For the first year following her disappearance seven years ago, every circling buzzard over the desert was her corpse, every report of a lost hiker had her face. I couldn’t stomach murder mystery shows because every beautiful young victim was her, scooped up by a serial killer along the I-17.
Now she’s back, treating me like this.
I want to yell at her. Shake her. Tell her how worried sick I was. How worried my entire family was. I want to demand she tell me why she never let us know she was okay. Hold her in my arms and let myself relax for the first time since she disappeared seven years ago.
But Sierra already seems freaked out just seeing me again,and I barely convince her to stay at my house instead of walking along the dangerous highway with speed-demon tourists to that sketchy, crusty motel.
Did she not miss me at all? We weren’t officially together during those last few weeks before she ran off, but we were best friends for most of our childhood. For her not to even look happy to see an old friend cuts deep.
Worse, she looks surprised that I would help her. That she thinks so little of me hurts more than anything.
But when she hops into the passenger seat of my truck, all my rage and joy and hurt fizzle away. I feel like I’m seventeen again. I’m hyperaware of Sierra sitting next to me on the way home. Her presence fills the whole cab.
How is it possible for her to become even more beautiful? She was always fit, but now her body is curvy and strong, her skin tanned and glowing. Her arms and legs are so muscular, Cole will probably beg for her lifting routine when he sees her. And her face—gorgeous. Her dark, expressive eyes nearly strike me dumb every time she makes eye contact with me.
I clear my throat. “How did you get stuck here?”How on earth did you leave last time?
“I was just passing through, trying to get to Sedona.”
“Why?”Why did you leave without telling me where you went?“For fun?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m meeting some friends.”
What aboutourfriendship?“Nice,” I choke out.
“Whoa! This is your house? Look at this place!”
I glance at it with fresh eyes. A pueblo with a tidy landscape. Small, as only a 1920s home can be, but cute and well-maintained after our efforts to spruce it up.
A sense of déjà vu washes over me as I park and lead hertoward the front door. How many times did I take her home with me over the years? Different home, but the same emotion rises regardless.
“Comfy,” she declares once she takes in the living room—a large couch, TV, and an overstuffed chair. Video game consoles and Seth’s guitar case are propped in the corner. She sets her bags down on the couch and stretches.
I quickly look away.
“I like a minimalist look,” she says. “You said you live with Seth?”
Just then, Seth’s SUV pulls into the driveway.
“Speak of the devil,” I say.
Seth bounds up the steps. “Honey, I’m—” He stops. “No fucking way.”
“Hi, Seth,” Sierra says. She twists her hair between her fingers, as she always used to do when she was feeling awkward. It’s so achingly familiar to see the same nervous quirks. It feels like her fingers are twisting my heart instead.
“What are you doing here?” His eyes ping back and forth between Sierra and me, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Her vehicle broke down,” I explain. “She needs a place to stay.”
“Does she?” Seth says, but it doesn’t sound like a question.After what she put you through?he silently communicates to me.
“It’s cool,” Sierra says. “I totally understand. If you could direct me to a motel—”
I silently beg him with my eyes.This is important to me,I tell my twin.
Seth gives me an irritated look. “No, it’s fine,” he lies convincingly to Sierra. “Mi casa es su casaand all that. I’mjust…in shock. Where have you been hiding out, huh?”
“Around. Tucson.”
