four days of him eyeing me warily in hallways and classrooms. Four days of waiting for the gossip and rumors to start, for the furtive, curious glances to begin again.

But for whatever reason, the contents of my late night conversation with the sheriff haven’t spread. Nor have the revelations I shared with Noah. He might be wary of me, but he hasn’t told anyone.

At home, Aunt Karen keeps constant tabs on me, constantly checking to make sure I’m wearing my bracelet. I’d had enough of the scrutiny, so I’d texted Esau. I’d hoped he’d be up for hanging out, even though we haven’t really talked since he found out I’d been lying to him about how I got my scar.

My bracelet sits on my wrist. Despite everything, I put it back on. Your parents would have wanted you to wear it.

“There are so many,” I say, looking at each row of leafy green vines as we pass to see all of the different varieties of gourds. Esau’s arms sling casually on either side of me as he steers the big three-wheel tractor between two fields of pumpkins. Some are smooth, vivid orange while others are white and wart-speckled. There’s something unsettling about the way the vines sprawl over the ground, as if they’d grab my ankle and drag me under if given the chance.

The frigid weather of a few days ago has given way to an Indian summer. Despite being mid-October, it’s a hot day. I opted for a cute dress, even though it wasn’t from Aunt Karen’s closet of approved wardrobe choices. I had hoped that the frivolity of it would take my mind off the shadows closing in. A breeze flutters the ruffles along my shoulders. It’s not really working.

“Twelve varieties,” Esau says. “Mr. Dell’Osso loves pumpkins. Grows more kinds than any other farmer in the area. You should see the place once Halloween hits. It’s a zoo.”

“Sounds fun,” I say, forcing my interest. I used to love Halloween. Morbid costumes. Horror movies. Going to haunted houses with friends. But now it all seems far too real. My fists clench on my knees. I’m not going to let him ruin it like he has everything else.

The tractor hits a rut in the dirt and I bounce back against Esau’s chest with a surprised squeal.

One of his arms bands around my waist. “Stay close,” he whispers in my ear. “Wouldn’t want you to end up like me, or that guy in that old Reese Witherspoon movie.”

My eyes widen in dismay. “There’s no plow on the back of this thing!”

He chuckles, doesn’t remove his arm from my waist. Instead, he steers one-handed. Whistling. Esau is whistling. It’s such an astonishing, happy sound that I can’t stop the genuine grin that splits my features.

For once I’m not tiptoeing around wondering when everyone will connect the dots and accuse me of luring a serial killer to Hacienda. When they’ll ask me what happened that day. To recount what I saw when I stepped into that kitchen, painted red with blood.

I force the memories away, focusing on the cheery orange of the growing pumpkins, the sun shining in a cloudless blue autumn sky. Esau’s warmth at my back. His arm resting on the tops of my thighs.

“Do you miss your parents?” I ask before I’ve even fully decided to.

Over my shoulder, he nods. “My mom calls me pretty often, so we talk. My dad sends me texts with random emojis. Not sure what he’s trying to say, but yeah. My tia and tio are great, but…”

“It’s not the same.” I understand. Aunt Karen tries. She does. But she doesn’t know from years of experience making my lunches that I don’t eat mayo. That I love having piles of blankets on the end of my bed for when I get cold. That I would occasionally climb into my dad’s lap to cuddle for just a minute, even though I’m far too old for stuff like that.

“I’m sorry about your parents.” His words are kind and matter-of-fact. Not whispered like grief is something to be hidden and ashamed of.

“Thanks. What’s the thing you miss most, about home?” I ask, not sure if the boy steering the machine under us can hear me over its grumbling.

“The