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

still free. Lurking in the dark crevices of my mind and waiting for his next chance to cut and rend with his bloody blade.

Now, I can add siccing a tail on the Lopez family to my list of transgressions. Justin didn’t mean them any harm, but it didn’t prevent Anza and Mattie from being scared enough to keep their parents up all that night, crying from the nightmares.

I did not envy Aunt Karen for having to come up with an explanation to give Mr. and Mrs. Lopez about why Justin was sneaking around their property.

Aunt Karen informed me that the sheriff’s deputies are keeping a close watch on the Lopez house for signs of the Mayday Killer, and that they’re doing everything they can to warn twin families in nearby towns. But it’s the same as before: how do they warn the public without causing panic? If every twin family in the state knows what’s going on, how long before the public makes a spectacle out of it? How long before they whisper his name, sizing up their neighbors and friends as future murder victims. How long before the true crime fanatics descend on our town, digging for clues the sheriff and his cronies may have missed?

My stomach clenches tight and doesn’t loosen.

I can’t let that happen.

In May, when I thought I was being followed, I let my need for my parents’ approval, my need to please them win out over my instincts that were screaming something bad was happening. No longer. I can stop this, now. The time to be a shy orchid bud tucked behind a leaf is over. Instead, it’s time to be a vivid purple bloom. Demanding attention.

Taking the cuff off my wrist, I leave it on the desk. I pull on my favorite hoodie and zip it to my chin. Its over-large bulk is like a security blanket, even though it’s lost any hint of my dad’s scent. The greasy musk he’d track into the house after spending hours in the garage working on his latest car project. It’s the first time I’ve worn it out, because I know if Aunt Karen saw it she’d make me change clothes.

I allow myself one heartbeat to wallow in the absence of it, of him, and then I’m opening my door and peering down the hallway.

The master bedroom door is closed, just like it’s been since I moved here in August.

Downstairs, the house is quiet. I don’t know where Aunt Karen is, but she can’t be far. The fire in the corn field almost put her over the edge. She checks on me every half hour, it feels like. Not to mention the constant inquiries about my phone. The uneasy rhythm we’ve fallen into is coiling tighter and tighter. Living in this house is to be on high alert every minute. It makes it difficult to breathe.

I manage to hit every creaking board on the staircase on the way down, but still there’s no sign of my guardian.

My heart is chugging around my chest like a toy train flying off its tiny rails as I reach the front door. I slide open the deadbolt achingly slowly. Turn the knob at such a glacial pace that it may never actually open. Then I’m outside.

A noise in the house makes me bolt down the sidewalk and away from the building that I’ve never warmed to and will probably never feel like home.

I run through town as if being chased by Aunt Karen herself. I refuse to stop, knowing that if I pause even a second to re-think this I may not go through with it.

My lungs are burning and I can’t catch my breath. I run headlong into somebody, and Chinese takeout rains over the sidewalk.

“Urgh,” the man says, scrambling to catch the rest of the Styrofoam containers before every bit of his dinner is on the concrete.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry, Mr. Baugh. I have some money. I can buy you more dinner. Here, take this.” Digging into the pouch of my hoodie, I dig out my phone and slip out the twenty Aunt Karen handed over because she ordered me to always carry cash. But even as I’m holding it out to him, it occurs to me that twenty dollars won’t be nearly enough to replace all of the food he’s dropped.

“It’s fine, Megan. Really. I can’t take your money,” he says even as his fingers close around the green in my hand.

“It’s the least I can do,” I say as I duck past him.

“You seem like you’re in a hurry. Going somewhere?”

“Thought I’d check out the corn maze,” I say between choppy breaths. Now that I’ve stopped running, I don’t know if I’ll be able to begin again. My hands press into my knees as I take great gulps of air and force them into my lungs.

“Do you need a ride? It’s on my way.”

“No thanks! I don’t want you to be late for whatever party you’re taking all that food to.”

“Party? Oh, right.” Mr. Baugh’s eyebrows draw together as he glances down at the large quantity of food splattered over his shoes. “I don’t mind being a little late.”

“That’s okay. See you Monday!” I shove my body into a jog. I can’t let my teacher distract me from the task I’ve set myself.

The maze is packed with couples kissing in out-of-the way corners. Screams of delight and panic fill the air. The heady scent of apple cider and fried cinnamon-sugar donuts makes my mouth water as I meander through the towering stalks of corn.

Footsteps approach, and I whirl, expecting to find a face nearly smothered by a grizzled beard and thick, unkempt eyebrows.

A pack of laughing guys hoots and hollers at the way I nearly jump out of my skin, but then they’re rushing past me further into the depths of the maze.

I posted on my photography profile over an hour ago that I would be here, but the Mayday Killer hasn’t shown his face.

A knife-wielding