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Everything in me stills.
Slowly, so slowly, I turn, cocking my head, a thread of awareness creeping up my spine.
Shawn’s dark, unflinching gaze drifts from mine to the living room over my shoulder. His features tighten, and my mouth dries, pulse racing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I murmur.
He steps forward, just close enough that we don’t touch, and returns his gaze to me when he drops his voice. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I stare at him. “He’s my friend.”
His features bunch, eyes searching between mine. “Mase…”
“What?”
“He’s not her.”
A chill rushes over me, and I find myself stumbling back a step as if he hit me. I kind of wish he did—that would be far less…complicated. Painful.
Infuriating.
Shaking my head, I scowl. I open my mouth to say something—to tell him he’s wrong, he’s being stupid… Whatever it is he thinks is going on…
It’s just wrong.
Sure about that?
The denial dies on my tongue.
He watches me with a solemn, grave sort of intensity.
“You think I don’t know that?” I murmur, a dangerous edge to my tone.
His eyes flare ever so faintly.
My lip curls, and I take another step back, then another, slowly shaking my head. “You don’t know anything.”
“Mason—”
Whirling around, I head for my room, catching my door just before I can slam it. The last thing I want right now is to alert Waylon to the tension, or worse, poke through Jeremy’s drunkenness.
Leaning back against the door, closing it with a soft click, I tilt my head back, screwing my eyes shut.
Footsteps thunk down the hall, and a moment later, I hear Waylon’s door open. Frowning, I wait to see if he needs something, but when nothing comes, I figure maybe I just misheard and it was Shawn disappearing into his room.
Pulling out my phone, I check the time. A little after midnight.
My eyes linger on the date at the top.
September 14th.
Which means tomorrow—Monday—it’ll officially be four years since Izzy disappeared.
Jaw quivering, I lock the screen, and toss my phone on my bed. Storming for my dresser, I rip off my shirt, and throw on a clean one—a solid white tee to replace the black. Toeing off my boots, I strip off my jeans and throw on a pair of dark gray joggers, and switch out my socks.
I debate grabbing something for Jeremy, but I figure at this point, he’s probably already passed out. And frankly, I really, really don’t want to wrestle him out of those skinny jeans he loves so much.
It’s crazy to think he’s the same kid who used to hide behind layers of baggy clothes.
