Don't Look Back (20 page)

When I got home, my room was a mess. Knowing that strangers had combed through my undies creeped me out. I felt violated. Nothing had been spared in the investigation. Not even my bed. What did they think I’d hide in there? My laptop was also gone. Forensics. According to Ramirez I’d have it back in a week.

I really hoped I didn’t have a porn addiction I’d forgotten about.
It took me the better part of the evening to clean my room. Mostly because my mother’s constant hovering slowed things down. Pale and stricken, she left me alone only to return with a cold-cut sandwich for me. The act surprised me and it also scared me. I could see that she didn’t seem concerned about how all this would make her look to her uppity friends.
Worried, but this time it was for me.
That didn’t make me feel any better, because I knew I had a reason to be worried. My interrogation—er, questioning—went downhill quickly after Ramirez asked who the third person was. He kept asking the same questions in different ways, trying to trip me up. It all became evident that he believed I was faking or I wasn’t telling him everything.
Lincoln broke out the lawyer guns. He wanted evidence. Detective Ramirez laid it out plainly. I was the last person to be with her. My “memory loss” was my only defense, the only thing “getting in the way of justice.” Any evidence the police had was circumstantial, but people had been convicted on far less. Lincoln told me and my dad afterward that it would never get to that point. I wanted to believe him, but my paranoia was hitting epic levels.
One of you lived. One of you died.
Pacing the length of my bedroom well into the late hours, I was a nervous, sweaty mess by the time I slid between the covers, pulling them over my head like a child. There, in the safety and isolation of my blanket cocoon, I reasoned things out.
Cassie had been murdered. Skull crushed before she was sent over the cliff. Or maybe on the way down. Either way, she’d been pushed. There was little to no evidence supporting that she’d jumped. It was obvious the police didn’t believe it was a suicide. No water in the lungs. One of two things happened: I’d hit her with something and then pushed her and then somehow fallen off the cliff myself, or there had been another person there who was responsible for everything. Hit Cassie with something, pushed her off the cliff, and then did the same to me—or at least tried. Or she could’ve hit her head on the way down.
One of you lived. One of you died.
I somehow felt closer to Cassie than I ever had before. We were still joined by the secret of that night, a memory I couldn’t reach.
At some point I dozed off, and I dreamed of the cliff, of Cassie and a third person who kept staying out of my direct line of sight, hiding his or her identity from me. I woke up, my skin sticky with cold sweat and the covers twisted around my hips. Tears clung to my lashes.
Minutes passed, and I kept my eyes squeezed shut. I tried counting to one hundred, but I only made it to twenty before tiny bumps spread across my skin. A shiver of awareness alerted me to something unnatural in the room.
My breath slowly leaked out of my lips as my muscles locked up. Someone was in the room with me. Every cell in my body knew this. Too afraid to open my eyes, I remained perfectly still.
An icy breath moved over my brow, down my cheek.
I swallowed, and my eyes popped open against my will and a scream came tearing out of my throat. I wasn’t alone.

Swathed in darkness, he leaned over me. All I could see was his chest, but I could feel his breath. I couldn’t move, couldn’t stop screaming as he pulled away.
Get

up! Hit him! Get away!
My brain kept spewing out commands, but my body wouldn’t obey. He was still there, a cold hand moving along my neck, over my pounding pulse. “Samantha,” he said roughly, voice somewhat familiar. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Then the lights turned on, blinding me in their startling intensity, and I could move. I jackknifed up, my mouth open, bloodcurdling sounds still coming from me. Arms were suddenly around me, and my shrieks pitched even higher.

“Shh, Sam, it’s okay. Everything is okay. Shh, it’s all right.” I struggled to recognize the voice and the arms around me. All I kept seeing was the man above me, his cold breath and the chilly fingers above my pulse. I couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how soothing the words being whispered in my ear were.

More voices finally broke through—my dad—Mom. It was Scott holding me, trying to snap me out of it.
“What’s going on?” Dad demanded, a black pistol in his hand.
Mom sat beside Scott, placing a hand on my back. “Samantha, baby, talk to us.”
It took several tries to form a coherent sentence. “He was in my bedroom, standing over me! I woke up, and he was there.”
“Who?” Scott asked, pulling back so that his eyes met mine. “Who, Sam?”
Dad rushed to the bedroom windows, fiddling with the locks while I focused on my brother’s face.
“I don’t know, but it was him. It was
him
.”
His brows knitted as he glanced over my shoulder. “Was it Del?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom snapped, patting my back. “He wouldn’t come in here and scare her like that.”
I twisted out of Scott’s arms. “I couldn’t see his face, but he must’ve gone out the windows or something.”
His face pale, my dad lowered the pistol. “Oh, Samantha...”
“What?” My voice pitched. “He was in here! He was standing over my bed, touching me.”
Mom stood, pulling the knot on her silk robe tighter. Her eyes met my father’s. “There’s no more waiting, Steven. She needs to see a doctor.”
I sat back, fingers digging into my comforter. What were they talking about? Who cared about a damn doctor? There had been a man in my bedroom.
“She’s fine. She just had a nightmare.” Scott rushed to my defense. “There’s no reason to bring out the straightjacket.”
“What?” I shrieked.
Straitjacket?
My pulse sped up.
“Scott,” Mom said, sighing, “go to your room.”
He ignored her.
Dad sat down on the other side, catching my hand in his free one. “Baby, the windows and the balcony door are locked from the inside. The alarm is set. It didn’t go off.”
“No. No! There was someone in my room.” I pulled my hand free, scooting back from him. “You have to believe me. I was awake. He was standing over me.”
He shook his head. A sad, tired look pierced his eyes. “There wasn’t anyone in your room. You were dreaming or—”
“Or I’m seeing things? Like the guy in the backseat?” I yelled. Terror dissipated, replaced by rage. “Is that what you think?”
Mom wiped at her face. It was the first time I’d seen her cry, but the tears only infuriated me. “You’ve had a stressful night, sweetie. We’re not judging you, but you need—”
“I don’t need help!” Okay, maybe I did, but I scrambled under Scott’s arm. He grabbed for me, but I was quick when I wanted to be. Maybe some of the things I had been seeing weren’t real, but this... this had been real.
“I think you should sit down,” Dad suggested as he rose. “We can talk about things in the morning.”
Ignoring him, I grabbed my bag out from under my desk and dumped it onto my bed. Among the books, school papers, and pens, four yellow notes fell onto the bed. All of them except the one I’d found in the car.
“What are you doing?” Scott asked, eyes bugging out as he saw the notes.
I had the most horrible thought then. What if Scott was leaving those notes? I looked at him, really looked at him. He hated Cassie, but ... but no way. I dismissed the notion.
I spread the notes across the bed. “There! See! I’ve been getting these damn notes on and off. Someone has been trying to talk to me, to warn me.”
Mom stepped forward, peering over my shoulder. She clamped a hand over her mouth and whipped around. Her shoulders shook.
“What the ... ?” Dad picked up one of the notes—the one that read
Don’t look back. You won’t like what you find
. “Jesus.”
“See!” I almost clapped and jumped. The notes were my only way of proving that I wasn’t a hundred percent insane. “They’re proof that someone knows what happened. Maybe whoever is leaving those notes is the person who was with us that night.”
My father’s fingers curled around the note, damaging the already crinkled paper. “Why didn’t you come to me when you first got one of these?”
“I...” My gaze darted to Scott. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and lowered his chin.
Dad swung around, a vein pulsing across his temple. “You knew about this? You knew this was happening and you didn’t tell me?”
“It’s not his fault,” I defended him. “And really, that’s not the issue here. Someone has been sneaking in here, leaving me notes on my bed, in my locker at school, in my book bag.”
“I’m calling the doctor in the morning,” Mom said, rubbing the skin around her neck until it was pink. “That is the end of it.”
I threw up my hands. “Call the doctor! Fine! But can we focus on the important stuff?”
Scott looked up, pressing his lips together. “I should’ve told you when you first showed me the note, but I just ... didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.”
Dread snaked down my spine. “What are you saying?”
“The notes, they’re all from the same kind of paper and they’re in your handwriting. From when you were a kid,” he said, glancing at Mom. “You’ve been writing the notes, Sam.”
Denial rushed over me. “No. No way. I’m not writing those notes.”
“Wait here.” He rose, heading out of the bedroom.
Turning to Dad, I pleaded with him. “It’s not me, Dad. I’m not that crazy. There’s no way it’s me leaving those notes! I would remember writing them.”
Dad smiled weakly. “I know. You’re not crazy.”
But I saw the truth in his eyes. I sat in a daze of disbelief until Scott returned with a folded-up piece of green construction paper. “This is a birthday card you made for me on our seventh birthday.” He sat beside me, unfolding it. “See?” He pointed at a stick-figure drawing of a girl with long hair. “That is you and this is me.” He pointed to a stick boy with freckles.
Man, I had no talent.
Scott let out a shaky breath as he picked up a note and spread it out above the birthday message. “Look, Sam.”
I saw it immediately, and my world crumbled a little more. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The childish scrawl on the card and the note were the same, down to the identical, fat
D
.
My handwriting.
“No,” I whispered. Tears blurred my vision as I lifted my head. “No. I don’t understand. I don’t remember writing any of them. It doesn’t make sense.”
Scott folded the card, and when he lifted his head, he looked so young. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that!” I cried. “Please stop. I’m not ... I’m not crazy.”
Rushing toward me, Mom clasped my cheeks with her hands. Her eyes were clear of sleep and alcohol. “We know, honey. It’s just the stress from everything. We’re going to get you help.”
My eyes shifted over her shoulder to my dad. “Do you think I’m crazy?” My voice broke.
“No.” He looked away. A muscle popped in his jaw. “Never, baby, never.”
Tears streamed down my face. Someone, I don’t know who, hugged me, but I was numb. Numb. Numb. Numb. Their faces blurred. It was official. Seeing things, hearing voices, writing notes to myself and not remembering ... I
was
crazy.

I got up and went to school the next morning, pretending as if I wasn’t one step away from full-blown schizophrenia. Dad had still been home. Over a cup of coffee, he told me that he was picking me up after my last class.

Not even ten hours later and they’d already found me an appointment with a real shrink.
Scott didn’t say anything when I climbed into the car, but he stopped halfway between our house and Carson’s. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you before, but...”
“It’s okay.” My voice was flat as I stared out the window. I was still so numb inside, cold and lifeless. “I should be the one apologizing. It’s not your fault your sister’s a lunatic.”
“You’re not a lunatic.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nodded but didn’t respond. Honestly, it wasn’t going to be okay.
Scott let go, and we made the short trip to Carson’s house. My heart hurt just thinking about how Carson would look at me if he really knew the truth. They talked about a game that had been on last night while I stared out the window, trying to keep my eyes dry.
Suddenly, Carson propped his chin on the seat above my shoulder. Capturing a piece of my hair between his fingers, he tugged gently. “You’re awful quiet this morning.”
Scott glanced at me. There was a silent message in his stare, but I had no idea what it meant. I forced at faint smile. “I’m fine. Just sleepy.”
Carson accepted that and moved on, but his eyes lingered on my face when we parted ways.
I spent the better part of the morning destroying what was left of my fingernails on my right hand. A giant clock hung over my head. Ticking down the minutes until I either lost my mind completely, was arrested for the murder of my best friend, or was eventually silenced by the individual who was really responsible for the murder before I could learn his or her true identity.
Needless to say, I wasn’t kidding myself with any happy endings.
Had I been trying to warn myself when I wrote those notes? I flipped back and forth between being guilty and innocent. In each scenario, I was still bonkers.
Making matters worse, Detective Ramirez and another deputy returned to school, questioning kids once more. Veronica and Candy both were singled out in English class. In bio, Carson confirmed he’d been questioned in the previous period.
“It’s definitely a murder investigation.” His head was bent low, so only I could hear what he was saying. “The questions they were asking were obvious. Like if I knew anyone who wanted to do her harm. They even asked about you—if you had any enemies.”
Knowing that someone was asking those sorts of questions made me feel overexposed, as if I’d been slit open and laid bare for all to see.
“They talked to me last night,” I admitted, clenching my pen.
“I got that feeling. They asked about the trip we made to Cassie’s house and the cliff.”
“Sorry.” Unable to look at him, I focused on my textbook. “I didn’t want to get you involved.”
“It’s okay.” Under the table, his hand found my empty one. Threading his fingers through mine, he squeezed. “I’m not upset that you told them that we went there. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong.”
Aware of his hand around mine and the pleasant tingle that shot up my arm, I wondered if he’d still hold my hand if he knew the truth. Or would he call me Insanity Sam like everyone else? My eyes burned.
As the teacher started the lecture, Carson shifted his hand, tracing his thumb over my palm in a silent alphabet. As if I weren’t distracted enough. I jumped a few times, scraping the legs of my chair on the floor, especially when his fingers reached the center of my hand. Carson would chuckle softly, and the two kids in front of our table kept turning around, glancing at us.
By the end of class, my cheeks were rosy and my nerves were stretched tight for several reasons—one of them being the fact that Carson was still holding my hand.
Out in the hallway, he pulled me against the wall and lowered his head so that we were eye level. “I want to see you after practice.”
My heart did a little happy dance, but I shook my head. “I don’t know... if we should.”
His lips curved up on one side. “I’m asking to hang out. That’s all, Sam.”
I flushed. “I know, but...”
“But what?” His lopsided grin spread. “Or do you want to play the field now that you’re single? Keep your options open?”
Rolling my eyes, I laughed. “That’s not it.”
“Good.” He stepped forward. Our shoes touched. People were watching, and I couldn’t care less when my eyes locked with his. “I’d be sort of disappointed. So, meet me at eight. The tree house clandestine enough for you?”
I knew I should tell him no. “Okay.”