His face is inches from mine and he’s breathing hard.
“I thought you did. He said youconfessed.”I breathe out the word like a curse. I assumed it was true. Assumed the guilt got to Will or else they were drunk together and he spilled.
Jackson definitely said he confessed.
It’s when he started shouting. Right before he lunged toward me.
“He fucking told me! He told me, Neve!”His words from the truck.
But Will’s brows are furrowed and his eyes show genuine confusion.
That doesn’t make sense.
I sure as fuck didn’t tell him. And maybe I would have, if he hadn’t taken my break up well, but I didn’t really get into that spiel, about how it was me and not him, when he started shouting (accurate) accusations at me.
“Why would I do that? We’ve been best friends since I moved here,Neve. And why wouldn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you text me last night? Unlessyouwere the one who?—”
“Why wouldn’t you warn me, you fucking asshole? If he told you he was coming for me, why the hell wouldn’t you give me a head’s up? You text me a creepy fucking countdown before you bang on my door and?—”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He looks bewildered, his eyes wide, bright. “I told you I lost my goddamn phone.”
He curls his fingers around my arm and squeezes so hard I know he’s going to leave a mark. Then he shoves me further against the door, shifting us so the door smacks the wall and my head jolts with the collision.
Fear beats in my bloodstream again.
I claw at his sweater beneath his jacket, digging my nails in.
This doesn’t feel like last night, between the two boys.
This feels more dangerous somehow, and there’s not even a corpse around.
Not yet, anyway.
“I didn’t want to make it worse.” He presses his temple to mine. His nostrils flare and I smell nicotine on his breath. “That’s why I didn’t tell you last night. I didn’t want to make it worse and I didn’t, butyoudid.”
I try to lift my knee to make distance between us by attacking him in the groin but he’s too close and I don’t have enough momentum. My arm is still pressed painfully to the door and his full body weight is keeping me here.
His free hand finds my throat between us and he starts to strangle me.
Panic flares hot inside my body.
I smash my hand against his face, digging my fingers against his eyes. He closes them but I keep pressing and I hear him groan at the same time his hand tightens around my neck.
No, no,no.
Maybehekilled him. If he’s going to hurt me like this, maybe it was him, and maybe I’m next.
I press harder with my fingers and he cries out, his breath against my lips, but it’s like we’re hurting each other under water, the way our movements are small and sluggish but he’s got my breath in his fist and my head starts to hurt and there’s no more air in my lungs.
Spots flare behind my closed eyes as I drag down his lids and try to jab my sharp nails into his sockets but he twists his head and I can’t follow the movement as he squeezes tighter around my throat.
My instinct is to pull at his hand but I know that won’t work. I’ve read about it in books.
It doesn’t stop me.
The panic is too much.
I’m going to die here in my doorway.
