Tiny needles prick the back of my neck, and my breath goes cold.
I scan the street like I do every morning. A few paid hires are out mowing lawns. Sparkling BMWs, Teslas, and Audis zip past me and the other students walking on the sidewalk. The sky is cartoon blue. Everything is perfect here in Perfectville. But the view doesn’t quell the paranoia on my back.
Trying to shrug the feeling off, I shift my gaze to the nearing campus. But something catches my eye. A Mercedes lacking its sparkle. Muted beige, a few dings and scratches and tinted windows. It’s nearly nondescript, but something about the sight of it crawling by the school raises the hair on my arms.
Most of the drivers dropping students off at Caspian Prep are paid and can’t get the kids out of the car quick enough. The rest are parents who are either too overworked or superficial to do anything but give a half-hearted wave and speed off.
They nevercrawl.
Reaching behind me, I yank on the tie keeping my curls contained and let the strands spill around my face and down my arms. I squeeze my way between a couple, break their hands apart with my body, and keep myself hidden by the girl’s oversized boyfriend.
The girl starts. “What the—”
“Oh. My. God.” I place a hand on my chest, suddenly thankful I’ve overheard so many of her conversations in bio. “Your Jimmy Choo’s aresocute. Are those the latest season?”
“Oh, these?” She brightens as she looks down at her high-heeled sandals, and we veer toward the school’s entrance. “No, girl. These are next season. My sister knows someone who knows someone, so she pulled some strings for me.”
“She goes to Polimida, doesn’t she?”
Surprise flashes in the girl’s eyes. “Yeah.”
It’s alarming how much you can learn about those around you when you keep your mouth shut and your head down. “Ah-mazing.”
“Right?” She grins.
I slow down just enough to let her and her boyfriend pass me as they continue toward their lockers. I catch her showing him her shoes before I glance over my shoulder, peer through the open entrance doors, and scan the street.
The Mercedes is gone. My paranoia isn’t.
Ice creeps through my chest and spreads like a web, and for a second, I’m back in time. In a five-star hotel with hairy hands bruising my neck. Pain ripping me in half. His voice in my ear. Shattering glass. Warm blood on my fingers.
I stare down the hall. The students, the lockers, and laughter.
He’s not here.
But fear isn’t logical. I spend the next few periods jumping at the littlest noises, looking over my shoulder, and telling myselfI’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.
But all I really hear isliar, liar, liar.
When the bell rings, I spring from my seat before Mr. Doau can finish rattling off today’s homework. It’s mechanical, the rushed way I collect my stuff and bolt for the door. Programmed into my DNA from years of repetition.
I tense when I reach the door, expecting that grating, “Detention, Miss Rutherford.”
But nobody calls my name.
Nobody tells me to stop.
For once, nobody wants anything from me.
The moment catches me so off-guard, I freeze anyway.
“What the hell,” a girl mutters and pushes past.
More of the crowd filters around me, but I ignore them as I turn to face Mr. Doau.
He’s rifling through paperwork, almost like a normal teacher would. Except his hands are unsteady, his face a little too pale. I know he feels me watching him. He has to. I’ve been standing here for so long I’m now the last student left. But it’s as if ... he doesn’t dare to look up.
And I realize, I’m finally free of him.
