My stomach drops. It’s been ages since I’ve heard from my mysterious texter. I thought they were gone. Finished with me. Moved on to torment someone else.
No such luck, it seems.
I stare at the message, my fingers shaking slightly. Ihatethis. This faceless threat that’s been haunting me since I got to Starling, claiming to know my secrets.
“Everything okay?” Chase’s voice cuts through my anxiety.
I quickly lock the screen and sit up, forcing myself to smile. “It’s my aunt. I should probably get home.”
The lie feels heavy on my tongue. Chase’s gaze lingers on me, his brows drawn. But he nods, letting me have my excuse. “All right.”
I wait until I’m sliding into the driver’s seat of Dan’s truck before pulling out my phone again and typing furiously.
Me:Who is this? Just tell me what you want from me.
My message sits there, delivered but unanswered.
Thirty-six
A History of Murder
I do my best to keep my head down when the new semesterstarts. I hang out with Mar and Ty. I continue to keep Everett at arm’s length. I work for my aunt and for JP, growing my savings so that I can leave this town the moment I graduate.
And I see Chase. A lot. Always at his place when his mom is at work, and always on the down-low.
Other than Mar, nobody else knows about it, and nobody even seems to suspect. I keep waiting for someone—Jasmine, Maggie, anyone—to confront me about it, but the good thing about being a loner with a camera and the habit of disappearing for hours on end is that nobody bats an eye when you disappear for hours on end.
Chase:Come over after school?
I hide my smile as his message pops up halfway through last period. I hold my phone in my lap, waiting until Mr.Keegan turns toward the chalkboard before I type a response.
Me:Can’t. I’m working at the shelter. But I can come by after if you want?
Chase:I want. Clothing optional btw
“Ryan, phone,” rebukes Mr.Keegan, and I look up to find him looming over my desk, palm outstretched.
Stifling a sigh, I place the phone in his hand, and he confiscates it for the rest of class.
Later that night, I tug my shirt down, trying to smooth the wrinkles as I get dressed in Chase’s bedroom. He leans against the doorframe in a T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants, arms crossed, smirking in that lazy way I’ve come to love.
“Some chick asked me to the Valentine’s Dance this morning,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Is this a weird attempt to make me jealous?” Though I can’t deny it worked. I definitely experienced a tiny stab of jealousy just now.
“No,” he answers. “But it just reminded me that it’s tomorrow. Are you going?”
“Nope. Not my thing. Too much glitter and papier-mâché hearts. Did you accept the invitation?”
“Nah. I don’t do dances either.” He winks. “Bad boy and all that.”
I laugh. “Exactly. Dancing’s probably too mainstream for you.”
“Hey, I can move when I want to.”
“Yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Chase walks me to the front door, where we linger for a beat. I hate leaving. I’ve gotten used to him. Talking to him. Being with him.
