It’s a photo.
I feel dizzy. Like my canopy bed is swirling around me. Adrift at sea.
There’s something familiar about the person in the photo.
Amber eyes. A petite nose.
His lips pressed together in a scowl, despite the fact that he’s holding a beer and appears to be at a pool party, an in-ground pool gleaming behind him alongside a cooler full of drinks.
I swallow a lump in my throat when Cyn texts again.
Cyn
Recognize him? They’re saying this is the guy, but it hasn’t been confirmed. If it is him, he didn’t go to our school. Just like…
She doesn’t need to say it.
Just like Will.
Just like Jackson.
Is it a fucking serial killer?
My shoulders are tense, heat and cold running through my body, both at once.
I lift my eyes back up to the guy, trying to remember where I’ve seen him.
But then I notice it.
The tattoo on his neck.
Barely visible at this angle, only a few stars and half the stripes.
The fucking American flag.
The guy who knocked into me on the sidewalk.
Right before I went into Bosphorus.
Right before Sylvan texted me.
Right after Nolan knew a man hit me, before I said a word.
What. The. Fuck.
THIRTY-SEVEN
FAUST
“Are we going to talk about whether you’re signing?” Coach Wynon looks down at me as I sit on the bench, half-undressed.
Jersey on, skates off, my hair damp on my neck at the back.
Breathing hard, I lift up my practice jersey and try to wipe the sweat from my face.
The locker room is cleared out, and it’s just us in here.
He could’ve cornered me at any time, but of course he chose tonight because my side lost the scrimmage.
