His eyes ice over again. “Stalker much?”
He’s throwing my own words back in my face. I tell my cheeks not to flush. They don’t listen. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that smoking will kill you?”
“You’re kidding. They should write that on the package.” He shakes out another one and puts it between his lips.
“How did you even get out here? Doesn’t the door set off an alarm?”
“Nah. Ricky Allaverde disconnected this one three years ago and no one’s ever bothered to fix it.” He takes a drag on the cigarette and blows a plume of smoke into the sky. “If you think you’re going to say something about it, I’ll know it was you.”
The words aren’t threatening in themselves, but the chill in his voice sends a shiver down my spine again. I have to fold my arms across my stomach. “I won’t say anything. I’m not like that.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor to it. “Sure you are.”
My face is still burning. I’m not entirely sure what drew me out the door. After the thumping beat inside the gym, the quiet behind the school wraps around us, making this interaction far more intimate than it needs to be.
“What are you doing out here?” he asks.
“I needed to get away from the noise.”
He inhales, making the cigarette glow red. “Where’s your friend?”
“Dancing.”
“With that douchebag with the camera?”
My temper flares. “Brandon’s not a douchebag.”
Declan laughs. “Yeah, okay.”
“You’re one to talk.”
He blows smoke through his teeth, and the intensity of his gaze traps me there. He’s closer suddenly, his voice low and rough. “You don’t know anything about me.”
My mouth is dry, but his closeness sparks something in me, and I speak without thinking. “I know you’re a loser with a record.”
Any humor in his expression evaporates. I instantly regret the words. He drops the cigarette to the ground and stomps this one out, too. Without a glance at me, he heads for the door.
How can he make me feel so guilty without saying anything? How does he do this?
He’s through the door so quickly that I realize he’s about to let it slam in my face. I hustle to catch it, and then I’m thrust back into the spinning lights and pumping music, just barely broken by our square of darkness. The song switches to a heavy metal ballad from the eighties, and each strum of the guitars grates against my senses. Declan and Rev are heading into the light.
“Stop,” I call.
He doesn’t.
“Wait,” I say, breathless and uncertain. “Let me—”
“What?” He turns, and his expression is fierce.
It steals all of my nerve. The apology stops in my throat.
“Better get back on the dance floor, princess.” Declan’s words are full of icy disdain. “Wouldn’t want anyone to catch you slumming with the losers.”
My eyes are burning. This is all going so wrong.
I never should have come here.
I turn around and burst through the emergency-exit doors and run into the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
From: The Dark
To: Cemetery Girl
Date: Friday, October 4 10:06:47 PM
Subject: You owe me, Cemetery Girl
I hope you’re having a better night than I am.
The cemetery is a well of silence. Thanks to the overcast sky, darkness pools in the valleys between graves. I found my way to my mother’s headstone in the dark an hour ago. It took very little effort—I come here so often I could find my way blindfolded.
At first, I thought I could handle the chill, but I’m freezing. Cool moisture hangs in the air, and rain is a heartbeat away. I’d kill someone for a sweater.
The irony makes me smile, considering I’m in the middle of a cemetery and the only people around me are dead.
Then I lose the smile. It’s not very funny, really.
Most people would be freaked out to be in the cemetery this late at night. There are girls in the senior class who still won’t walk into a dark bathroom because they’re afraid of Bloody Mary.
I’ve spent so much time here that I don’t think anything of it. Nothing is going to come crawling out of the ground—not even bugs, especially not this late in the year. There will probably be frost on the ground in the morning.
If I sit out here much longer, there will be frost on me.
I can’t make myself leave.
I can’t make myself talk to Mom, either. All I have in my purse is my phone, my license, and my keys, so I can’t write her a letter. With a swell of guilt, I realize I haven’t written her a letter in weeks—since I started writing to The Dark.
I tell the guilt to knock it off. It’s not like Mom’s around to be missing my handwriting.
I’m not sure what I’m doing out here. I started driving, and this is where I ended up. I texted Rowan when I got here, because I didn’t want her to worry. A worried Rowan could easily end with parents being notified and cops being called. I told her I wasn’t feeling well and asked if she could get a ride home from Brandon.
When she asked if I was home, I told her yes.
I mean, I’ll get there eventually.
I brush my fingers across the gravestone, tracing the letters of my mother’s name. Zoe Rebecca Thorne. I know her name was important to her, but now that she’s gone, I wish we had even that in common. No one looking at this grave would ever connect her to me.
No one would have connected us in life, either. I felt lucky to catch wisps of her talent.
Sudden pain grips my throat, and I choke for breath. I miss her so much. I would give anything for one more conversation. One more moment.
I think of the email I just read. I hope you’re having a better night than I am.
Well, I’m not sure how The Dark’s night is going, but I’m about to be a sobbing wreck on top of a gravestone in a deserted cemetery. I should offer him the chance to see how his night stacks up.
I suck back the tears and drag my phone out of my purse. I open his email and begin to type.
Raindrops appear on the screen, skewing the letters. More strike my bare shoulders. I shiver again, swipe the phone on my dress, and try again.
Thunder rolls and the sky opens up. Cold pours down from the darkness.
I shriek and run, holding my purse over my head like it’s going to do a darn thing. I fumble my car keys, and they go flying into the grass. Of course. By the time I have them in hand, my dress is soaked through. Hair is plastered to my neck.
Here I thought I was freezing before. I’m shivering so violently that it takes three tries to get the keys into the ignition.
And then the car won’t start.
I think of Declan Murphy telling me to replace the battery, which I never did. I hate that he was right. I hate it. A fresh round of tears burns my eyes. If I call my father and tell him I’m stuck at the cemetery when I’m supposed to be spending the night at Rowan’s house, he might actually have an aneurysm.
He was so happy I was going to the dance. I imagine shattering that.
My breath shudders.
Get it together, Juliet, I tell myself. Think.
Declan turned everything off before jump-starting the engine. Maybe that will help. I flip every dial I see, killing everything. Then I insert the key and give the ignition a try again.
The car gives a pathetic rum-rum-rum sound but then flares to life. Victory!
It causes me physical pain to leave the heat off, but I need the headlights and the windshield wipers, and I don’t want to risk anything else draining the battery. I put the car in gear and turn onto the main road.
The rain must be keeping reasonable people home tonight, because the roads are mostly empty. I turn onto the two-lane highway that cuts through town, accelerating briskly because I need to get a blanket before I shiver myself
out of this dress. I keep both hands on the wheel and peer into the darkness.
A loud clunk sounds from beneath the car. The vehicle lurches sideways.
I hit the brakes instinctively. The car begins to spin. The screech of metal on asphalt slices through the silence. All I see is darkness, with my headlights cutting a swath of sparkling raindrops. Somehow I’m moving at light speed, yet time has slowed down.
I can’t think. I can’t think. I can’t think.
Help me, Mom.
From out of nowhere, my driver’s ed instructor’s voice intercepts my thoughts. Steer into the skid. I do my best to keep from jerking the wheel to the right. Instead, I steer into it. The car swerves and wobbles and makes it to the opposite shoulder. I ease on the brakes until the car rolls to a stop.
It’s a miracle I haven’t wet my pants. Dress. Whatever. My heart has never beat so hard. My hands still clutch the steering wheel, and I put my forehead against the leather. The smell of burned rubber is thick in the air. I’m breathing like I’ve run a marathon.
Adrenaline is a great ally: I’m not cold at all.
Did I hit something? A deer?
Something worse?
It takes me a while to unwrap my fingers from the steering wheel. I’m terrified to climb out of the car and into the darkness, to see what I hit.
Finally, I do. I kill the engine and climb out to inspect the damage.
To my surprise, there’s nothing wrong with the front end of the car.
Except for the fact that my entire left tire is gone. The shiny steel rim rests against the pavement.
How is my entire tire gone? Does that kind of thing happen?
I climb back into the car and find my cell phone. Even if I knew how to change a tire—which I don’t—I can’t do it in a strapless dress on the side of the road during a thunderstorm. At least I’m away from the cemetery, and I can tell my father I was on my way home from the dance.
Well, I could tell him that if he’d answer the phone. It rings and rings and goes to voice mail. Twice.
I look at the clock again. It’s after ten, and he expects me to spend the night at Rowan’s. He’s probably asleep already.
I try a third time. No answer.
I try Rowan. Straight to voice mail. I send her a text, but she doesn’t respond right away. She’s probably back on the dance floor, flirting with Brandon.
I can probably turn the car back on and get some heat going now. I don’t need wipers and headlights if I’m stranded.
The car won’t start again. No matter what I do.
This sucks.
Then I look back at my phone. I click on the Freemail app.
There’s his message.
You think you’re having a bad night? I think. Beat this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Friday, October 4 10:22:03 PM
Subject: Upping the ante
Here’s a recap of my evening:I began the night coming face-to-face with the rudest, most abrasive person I know, and somehow I walked away from the interaction feeling like I was the bad guy.
Then I sobbed all over my best friend because I thought my mother might be disappointed in me doing something as silly and frivolous as going to a dance when there are more important things in the world.
A little later, I realized my date was more interested in my best friend than in me (which is fine because I’d be more interested in dating a piece of wood than him, but still), so I left them on the dance floor to go sulk in the shadows.
And now? I’m sitting on the side of the road in a car that won’t start.
I’m soaking wet.
I’m freezing.
My car is missing a tire.
My dad won’t answer his phone.
And I don’t know what to do.
Trump that, Dark.
Holy crap. I almost drop my phone.
I look at the time stamp on her email. She sent this five minutes ago.
I click back to the main screen of the app. The little green dot sits beside her name.
I don’t even think about it. I send her a chat.
The Dark: Are you OK?
Cemetery Girl: That depends how broadly you’re defining OK.
The Dark: Seriously. Are you in a safe place? Are you off the road?
Cemetery Girl: I’m on the shoulder of Generals Highway. It’s raining hard, but I have my headlights on.
The Dark: Are you sitting in the car? Please tell me you’re not standing on the side of the road.
Cemetery Girl: I am in the car. The doors are locked.
“Who are you texting?”
I glance up at Rev. He’s been warning me about my eleven o’clock curfew for the last half hour. We live less than ten minutes away, so it’s not like we’re in any danger of being late. Rev is funny about rules, though. Breaking them makes him anxious.
“Cemetery Girl,” I tell him.
“Is she still here? Is that why we haven’t left yet?”
“No.” I show him her message.
He reads through the whole thing. “Should we call someone?”
“Who? I don’t even know who she is.”
“You could ask her.”
My fingers hover over the buttons. I don’t want to ask her. I like this anonymity. Once we know each other, that’s gone.
Rev watches me, probably sensing my hesitation.
“Ask her if she wants your help,” he says quietly.
The Dark: I’m still at the school. Do you want help? I can come to you.
For the longest time, nothing happens. No response, not even the flashing message to tell me she’s typing.
Maybe someone has already stopped to help. Maybe her father called her back.
Then my phone flashes.
Cemetery Girl: Yes. Please help me. I don’t know what to do.
Rain falls in sheets across the road. Rev and I got half soaked getting to the car, and the drops felt like icicles. I cranked up the heat as soon as I had the engine started. This weather is one of the worst things about Maryland: a warm day can be followed by a rainstorm followed by temps in the thirties.
“Do you want to call Alan?” Rev asks.
I’d rather slit my wrists. “Why the hell would I want to call Alan?”
“Because of your curfew.”
“God, Rev, would you give it a rest? I’m not going to miss curfew. It’s barely ten thirty.”
“Do you think there’s any chance this is a setup?”
I glance away from the road to look at him. In the dark, his eyes are hooded and serious.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I think about it for a long minute, turning the thought around to examine it from all angles. I’m the last person anyone would call popular, but I’m not hated. At least I don’t think I am.
After a moment, I shrug. “I don’t know who would do something like that. Or why.”
“People don’t always have logical reasons for doing what they do.” He pauses. “You should know that better than anybody.”
I don’t have a response to that.
He’s right, of course.
“Scared?” I mock him, to take the edge off the conversation.
He doesn’t take the bait. “Prepared,” he says seriously.
We make the turn onto Generals Highway, a two-lane road that stretches for miles all the way to Annapolis. Out here, the houses are few and far between, and the speed limit is high. In her email, she said she was missing a tire. Did that mean she’d had a blow-out, or had someone stolen it?
We come around a bend, and I see a car way up ahead, parked on the shoulder. Strips of rubber litter the road and make little bumps under my wheels. I take my foot off the accelerator, preparing to pull over behind her. My heart has picked up a staccato rhythm in my chest. I’m excited. I’m terrified. I want to throw myself out of my car, jump into hers, and sa
y, “You. You understand me.”
And after that, I want to sit in the car with her, breathing the same air, just being present with someone else who gets it.
Then my eyes register the color of the vehicle on the shoulder. The bright yellow side panel is like a beacon in the path of my headlights.
My heart stops. Freezes over.
I hesitate, just for a moment, still allowing my car to drift onto the shoulder.
Then I jerk the wheel back into the traffic lane and downshift into third to accelerate past her broken-down car.
Rev turns to me, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
I can barely speak around the block of ice forming in my chest. “Going home.”
“Why? What happened?”
“You were right. It was a setup.”
“What? Who? How do you know?”
I don’t answer him. I have to focus on the road, on remembering my best friend is seated beside me, because otherwise I might drive straight off a cliff.
“Dec,” Rev says, his voice quiet. “Talk to me.”
“That’s her car.”
He hesitates. “Right . . . ?”
I glance over. “Juliet Young’s car. Don’t you remember? We jumped her battery.”
“Yeah, but—how are you sure it’s her car?”
“Because I looked at it.”
He’s quiet again, studying me. “You genuinely think she’s setting you up?”
“Yes. No.” I run a hand through my hair, then punch the steering wheel. I’m halfway yelling, and I know I need to get my emotions under control, especially if I’m going to face Alan anytime soon. I clench my teeth and grit out the words. “I don’t know, Rev. Just—I don’t know. Forget it.”
I know you’re a loser with a record.
Everything I’ve felt has been an illusion. Everything. Juliet Young doesn’t know anything about me. She sees the same thing everyone else does: a guy killing time until he’ll be riding the government’s dime, being told when to sleep and when to eat.
My throat feels so tight I don’t think I can swallow. Heat is building in my chest, melting the block of ice. This feels like fury. This feels like betrayal.
I can’t believe I told her about my father. I can’t believe I told her about Kerry.