“The other night. You were out, and I thought the reflection was cool. I didn’t see a person there until I looked at this picture today. I swear.”
She remembers the chill that followed her that night. She’d felt the tingle of someone’s eyes on her when she went out to the car looking for her phone charger, and when she turned toward the streetlight, she saw a figure. Or, at least she thought she had, but she wasn’t entirely sure. Now, the certainty is like two strangling hands.
Her instincts were right. Someone is watching her.
30Sophie
Otto is waiting for Sophie as she walks in the door, eager, like she’s just getting back from her first day at school.
“What’s up, Dad?” She slips off her shoes and hangs her bag on the rack, careful not to look too closely but certain the journal is burning a hole straight through the faux leather.
“Oh, nothing. How was your day?” He has a can of beans in his hand that he’s shaking back and forth mindlessly. She can’t maneuver past without bumping into him.
“Good,” she lies, taking the can from him. She guesses he hasn’t heard about Tom Winter’s outburst. He will soon, she knows. “Pinto beans?”
“Chili,” he says brightly. He looks at her with expectation. “You hungry?” She nods, and he strides away, mindlessly taking the beans back and turning the can over and over.
But she’s not hungry. She’s thinks of the slimy blueberry muffin she ate at Aspect, which is still churning in her stomach. She slides the journal out of her bag and clutches it to her chest.
In the kitchen, her dad stands with his back to her. His jeans are a little loose around the waist, though he has tucked in his shirt in an attempt at tidiness. He’s fussing with a big pot and spices and cans of tomatoes, moving quickly and clumsily, which seems just slightly counter to his usual routine confidence. It’s been so long since he’s cooked chili for her in his kitchen. He reaches for the can opener and knocks it off the counter. When he bends down, she notices that his hairline is clumped and damp.
“Dad?” She lowers herself into a chair, setting the journal beside her.
He doesn’t respond, just cuts open a package of bacon, his secret ingredient, and nicks his finger in the process.
Sophie jumps up. Droplets of blood drip onto the floor beneath where he holds his finger out to her. He looks helpless.
“Band-Aids?” she says.
“Ah, sorry,” he says. “Look at me. Band-Aids, yes. In the cabinet under the sink in your bathroom. Behind the shaving cream.”
She finds one inside a first aid kit that she recognizes from decades ago. Shockingly, it still has stickiness to it, and she peels off the paper and wraps it around his finger. There’s a moment, while she’s making sure the cut is fully covered, that he stares at her for a beat too long. She can feel him looking, and she peers up at him. Before she can say anything, he looks away and turns back to the stove, and in another minute, the air is thick with the smell of bacon.
“Dad,” she says, but he can’t hear her over the sound of the fan, which is sucking up the pan’s smoke. Or he acts like he doesn’t hear her. “Dad!” she shouts, and this time he has no choice. He puts up his bandaged finger to tell her,“One sec.”He places a splatter screen on top of the bacon and turns the fan to low. Then, with an air of resignation, he sits across from her.
“What’s up, Sophie-beans?” He doesn’t look her in the eye.
With what feels like a great effort, she pulls the journal from herchair and plonks it on the table, taking care to peel the sticky note off and shove it in her pocket.
He scratches his head. Then looks up in confusion.
“I found it in my room.” She speaks slowly, testing him, hoping he’ll…hoping he’ll…what? Is she hoping he knows why it was there? Hoping he’s the one who put it there? That he’s the one who has been writing in it at night? She hasn’t let herself think yet about what that would mean, though she can’t lie to herself and say the possibility hasn’t occurred to her. She can’t decide if it’s better than the alternative, which is the idea that someone came into the house while they slept. Her foot bounces under the table.
“Huh,” he says.
Sophie leans forward, opens the front cover, and points. “It belongs to Quinn Winter.”
He narrows his eyes at the book but does not speak.
“Why, why,whyis this in your house?”
He swallows, picks at his teeth.
Sophie lowers her voice, anxiety crawling its tiny spider feet up her spine. “Why are you acting weird? What is going on?”
There’s a significant pause. He still doesn’t look at her. Why isn’t he looking at her?
Eventually, he closes his eyes and lets out a helicopter breath through tight lips. “The clothes,” he says. “I wanted to tell you. I knew I should have told you. You’re a smart girl. I knew you’d figure it out eventually, that I knew, but I was sure you’d think it was strange, and so I got scared and didn’t say anything. Which, by the way, was much easier when you never came around. I didn’t have to hide anything from you. But then…”
