My phone buzzes—a text from Connor.
Hey, beautiful. Movie tonight? I’ll bring pizza and The Empire Strikes Back.
Damn. My first test. A trifecta of temptation staring me right in the face—luscious food, one of my favorite films, and my hot new boyfriend.
A thrill shoots through me—is he my boyfriend?
No time to deliberate—Nikki reads my text and stares at me, a challenge in her eyes. I raise my chin, defiant, then text back:
I would love to, but I can’t tonight—going to the gym with Nikki. Rain check?
Sure. Have fun.
I nod at Nikki. “Okay.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Two hours—two full hours of smelling stale sweat and humiliating myself on treadmills, ellipticals, and various other contraptions, each oddly resembling some ancient device of torture.
But thanks to Nikki, I did it.
Now, I’m dragging myself down the hall of my apartment building, soaked in sweat, arms and legs leaden, my feet shuffling across the faded gray carpeting because I’m drained of the energy necessary to lift them fully. And this is only the preshow. Tomorrow I’ll be slugged with the main event: soreness so powerful that it’ll hurt to move.
But dammit, it feels good somehow, like I’ve accomplished something.
I’m smiling to myself as I pass my neighbor’s door, which clicks open a crack. “Everything all right, Simone?” Mrs. Wallace steps out, pushing up her thick glasses with one hand and clutching closed her powder-blue terry-cloth robe with the other.
I smile. “Oh yes, everything’s fine.”
The old woman’s eyes widen, scanning me—my face flushed red from exertion, hair askew and matted with sweat. She scratches her soft white curls, puffs out her wrinkled brown cheeks. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yep, just getting back from the gym.” I shrug.
She looks confused but chuckles, then lifts up a finger for me to wait, disappears back behind the door, and returns with a pan of chocolate cupcakes. “I did it again.”
They’re fresh, and as the gooey sweet chocolate floods my nose, drool pools within my mouth. “Oh, those look amazing, Mrs. Wallace.” I lean back against the tan wall, trying to distance myself from this temptation.
She beams. “You know I love to bake, but it’s always way more than I can eat all by myself.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just take one . . .” She thrusts the entire pan toward me, holding it out until I take it. “Okay, twist my arm. Maybe I can bring them into work so I don’t eat them all myself.”
Mrs. Wallace crosses her arms, a twinkle in her eye. “Or, you could share some with that strapping young man I’ve seen you with.”
She winks and turns back toward her apartment, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.
I stare down at the thickly frosted goodies in my hands, willpower sapping out of my weary bones. My stomach rumbles, struck by the intense hunger that comes after a workout. With a deep breath, I rush through my own apartment door, slamming it shut behind me, and stalk over to the fridge—I stick the cupcakes all the way in the back, behind the stale box of baking soda and last week’s never-to-be-finished quinoa. “There.” I nod, satisfied.
In my bathroom, I crank up a playlist on my phone so I can sing in the shower—off key but happy. Towel-clad, I pad to my bedroom afterward, toss my smelly heap of gym clothes in the hamper, and slip into the pajama set Mom gave me for Christmas—my coziest jammies, with fuzzy red pants and a top adorned in snowflakes.
My stomach calls to me again—Feed me, oh cruel master—threatening to gnaw away at my insides if I don’t soon succumb to its demands.
Fuel your body, Nikki had advised.
You mean with pizza and wine?
She didn’t find that response funny.
With the cupcakes safely stashed away, I’m confident I can make a healthier choice. All that stands between me and leftover chicken and veggies is a lingering chill, so I dig through my closet for a sweatshirt but come up with only short sleeves. My eyes flit to the heaping hamper, where I flung my workout clothes. Damn. Laundry day tomorrow, for sure.
Out in the living room, I scan with narrowed eyes until I spy a gray lump sticking out from under a throw pillow on the recliner. Bingo—score one for being a slob.
But when I pull it out, a goofy smile spreads across my face. It’s Connor’s sweatshirt, deep gray, with a purple Minnesota Vikings mascot head in the middle. I dart my eyes side to side as if someone will see me, then slip it on over my head. It’s big and warm and blankets me in its safe, comforting embrace. I pull the neck up over my nose and inhale, hoping to catch a leftover trace of his musky cologne.
When my phone rings, I jump as if I’ve been busted creeping outside his window. A deep breath calms me for a moment, and I pull out my phone. My brow furrows at the name on the screen as I answer the call. “Emmett?”
“Heya, Mone.”
“What’s wrong?”
He snorts. “Why do you always assume something’s wrong?”
“Because you have on numerous occasions informed me that phones are for texting, not calling.”
“Touché.”
“So?”
He sighs. “Now, promise you won’t get mad . . .”
“I can’t promise anything until you tell me what’s going on.”
He sighs. “I’m in Sioux Falls.”
My eyes narrow. “Are Mom and Dad with you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Emmett. It’s a yes-or-no question.”
“Okay, then, no. They’re not.”
Worry has turned to all-out alarm. “Do they know where you are?”
Pause. “Uh . . . not exactly.”
“Emmett.”
“Okay, that time it was true. They didn’t know when I left, but I texted them when I stopped for gas in Watertown.”
I ease down onto my plush green armchair, a hand-me-down from my parents, as my brain tries to process. “Em, did you run away?”
He snorts again. “Mone, I’m seventeen. I’m pretty sure I could legally live on my own if I wanted to.”
“Then just tell me what’s going on!” I yell the words louder than I intend to, dangerously close to flipping out.
“I’ll tell you in about a minute.”
“Emmett, I—”
A knock on my door cuts me off. I stare at the door, down at my phone, then back at the door. “Oh, for God’s sake.” I hit “End,” march over to the door, and whip it open.
My brother stands on the other side, head bowed, smile apologetic. “Surprise,” he murmurs.
PART FIVE
TREPIDATION
Monday, December 6, 9:56 a.m.
The lilting murmurs draw me forward like the Pied Piper’s haunting melody. My entire body buzzes—I don’t know if this is right or wrong, but some primal part of me needs to find out.
I motion for Hayley to hold the door, then crawl up the carpeted stairs, crouched like an animal, unsure whether I’m predator or prey.
All I have to do is get to the landing halfway up, where the staircase turns sharply and continues up the opposite way. I can peek around it, keeping most of myself hidden. If I see anything suspicious, we’ll retreat. I can do this—I can stay safe.
Safe. I shudder.
At the landing, time seems to stand still as I hold my breath and peer around the corner, scanning frantically for danger above. At the top of the stairs, the doorway leading into the upstairs hallway is ajar, as if something is holding it open.
Oh God. It’s a person. A human being is wedged in the doorway.
Sickness rises in my stomach—a man is lying there, hand outstretched as if reaching for help.
Covered in blood.
I puff out a terrified breath and pitch backward, stumbling down the stairs, where Hayley, thank God, is still holding the door open. I push her back into the hallway, easing the door closed so he doesn’t hear it slam—because I know
he’s up there now.
The shooter is up there.
“What?” Hayley whispers, eyes wild. “What did you see?”
“Someone else . . . another . . .” I can’t say the word, can’t erase the vision in my head, another death. How many more will there be?
I need to find Nikki. I need to make sure this isn’t her fate.
Without warning a wave of dizziness hits, and I sway, gripping the wall for support. I take deep breaths, reciting prayers, even though my mind is as jumbled and chaotic as the nightmarish scene around us. I have to stay strong. I have to find her.
When my head clears, I turn to Hayley, and she’s trembling, fear etched on her face. I place my hand gently on her arm. “Go.” I point back down the corridor, where a door leads into the Student Union. “It should be clear that way. You can get out—just be careful.”
Seconds tick by as Hayley stares over her shoulder; then she turns back to me, drawing a shuddering breath. “No,” she whispers. “Let’s go find her. Together.”
I nod, and without another word we walk toward the office I share with Nikki. Christmas music wafts faintly out the open door, the sugary-sweet notes chilling in this macabre scene. But the song changes as we reach the doorway, the melancholy notes of “Silent Night” now guiding us forward, and all does feel calm—eerily so.
I can see the entire expanse of our joint office, but my eyes are drawn to Nikki’s chair, pushed way back from her desk, empty. She must’ve jumped up when she heard the first gunshot. Must’ve rushed toward the door. Must’ve clung to the string of white Christmas lights that line my bookshelf when the bullet took her down.
Because those lights are tangled in her outstretched hand.
Nikki is lying motionless on the floor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
January 11, eleven months before
Outside my apartment door, my brother is standing before me. Then, behind him, a creak—Mrs. Wallace’s door edges open, her small face peeks out, eyebrows raised. Oh God, that’s all I need—my neighbor thinking I’m entertaining two young men. I wave, a smile plastered on my face. “Sorry for the noise—my brother is visiting.”
My face is stern when I turn to Emmett. “Get in here, will you?” He shuffles in, and I shut the door behind him. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”
He holds up his hands. “Like I said, don’t be mad, but . . .”
I raise my eyebrows. “But . . . ?”
He swallows. “But I kind of used your address for something.”
My eyes narrow. “For what?”
“To . . . uh . . . to buy something.”
“But why couldn’t you just ship it home?”
He rubs his neck. “Because Mom and Dad wouldn’t approve.”
My hands fly to my mouth. “Oh God, Emmett, are you buying drugs?”
He rolls his eyes. “Ease up, sis. It’s a snowmobile.”
I blink. “You had a snowmobile shipped to my apartment?”
He laughs. “Nah, someone’s meeting me here, in your parking lot, to drop it off.”
“Someone who? Like a guy from a dealership or something?”
“Not exactly.”
I cross my arms, leveling him with my fed-up-big-sister glare.
He sighs and slinks down onto the arm of the couch. “I bought it from a guy off Craigslist.”
An alarm bell rings in my head, but I’m still busy figuring out the logistics of his plan. “How are you going to get a snowmobile back to Aberdeen?”
He looks down. “I . . . uh . . . I sort of borrowed Dad’s truck.”
I lean back against the entryway wall. “Holy shit, Em. Do you realize how much trouble you’re in?” I bolt back upright before he can answer. “Oh God, you said you texted Mom and Dad from Watertown. Did they text back?”
“Yeah, like, a few times.”
“I can’t believe they haven’t called me—”
My phone rings in my hand before I complete the thought. Emmett tries to laugh, but my glare cuts him off. I grimace as I bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Simone, have you heard from Emmett?”
I ache at the fear in her voice, and my frown deepens at my brother until he drops his eyes. “He’s standing right in front of me, Mom. He’s at my place.”
“Oh, thank God—Bob, he’s with Simone.” I can’t understand my dad’s reply, but his tone is biting. “Mone, can I talk to him?”
I hold the phone out to him, but he shakes his head. “Emmett,” I whisper, but when he looks up, his eyes are pleading, and suddenly my little brother is five years old again, scared on his first day of kindergarten. Needing my protection. I sigh. “Mom, he’s not up for talking right now. But he’s okay—he’s safe with me.” It’s true, but of course I’ve omitted the snowmobile purchase he’s making from some rando. “I’ll have him give you a call a little later?”
There’s a muffled voice, some shuffling, then my dad booms into the phone, “You tell your brother it’s fine if he doesn’t want to talk to us now, but he is sure as hell going to talk to us when we get there.”
I swallow. “You’re coming here? Now?”
“Of course we are!” he roars. “He’s already grounded until he’s thirty, but if he doesn’t have a damn good explanation for taking my truck, I’m going to call the police and report it stolen.” Emmett is close enough to hear my dad over the phone, and his face pales. “Tell your brother he has about three hours until Judgment Day.”
I say goodbye, then turn to Emmett. “They’ll be here in three hours. I have so many questions for you, but right now I need to know two things. One, when is this snowmobile guy getting here?”
“In about forty-five minutes. He’s going to text me when he’s in the parking lot.” He meets my eyes. “What’s your other question?”
I stare at my brother as if noticing for the first time the sag in his shoulders, the droop of his eyelids, the way he’s beaten down, too weathered for his young soul—the last leaf on a bare tree, ready to fall at any moment. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
He flinches but then quickly rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I reach out and hug him, brief but fierce, then step back. He’s not telling the full truth, but right now I’m in triage mode—there’s a more pressing concern to deal with. “So this guy who’s coming: What do you know about him?”
He shrugs. “Not much, I guess. He had a snowmobile I could afford.”
I shake my head, my big-sister radar on full alert. “Craigslist, Emmett? Really? I swear to God the only time I hear about Craigslist is when someone gets murdered.”
Emmett rolls his eyes. “It’s not a big deal, Simone.” I glare at him, and he changes tactic. “I mean, he’s not coming inside or anything.”
I want to inform my brother that murders can and probably do happen in parking lots every day, but he already seems to think I’m overreacting. Think, Simone, think. My phone beeps in my hand, and I look down.
Connor: How was your workout?
I look up at my brother, a glint in my eye. Emmett frowns. “What?”
I smile and look down at my phone again, typing out a text: Well, I won’t be running any marathons soon, but it was okay.
I wait a few seconds, then: Hey, can I call you?
I swear less than a second goes by before his response appears: Sure.
As the phone rings, I find myself praying in my head—an absurd little habit when I’m nervous, like a holy antidote to stage fright and anxiety.
“Hey.” His greeting is as warm as his sweatshirt—God, how can one word make your entire insides melt?
“Hi,” I say. Emmett makes a face, and I wipe away my swooning smile, clear my throat. “So, random question, but, uh, what are you doing right now?”
“Oh, you know, something super important.”
“Bingeing on Netflix and popcorn, huh?”
He laughs. “Busted. What’s up?”
“My brother is here
. Unexpectedly. He sort of bought a snowmobile on the internet and set it up to meet someone here to pick it up tonight.”
“He did what?”
“Um, well, Emmett bought it on Craigslist, and the guy is apparently bringing it here to my place . . . tonight.”
There’s a pause. “So . . . a stranger your brother found on Craigslist is coming to your apartment?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Well, Emmett’s supposed to meet him in the parking lot, but I guess that kind of makes me nervous. I mean, I’ll totally go out there with him, of course, but I was just wondering, if, um . . . if you . . .” I trail off, suddenly afraid to say the words. Maybe this is a mistake. Once again, I’m asking him to drop everything to help me with a random minicrisis—not exactly the cool-girl vibe I’d like to project.
I open my mouth, prepared to backpedal, but Connor speaks gently. “Do you want me to come over?”
Relief floods through me. “Would you?”
“Of course. When is he coming?”
“In about forty minutes.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He pauses. “But wait inside until I get there, even if the guy shows up before me. Please?”
“We will.” I smile, glad I’m not the only one weirded out by this unexpected visitor. I end the call and turn to my brother. “Connor’s on his way over.”
But when I look at Emmett, he looks confused. “Connor from Christmas?” Then his eyes flash with anger. “You didn’t need to do that. I’m not a child.”
He’s right about that—he’s half a foot taller than I am—but I cross my arms. “I know you’re not, but you’re still my little brother, and apparently have questionable judgment.”
We stare each other down, and my face reddens. I hate that we’ve both grown up and into a world where I can no longer be his protector. One more area of my life where I feel inadequate, helpless. I take a deep breath, try a softer approach. “Look, I was just thinking that a little backup isn’t a bad thing, right?”
Emmett rolls his eyes, but he shrugs. “I guess.” Then he smirks at me. “You and Mr. Blizzard, huh? Well, I hope he knows something about snowmobiles.”
The Speed of Light Page 11
