Backpack in hand, I slipped from the house while the sound of my parents’ shower filled the upstairs. No way was I dealing with my father if I didn’t have to.
I never went anywhere without the bag. It was a thing I’d noticed about myself freshman year: the low-grade anxiety that crawled up my neck if I left it behind, the reflex to grab it even for a ten-minute walk to the corner store. Some part of my brain had apparently decided, independent of my conscious input, that I should always be ready to move. A therapist would probably flag my obsession as evidence of my shitty home life. As if I needed to pay someone two hundred dollars an hour to confirm what I’d known since middle school.
It wasn’t until I rounded the end of my street that I realized my backpack was probably unnecessary. I shouldn’t risk going to class today. On the other hand, if Aiden Cross had miraculously decided to stay quiet, I couldn’t afford to miss more lectures.Welch would love an opportunity to boot me from the business program.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked faster, my winter coat shielding me from the icy morning air. As I moved down the sidewalk, I formed a plan. I’d hit the forest to search for my phone, then head to campus and try to find out if anyone had talked.
Purple smeared the horizon. People backed out of their driveways, little parking tags dangling from their rearview mirrors. No matter what I ended up doing with my life, I hoped I didn’t end up like that. Doing the same boring shit day after day. Staring at a computer screen in a midsize company with a break room that smelled like stale bagels and reheated coffee.
But I probably would. It wasn’t like I had any real skills. I didn’t excel academically. Who knew that memorizing Bible verses instead of learning algebra would come back to bite me in the ass?
I arrived at the forest just as the sun came up. More snow had fallen overnight, erasing all evidence of the fight. Thin strips of fresh powder covered the park bench. The park’s maintenance crew hadn’t cleared the trails, which meant I had to scrape snow away with the edge of my shoe. After thirty minutes of clumsy shoveling, my phone was nowhere in sight, my shoes were drenched, and my head was throbbing so hard that I pressed a handful of snow to my forehead.
“Fuck,” I muttered, wishing I’d grabbed a granola bar from the pantry before I left. Snow melted against my skin and dripped onto my coat. It was warmer today, with no breeze. By lunch, the snow would probably be gone. I had a better chance of finding my phone then. Assuming it still worked.
I flicked the snow off my fingers and headed for the parking lot. My feet sank into the slush, the crunching of my shoes deafening in the silent forest. Most of the time, not even badweather could stop the serious hikers and runners from using the trails. But the park was dead.
And too fucking quiet.
Unnaturally quiet.
I stopped, my heart rate picking up as I realized the only sound was my labored breathing. No birds chirped. No traffic noises drifted from the service road that led into the trail complex. Not even the slightest breeze stirred. It was as if the entire forest held its breath. Waiting. Poised to pounce.
I swallowed hard as I gazed around. I was being stupid. My head was killing me, and I hadn’t slept well. I was worried about Cross and my phone and Welch getting on my ass again. There was nothing weird about the forest. It was just the morning after an unseasonable snowfall. The birds were probably confused.
Something moved in my peripheral vision. I spun, my heart jumping into my throat.
Nothing. Just trees and slushy snow. The trail was still empty.
My stomach growled, the sound warring with my thumping heart. Every beat thudded between my ears. My headache throbbed in sync with it, driving a pickax through my skull. Saliva flooded my mouth as hunger gripped me. If I hurried, I could catch breakfast in the student center. The cafeteria always had fruit and a few gross danishes. Hell, I’d settle for one of those single-serve cereal boxes with three bites in them.
When I was a kid, one of my chores had been bringing clean laundry up from the basement. My mom never realized I was terrified of going down there, and I couldn’t really blame her. Our basement was finished and decorated, no cobwebs or creepy corners in sight. But something about it lifted the hair on my nape. Made me feel like a dozen pairs of eyes observed my every move. I’d thunder down the stairs, flipping on every lightas I went, then haul ass to the dryer, dump the clothes into the basket, and set a land speed record booking it back upstairs.
Walking out of the forest was like running up those stairs with a basket of warm clothes in my arms. I hunched my shoulders, braced for a hand to claw me backward at any second.
But I wasn’t a little kid anymore. I was a “super senior,” as some of the guys on the football team called me. Once word had gotten out that I’d repeated ninth grade, those assholes had never let me forget it. But that extra year—and the size and strength it brought—had been an asset on the field, so the teasing was good-natured. People liked you when you could help them. They were willing to overlook a lot as long as they could get something from you they couldn’t get anywhere else. That, more than anything, was the lesson I’d take away from college.
As I reached the parking lot, a car pulled into one of the spaces. A man in cold weather gear and running tights got out and plugged a pair of AirPods into his ears. He nodded to me as he passed, the muffled beats of his music filling the air.
The eerie atmosphere lifted. Once again, the forest was an ordinary forest. I stopped, turning enough to see the man do a series of stretches. The sun peeked over the trees, spilling light across the melting snow. A few birds chirped. Gravel crunched, and I swung back around as another car rolled into the parking lot. A woman parked and then pulled a baby stroller from her trunk. Her breath puffed in the air as she loaded her kid into the seat.
I swiped at my clammy forehead as the tension drained from my shoulders. Yeah, there was nothing wrong with the forest. I was just losing it.
The wind picked up. At the same moment, the woman with the kid locked eyes with me. Wariness crossed her features.
Hunching my shoulders against the cold, I started for campus.
My headache remained as I trudged up the hill toward the football stadium. By the time I reached it, my vision was blurry around the edges—which was why I didn’t see the police car until I was almost on top of it. I ducked behind a dumpster next to the restroom block just as two officers emerged from the concession area with Coach Gannon between them.
They stopped, and my mouth went dry. Gannon spoke, his brow furrowed as he addressed the officers. One of them scribbled notes on a little pad of paper. The other listened with his thumbs hooked in his belt. A long, wicked-looking baton dangled from one hip. A holstered revolver sat on the other.
Cross must have filed a report.Or more likely, Coach had noticed his busted face and demanded answers. The first playoff game was in two days, which meant the team would spend all of today and tomorrow watching film and working out. Gannon probably wasn’t thrilled to have his backup quarterback sidelined, especially because of a fight. He’d probably interrogated Cross the second he saw him.
And now the cops knew what had happened in the park.
The officer taking notes lifted his head, and his lips started moving. I strained, struggling to hear the conversation, but the wind snatched the words from the air before they reached me. The other officer looked around, his gaze scanning the area beyond the stadium.
I scrambled behind the dumpster and fell into a crouch. The headache flared as my heart pumped faster and my backpack weighted me down like a sack of bricks strapped to my shoulders. At the start of every season, Coach gave a speech discouraging us from being idiots. He covered stuff like drunk driving, safe sex, and consent. But he also talked about domestic violence.“You get into a tussle with your girlfriend, boys, you keep your goddamn mitts to yourself. I don’t care if she gets inyour face or tosses your entire wardrobe out a window. You throw a punch, you’re going to jail.”
