The slope steepens. A voice in my head is screaming that there's no escape this way. Soon I'll reach the top-a granite ridge overlooking the chasm. Nowhere to run from there.
The voice finally breaks through. I stop, gasping, desperate.
Hide. Hope he's unfamiliar with the terrain. Then slip past him, back down to the lake. His car will still be there.
I frantically scan for a good place.
There. Thirty feet up, a stone ledge juts from the mountainside. If I can get onto that shelf, the bastard can't reach me. I could bash his head in from above if he tries.
I begin to ascend, trying to remember everything I know about rock climbing.
Reach. Hold. Extend. Gather. Reach. Use your legs. Breathe.
I cover the first ten feet easily, then the second. But the last pitch is trickier. I'm digging my fingers into a shallow crease when shards of rock explode beside my face.
I shout, nearly lose my grip. My head whips around.
The man is directly beneath me, holding a fist-sized chunk of stone. His suit is ripped and he's breathing hard, though his sunglasses remain in place. As I watch, horrified, he rears back and throws again.
This one strikes me in the back. One toehold slips. The other. I grunt, shoulders straining as I cling to the cliff face, muscles stretched to their breaking point.
His third volley smashes my hand, and I'm falling, scrambling uselessly for purchase as I plummet to the boulders below. I land on my back and feel something snap.
A tidal wave of pain, then . . . nothing. Numbness. Lack.
I try to rise, but have no feeling in either leg.
A shadow falls across my face.
Woozy, I don't even try to crawl away. Instead, I peer up at my killer.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
No answer.
"Who are you?" Slurred. I'm fading, my mind swirling through black-lined vortexes.
Time slows. I hear an eagle call. A breeze stirs my sweat-soaked hair, granting me a last moment of comfort. "I hate you," I whisper.
The man steps out of my field of vision. Returns with a larger stone.
"I'm sorry."
Sunlight glints off his sunglasses.
His arms come down, and everything goes black.
• • •
Darkness. The clearing. Another tear-streaked walk home.
Something buzzes in my pocket and I yelp. Then feel stupid, remembering my new phone.
It hits me.
"No, no, no." But Jessica's text says it all.
"We include u & u don't even show? Lose my #. Sarah says the same."
My head drops. I don't write back. What's the point? The girls let me in for once, and I stood them up. They'll never talk to me again. What will Noah think?
My mother is waiting outside in a lawn chair. Knitting. Looking a thousand years old.
I catch her sigh of relief at my approach.
I stop and stare at my shoes, too exhausted to even lie.
Mom watches me for a long moment. Then she rises without speaking and shuffles to the front door. Opening it, she gestures me inside.
I slip past her, straight to my room, and lock the door.
She doesn't ask where I've been.
I don't tell her.
12
The sensation of falling.
Then a sharp smack as my face struck the desktop.
My head rocketed back up. Snickers erupted all around me, but thankfully Mr. Anderson hadn't noticed. Cheeks flushing scarlet, I lowered my head and made myself busy.
My fourth murder, two years ago. As unpleasant a memory as I possessed. I squirmed in my seat, trying to shake the horror of the heavy rock that ended things.
The fallout at school had been devastating. Never popular, I'd been completely frozen out after missing the bowling party. The girls even spread nasty rumors about my "runaways" as a kid.
I was a freak. A head case. A drama queen.
I didn't put up a fight.
The bell rang. Students began gathering their things.
I didn't move. Not even when Tack tugged on my arm.
"Min?" He dropped into a crouch, bringing his bruised face level with mine. "You okay?"
I rounded on him. "You up for a mission tonight? Something dangerous and stupid that will probably get us both in trouble?"
He flared an eyebrow, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper. "Are we kidnapping someone? Is it Mr. Anderson? Do I need to burn off my fingerprints?"
I pushed his head aside, rising. "This is serious, Tack. I need to check on something, and I can only do it by breaking and entering. Tonight. Late."
Tack's other brow lifted. He crossed his arms, eyeing me with a new level of curiosity. "Okay, my bad. What's the target? What are we looking for?"
Now that we'd come to it, I hesitated.
Tack must've sensed my reluctance. "Uh-uh." He tapped the desktop with his finger. "Too late for second thoughts, Melinda. Whatever you're planning, I'm in. I'll sleep outside your trailer tonight if I have to. Done it before."
I couldn't help but smile. "Fine. Dork." I headed for the door, forcing him to scamper after me. "First, let's just get through the rest of the day."
"Wait!" he whined with impatience. "What's the mission? Where are we invading?"
I stepped into the hall. Principal Myers was laboring down the corridor, his cane tapping a steady beat on the linoleum. He glanced at me, then looked away. Struck immobile, I followed his progress as he grunted toward whatever task he'd set for himself.
Not yet, Mr. Lifetime Principal. But you're on my list.
Tack chucked my shoulder with his like we did as kids. "Hello? Come on, don't leave me in suspense! Whose privacy are we violating?"
Deep breath.
"Dr. Lowell's."
• • •
Needles gouged my back, but I ignored them. Couldn't make a sound.
Tack and I were hiding in a clump of bushes overlooking Lowell's office. If discovered, there was no way to play this off. It was late. We were quite clearly spying.
"What's he doing in there?" Tack grumbled, his scrawny legs pressed against mine. He shifted, raking more prickers across my spine. I punched his shoulder in retribution, then shook my head. I was as perplexed as he was.
My watch read 2:00 a.m., yet a light still burned. I couldn't think of a single reason for him to be working so late-I knew he didn't have more than a dozen or so patients. Frankly, I sometimes wondered how he stayed in business.
Tack squirmed again. He hated tight spaces, but this was the only vantage point from which we could stake out the exit. "Man, if that jackass left his lights on and went home early, I'm gonna-"
"Shh." My fingers dug into his forearm. The glow in Lowell's window had vanished.
We waited, literally on pins and needles, as the door swung open and Lowell emerged carrying his briefcase. He locked up behind him, then strode to his BMW and climbed inside. Headlights blazed and he was gone, cruising toward his home in Lakeshore Estates.
"Did he activate an alarm?" Tack whispered.
"Nope. Come on."
I swallowed, thankful Tack couldn't sense my nerves in the dark. Moving as silently as possible, we crept across the parking lot. I was about to try the door when Tack shook his head. "Trust me," he whispered.
I followed him along the wall until we reached the windows. Barely breathing, I scanned the block for any movement. Saw none. I doubted another soul was up and about on High Street at this time of night.
Tack reached into his pocket and pulled out his student ID. Working carefully, he wedged the card into the gap where the upper and lower windows met, next to the latch, then jerked it sideways. There was a soft click. Tack grinned, flattened his palms against the glass, and pushed upward. The lower pane rose.
We scrambled through and hastily shut the window behind us. I pulled the curtains for good measure. Then I located Lowell's desk and turned on the floor lamp beside it. Enough light to see by, but the drapes would mask our presence.
Looking pleased with himself, Tack dropped onto the fainting couch. "Old windows. Nothing to the lock-that kind slides right open unless you add a latch stopper. I helped my dad install a few when he was still working at Buford's."
Yet another job his father held briefly before getting fired. I remembered that summer well. Tack had done more than just "help"-he'd done most of his father's work for a solid week, trying to keep his old man's latest bender under wraps. I'd never been angrier at Wendell Russo, except for Tack's bruises. But I was grateful for my friend's experience at the moment. I couldn't believe how easily we'd gotten inside.
Tack sat up, perhaps having cycled through the same unpleasant memories. "So. You ready to explain why we're here?"
I stood in the center of the room, chewing my lip. Having completed the break-in, I wasn't sure exactly how to proceed. "I'm looking for information," I said slowly. "Anything that involves my treatment. I need to know what Lowell's been writing about me."
Tack ruffled his hair, a nervous habit. "What are you worried about?"
I hedged. "In my last session, Lowell was super-weird. He kept asking questions that didn't make sense." I looked away, pretending to survey an office I knew intimately. "I want to know what he was after."
Tack seemed mollified. Even amused. "Well, you've certainly upped your risk tolerance. Breaking in just to look at his notes? That's nuts, girlfriend. I can't believe we're doing it."
"Then help me search, so we can leave." I rapped my knuckles on Lowell's mahogany desk. Tack nodded, rising and joining me. We tried all four drawers, but they wouldn't budge. "Do your talents extend to locks as well?" I asked hopefully. Tack had ordered a set of picks a few years back, informing me of his intention to become a gentleman spy. I'd never heard another word about it.