RUE
“The eggs are too runny, Rue,”Mom stabs her fork into the yoke, making a face up at me. “You know how I like them.”
“Sorry,” the word comes out barely audible.
“You look rough,” Mom sets her fork down. “Did you not sleep well? Are you sick? If you’re sick, you need to stay away from me.”
My head swims with fatigue and shame, among things I can’t even place. My eyes jump to my phone, finally charging after coming home in a daze and passing out. I reach over and click the lock button, but it still flashes the empty battery symbol.
“Rue?” Are you going to answer me?” Mom’s tone grows sharper.
I turn to her and let out a pained sigh. “I am listening to you. I’m not sick.”Not physically anyway.I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the end cabinet and wince. I get what she’s talking about. The dark circles, overtly pale complexion, messy hair, and my hunched posture do make me look ill.
But mostly the mental kind.
“Macey sent me a message last night. She was freaking out because you didn’t text her when you got home. I heard youcome in, so I was able to tell her. She seemed very concerned about you.”
“My phone died,” I deadpan.
“Well, you should keep it charged.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I lean against the counter, my eyes jumping to the window, where the fog seems to settle like a blanket on the overgrown backyard and path to the lake.
And my mind runs right back to Noah.
I turn to my mother. “Why did no one tell me that Noah Anders became Thomas Noah Peterson.”
Mom’s entire body goes rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” I snap. “Youdoknow. Dad knew, too. I mean, Macey knew.”
“Macey doesn’t know anything.” Mom lets out a dry laugh, leaning back in her wheelchair. “The woman became obsessed with you and the case. She needs to stop poking her nose into it.”
Is that why she asked me to hang out?
I shake that paranoid thought off. “Nancy Zendetti was there last night, too. She confronted me about it all and said that I should be writing the man in prison for murder—because he was my childhood friend.”Boyfriend, according to her, but she’s an idiot.
“She’s just making assumptions.” Mom never even looks up at me.
“She name-dropped Noah Anders.”
Mom lets out a frustrated, obnoxiously loud breath, slamming her fork down on the plate. “All that happened over a decade ago, for heaven’s sake. I don’t know why anyone would even bring it up to you, if you weren’t doing something to cause that!” She angles her head toward me, and glares. “If you’d just let it go, and be grateful you were able to walk free after what you did?—”
“Thank you for the information,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “I’m going for a walk.”
“You need to clean up breakfast.”
“I’ll clean it up when I get back,” I snap at her, as I grab my coat. I shove my arms into it, and then stalk for the back door.
“Where’s Bullet?” Mom calls out.
“I already let him out.” I slide the deadbolt and rip the door open, stalking out onto the back porch. The cold blasts my face as I step out, and I shiver. My eyes scan the dead, wilted grass.
I flip my hood up, forcing my eyes away from the back porch swing. The place where my dad gave me the news of the arrest.Noah’s arrest.
How could he let that happen?
I swallow the stupid, suffocating sob that threatens to break loose in my chest all over again, and ease down the back steps, feeling them groan under my weight. I squeeze my arms around myself as I follow the trail—that’s not really there anymore—leading to the Wilson’s place.
