But I feel his eyes anyway, like a weight on my skin.
The second time is worse. He’s closer. Half a block back when I’m walking home from the diner, far enough not to grab and close enough to match my pace.
I speed up.
He does too.
I duck into the hardware store and don’t come out until my hands stop shaking. I stand between lawnmower blades and lightbulbs like I’m safer under fluorescent lights, like danger can’t follow me past the aisle with duct tape.
Friday afternoon I run into Elijah.
Of course I do.
He’s standing outside the gas station near the county line loading cases of bottled water into the back of a pickup with a Pearly Gates sticker on the bumper. He looks exactly the way he always has, like trouble doesn’t stick to him. Clean. Earnest. That kind of handsome that feels safe if you don’t think too hard about it.
“Elijah,” I say before I can stop myself.
He turns and smiles like he’s glad to see me. “Brittany. Hey.”
My stomach flips, stupid and traitorous. I’ve had a crush on him forever. He’s close to my age, twenty-one maybe twenty-two. Close enough to feel normal.
“Hey,” I manage, pushing my hair behind my ear like I’m still fifteen and trying to be cute.
“You look tired,” he says.
I laugh it off. “Work. School. Life.”
He nods like he understands, but his eyes search my face a second too long.
“You should be careful out here lately,” he says.
My pulse stutters. “Why?”
“Things are unsettled,” he says, and his voice stays light even though his eyes don’t. “People watching people.”
I go cold anyway.
“Another girl went missing last week.”
He says it almost casual, like he’s trying not to scare me, like he’s talking about weather.
“From our side,” he adds.
My stomach drops. “Ran off?”
“That’s what they’re saying,” he replies.
His eyes don’t look convinced. His gaze flicks past me to the road, checking it like he’s making sure nobody else is listening.
A chill crawls up my spine. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
His smile softens. “Just keep your head down, alright?”
I tell myself he’s warning me. I tell myself he’s being kind.
I don’t tell myself how the warning sounds practiced, like he’s repeating something he’s said before. Like maybe he’s said it to other girls too.
Friday night is when Hell stops whispering and starts leaving messages.
