Then the world goes black.
43
IMOGEN
When I reach the bottom of Mom’s driveway, I see Amelia’s car. Her white sedan sits one house up—across the street from the Holloways.
Odd.
Rain pools in a shallow dip of the hood, proof it’s been sitting here a little while. Expecting her to be inside, I lean close to the fogged glass. But she’s not in there.
I try the door handle. It opens easily, and the interior light blinks awake, illuminating her cell phone abandoned on the front seat. I snatch it up to find an unread text from Wes, timestamped twenty minutes ago, asking her how work was.
I drop it back on the seat, glancing at the Holloways’, their driveway mostly hidden behind brittle trees and fog. From what I can see, Rory still isn’t home.
I wonder what Emmett will say when he gets back.
Amelia’s car is at the bottom of the Wickers’ sloping yard—the new neighbors in the modest cottage next door. I always thought it looked like something from a fable, the roses along the fence wild and overgrown.
I remember Mara mentioning them at dinner Friday night. If I recall, she called themreclusive. Or maybe she saidshy. Something about them having a son.
I can’t imagine why Amelia would stop there… but my feet are already moving.
I need to find her.
Pushing past their creaking off-white picket fence, I quickly reach the Wickers’ front porch. The moment my shoe drops on the brick porch, the door unexpectedly swings open. My heart drops, taken aback by the sudden action.
A young man appears in the doorway.
It takes only a second for my mind to assemble him from the memories of The Incident. A scar slices across his cheek, the one I must have left when I smashed a water glass into his face at seven years old.
I scramble for another explanation. Maybe I’m imagining him. Maybe this memory is poisoning reality, trauma bleeding through my vision. The boy who hurt me cannot possibly live here, next door to Mom. He should be gone—across the country, behind bars, anywhere but here.
And yet… as I stare at him over a few quick seconds—which tumble in slow motion—I realize I’ve seen him recently. Since arriving to Blair.
It flashes fast: Rainbow Acres. The first day back. Him at the register. The way he said my name. I’d stared blankly at his face while my subconscious mercifully blurred his features into something unknown.
My stomach revolts. The cappuccino and scone I shared with Rory hours ago crawls up from my gut. I’m sure the look on my face is one of horror. I can’t help it—I can’t stop it. He knows who I am.
Five seconds—maybe less—have passed when he speaks first.
“I guess we’re doing this.”
His tone is smug, offhand. Like I’m another task to be completed off his list. And that task is dragging me into his house. Because as soon as the words exit his lips, he reaches for my body and pulls. I heave back toward the awaiting world behind me and let out the beginnings of a guttural scream. It’s silenced all too quickly as his palm smacks across my mouth. And in one swift motion, he tugs me in and slams the door shut.
I wriggle against him in hopes of freeing myself—but his hold is strong.
“God,” he chuckles. “Even your sister didn’t fight this hard.”
My sister?
“Amelia!” I manage to shout against his skin, the name muffled into his flesh. I open my jaw wider, tasting soap and salt and sweat as my teeth close on the pad of his palm.
He hisses a curse, and I wrench my head sideways as his hand jerks away. But he doesn’t let go. His palm finds my mouth again, sealing it like duct tape as he propels me deeper into the house from behind, locking my arms behind my back. His chest presses against my spine as he laughs softly against the back of my head, the hot, damp whisper of it causing my neck to convulse.
We pass from the entryway to the living room, down a narrow hall, and into a back bedroom without encountering another soul.
My teeth chatter uncontrollably as he kicks the bedroom door closed behind us, never loosening his grip, and marches me to the closet. With one hand still clutching me, he fumbles for somethingon the top shelf, finally producing a long strip of soft black fabric. A necktie. He cinches my wrists together with it, the silk burning my skin as he tightens it.
