Page 13 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

Unfortunately, I’m not stoked enough to forget the unanswered text burning a hole in my phone. Or the fact that I feel like a traitor.

I kick off my bike and hang my helmet from the handlebar. I walk in circles, catching my breath. As invigorating as that ride was, my nerves are still shot.

I’m not sure how my father got my number, not that it’s tough. In the early years of WITSEC, Mom mentioned he kept tabs on us, and I have the same cell for personal and business use. Regardless of how he found me, my family’s views on Raymond S. Bower are no secret. If he comes up, the words scumbag and fucking-asshole-shithead are often tossed around. I may not have reached out to him, but this connection gives me Judas vibes, as though I’ve betrayed my family. Precisely why I’ve avoided speaking with any of them the past week.

Around them, I’m not a good liar or hider of secrets. If they see me or hear my voice, they’ll know something’s up and will force the information out of me. If my brothers learn Dad reached out, they’ll go nuclear and play target practice with my phone. As they should.

As I should. But I haven’t. No fucking clue why.

I scowl at my phone for several painful seconds, silently cursing it for being a conduit between my father and me. Getting nowhere, I tuck it away, load up my truck, and drive to town. I’m sure there are errands I can run. Staying busy is the best thing for me right now.

By the time I slip into a parking spot on Main Street, I’m slightly less agitated. A quick scan of the area doesn’t show signs of my family, whom I’d have to avoid, but I do spot the other person who’s consumed my thoughts this week—Maggie confuses-the-fuck-out-of-me Edelstein.

Surprisingly, this is my first sighting of her since my date with Sloan. She’s standing by a lamppost, pointing to an affixed scarecrow from the recent Scarecrow Scavenger Hunt festival, gesturing as she talks to someone. Her tight knee-length skirt does exceptional things to her curvy figure. As do her high heels. Predictably, I blow out a gusty sigh.

I’ve reread Delilah’s texts a few times, mulling over the possibility that Maggie’s as intrigued by me as I am by her. She may have a boyfriend, but according to Delilah, Harry the Limp-Shaker is nothing but a placeholder. Whatever the deal is with them, complying with Maggie’s “let’s ignore our history” mandate has started to feel like the wrong move. Agreeing with her was the easy choice. The coward’s way out of our complicated past. Truth is, I won’t be relaxed and happy in this town until we hash out our last night together at the pond. Also, dealing with her is an excellent distraction from dealing with my father.

Now seems like the perfect time to hook Maggie into a fresh round of truth or dare.

Even though I’m wearing ragged cargo shorts and a threadbare T-shirt, I hop out of my truck, determination propelling me forward. But I spot Sandra of the Eighties Perm, along with a piece of paper escaping her purse as she hurries by.

I hop into action and chase the page before it floats away. A few steps later, I snatch the escaped paper and jog to Sandra. “Looks like you dropped this.”

She blinks at the page, then at me, then over my shoulder like we’re being watched. She finally accepts the paper, carefully folding it into four. “Thank you.”

She gives me a sharp nod and resumes her hurrying. According to Delilah, Sandra is the town busybody—the type of woman you want on your side. Hopefully this accidental run-in earned me points.

Feeling like luck is on my side, I strut toward Maggie, focusing on her gorgeous face and bonfire hair. When I’m closer, she whips her head my way, as though she senses my presence. She watches me, eyes narrowing. Probably wondering why I’m on a direct path toward her, my determined strides eating up the space between us. Before I reach my goal, she gives me her back and hurries toward town hall.

Gotta give it to her, she’s fast in those high heels. Not only do they make her shapely legs look amazing, they seem to give her speed-walking superpowers. She hits the town hall’s front doors seconds before me and breaks into a dainty sprint.

Run all you want, Little Shark. Your moment of reckoning has come.

I nip inside behind her, expecting her to be stuck with me, but someone walks off the elevator and she zips inside.

Dammit all to hell.

Why does every obstacle in my life come with its own obstacles?

That supply closet I nearly asphyxiated in at least had a door cracked open. I debate giving up, saving this talk for another day. I mean, it’s an elevator in an old building, and it made that terrifying grinding sound last time I was here. My lungs might explode the second I walk on, but town hall only has four floors. I’ve suffered through elevators in the past. I hate them, but I can survive them.

When Maggie peeks my way and bites her lip, the decision is made for me.

I jog forward and squeeze into the elevator right before the doors slide shut.

“I thought you were afraid of elevators,” she says, sounding annoyed I followed her in here.

I’m too freaked out to care. Panic slithers through me.

This was a bad decision. Like hugely, incredibly bad.

I hit the Open button. When that doesn’t work, I jab it violently and maybe hit a few other buttons, or all of them. I don’t know. The air in here is depleting fast. My dried sweat decides to rehydrate and flow. I jam the Open button over and over, but the elevator starts rising. I keep jamming. Maggie is saying something I can’t decipher. The elevator emits an ear-piercing screech, or maybe that’s just me whining.

The death trap jerks. We stumble. Stillness follows.

“Um.” I freeze. The outside of me does, at least. My insides are trapped in a violent cyclone. “This isn’t happening. I’m not in here. We are not stuck in an elevator.”

Maggie clasps my upper arms and gives me a shake. “Get a grip.”