Far From You

by Tess Sharpe

  “That must be crazy to think about,” I say. “All those ­people, coming to see you. I’d freak out.”

  “Yeah.” Adam grins nervously. “But in a good way, you know?”

  “You’ve worked really hard,” I say. “You deserve it.” I wish Trev would text me. I take another long drink of soda. My mouth’s dry. I feel too hot all of a sudden. I swing my good leg back and forth and frown when it hits the bumper.

  “You excited about senior year?” Adam asks.

  “Kind of.” I blink, rubbing at my eyes. I struggle to swallow, and when I try to take a sip, I miss, spilling soda everywhere. My arm feels weird and heavy.

  “Easy,” Adam says, taking the bottle out of my limp hand and sliding off the trunk.

  I blink again, trying to clear my throbbing head.

  “Sorry, Sophie,” he says quietly. “I like you. Always have. You’re a nice girl.”

  The words take a second to work themselves into my brain. I can’t concentrate; my eyes droop. I feel like I’ve just done six shots of tequila in a row. “You…what? I don’t…”

  I try to get up off my elbows, but my arms and legs are like Jell-O. I can barely feel them.

  Drugged. The word floods into me, a too-late realization that breaks through the sluggishness.

  “Oh God,” I mumble with numb lips. “No.” I try to get up again and slide off the trunk, but he’s there, holding me up. His face is inches away from mine; I can see a spot on his jaw that he missed shaving.

  “No!” I push at him, a solid wall of muscle, as he crowds me against the car. I need something. The bear spray. It’s in my purse. I have to get it out.…If I can just reach it…

  “Sophie, don’t fight it,” he says, and he’s so gentle when he holds my wrists together, it scares me more than if he had punched me in the face. I kick out with my good leg, but my bad one is so rubbery that it won’t take my weight, and I sag against him farther.

  “I’m sorry, I really am. I didn’t want to do this the first time. I tried to warn you but you just won’t stop,” Adam says. I push at him again, trying to tilt my body to the side as he loops some hard plastic around my hands, pulling at the end of the zip tie, binding my wrists together. “You have that reporter asking questions, you went to Matt, you went to Jack, to Amy. You’re too nosy, Sophie. Just like Mina.”

  I open my mouth, cottony and dry from the drug, to scream, but he’s too fast for me. He claps a hand over my lips and shoves me as I struggle against him—when had he opened the door?—and I fall onto the backseat of my car, dizzy as he lets go of my mouth to yank the keys out of my pocket.

  “It was you.” I croak out. I have to say it. I need to hear it.

  Leaning over me, he says, “It was me.” A quiet confirmation, an almost relieved revelation, the last words I hear before he slams the car door shut and I pass out.

  58

  FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

  “Seriously, this is creepy. What are we doing here?”

  Mina leaves the keys in my car so the lights will stay on. I get out, shutting the door as Mina props herself up on the hood. Her hair is illuminated by the headlights. She looks unearthly, almost glowing, and I’m struck by it for a moment, half forgetting that I’ve asked a question.

  “I told you, it’s for the Beacon.”

  “Mina, the only people who come out here are tweekers and couples who don’t mind screwing in a backseat.”

  I skirt the edge of the cliff. The drop down is an endless gape of darkness. My leg’s stiff from being in the car. I stretch it out, nearly overbalance.

  “It’ll just take a few minutes. Get away from the edge, Soph.”

  “I’m feet away from the edge.” Okay, maybe only about a foot, but still, plenty. “What is so important about this story? Amber’s going to be pissed that we’re late.”

  “I’ll tell you later. After I figure…After I write it. Seriously, get away from there. I just got you back from your aunt; I’m not gonna let you fall off a cliff. Come over here.”

  She snaps her fingers, and I stick my tongue out but walk away from the edge so I’m closer to the car. “You should at least entertain me until your Deep Throat or whoever shows up.”

  “I’m so proud of you for that reference.” Mina places a hand against her chest dramatically, wiping away pretend tears with the other.

  I kick dirt at her and she squeals, scrambling farther up the hood until she’s pressed up against the windshield. “Okay, I’ll tell you,” she says solemnly. “But you have to promise not to breathe a word.” She looks to her left, then her right, before leaning forward and hissing: “Alien takeover is imminent.”

  “Oh no! The little green men are coming!” I fake a gasp, and she beams at me for playing along.

  I hear the crunch of footsteps before she does, in that last brief moment when everything is still okay.

  Mina’s sitting on the hood, so her back’s to him. I’m facing him, and at first, it’s too dark to see something’s wrong.

  Then he steps into the beam of the headlights, and I realize two things in quick succession: the person—a man—coming toward us is wearing a ski mask.

  And he has a gun pointed at Mina.

  “Mina.” I choke on her name. I have no air; it’s all been sucked out of my lungs. I grab her arm, drag her off the hood of the car.

  We have to get away, but I can’t run—I won’t be fast enough. He’ll get me. She needs to leave me behind. She needs to run and not look back, but I don’t know how to tell her this; I’ve forgotten how to speak. I almost fall as her shoulders knock into mine. Our hands grasp as her mouth drops into an O, her eyes fixed on the man as he advances on us.

  This is happening. This is actually happening.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  He stops just a few feet away, saying nothing. But he points to me and gestures with the gun, his meaning clear: Get away from her.

  Mina’s nails dig into my skin. My leg shakes; I lean against her, and she takes some of my weight.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Mina whispers between quick, staccato breaths.

  “There’s cash in our purses.” I falter over the words. “Keys are in the car. Just take it. Please.”

  He stabs the gun at me again, quick and angry.

  When I don’t move, he strides forward. He seems impossibly huge in that moment, coming toward us. Terror seizes me so quickly, so harshly, so unlike anything I’ve ever known, that if I could, I’d shrivel beneath the weight of it. Mina whimpers and we stumble back, still clinging to each other, but he’s too fast. I’ve been so distracted by the gun that I don’t see what he has in his other hand before it’s too late.

  The rebar connects with my bad leg, smacking the twisted bone. I yell, a wretched, cut-off sound, and I collapse belly-first onto the dirt. My fingers scrabble at the ground, dig in. I need to get up.…I need…

  “Sophie!” Mina starts toward me, and then she screams as the rebar swings into my line of sight and glances off my forehead. My vision blurs, my skin splits open. Pain, white-hot, stabs through my skull, wetness trickles down my face, and the last thing I see, hear, feel, is him raising that gun, speaking muffled words behind a mask, then the sound of two shots, fired one after the other, and a warm splatter: her blood. It’s her blood on my arm.

  Then there’s nothing. No shooter. No blood. No Mina.

  Just dark.

  59

  NOW (JUNE)

  My eyes are heavy. It takes a huge effort to open them. I blink, trying to focus on the gray blur in front of me.

  Upholstery.

  We’re driving.

  Adam’s driving. Speeding down the twisting road that goes around the lake.

  Adam killed Mina.

  And he’s goin
g to kill me.

  I have to stay awake. I blink rapidly, struggling to sit up.

  Everything tilts crazily, making me dizzy, but maybe if I get upright, I won’t feel like puking.

  Ten months. Five days.

  Ten months. Five days.

  I can do this. I’m a drug addict. I’m supposed to be good at this. I just have to fight the high. This is nothing.

  It has to be nothing. I have to think—I need to get out alive. They’ll never know it was him, they’ll never catch him, if I don’t.

  “Come on,” says Adam angrily.

  Breathing quietly, I sneak a peek at the front seat. Sweat’s pouring off his forehead as he punches Send over and over on his phone. No one’s answering, and the third time, he finally leaves a voice mail: “I need you to come, okay? Just no questions. Meet me at Pioneer Rock. Now. Please.”

  Who’s he talking to? Who’s going to come? Matt. They’re in it together.

  I swing my legs so my feet touch down on the floor mat. I’m starting to feel less dizzy now that I know I’m messed up—whatever he dosed me with is starting to lose its edge already. I didn’t drink enough.

  Adam’s focused on the road, and I scoot until I’m sitting up, close to the door. I can’t tell how far we’ve gone from the beach; the lake is miles long, nestled in hundreds of acres of dense forest.

  They could dump my body anywhere. No one would find it.

  How long had it been? Surely Rachel’s missed me by now.

  He turns a curve too sharply, and the car jerks, tires skidding against the road, throwing me painfully against the door. We pass a sign that says PIONEER ROCK VISTA POINT (3 MILES).

  Shit. We’re already on the other side of the lake.

  I can’t jump out. The door’s unlocked, but he’s going too fast. I’d be dead the second I hit the road—but my phone’s still in my pocket. I can feel it, and I slide my butt down until it edges out, falling behind my back.

  “What are you doing?” Adam snaps, and I freeze, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror. I can feel nausea rising in the back of my throat, and I push it down. My eyes skitter to the door, then back to the mirror.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Adam says. He raises the hand that isn’t clutching the wheel. The hand that’s holding the gun. “Sit still,” he commands.

  I sag against the backseat, nudging my phone to the side with my hip.

  He lowers the hand holding the gun to his lap, the other hand on the wheel. His attention is only half on the road, but it’s better than nothing.

  I inch my bound hands to the side, brushing against the cell phone screen. It brightens, and I sigh in relief, unlocking it with a swipe, one eye still on Adam. My shoulder keeps knocking into the window because he’s taking the turns so fast.

  I swipe the screen again, selecting the last person I texted: Trev.

  Adam’s phone rings. My fingers skate across my cell’s screen. He startles, swears, and then yells into his phone. “Why weren’t you answering?” He flinches. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just—” He stops, listens. He’s completely focused on the conversation.

  I seize the opportunity; it’s the only one I’ll get. I tap it out, awkward with tied hands: addam pionerock 911. I press Send and return my hands to my lap.

  “You have to come!” Adam pleads into the phone. “Just meet me at the rock. I need your help.”

  If I lean to the right, I can see the gun resting in his lap, just lying there. “Okay, okay. I’m on my way right now.” He pauses, his gaze skittering to me in the backseat. “I’ll explain then.”

  He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, his free hand going back to the gun. The car speeds up, winding down the mountain road. We’re almost to Pioneer Rock. I can see the light from the ranger’s station across the lake out the back window.

  “You know this is crazy,” I tell him. “You took my car. ­People at the party are going to notice both of us are gone. Kyle sent you to watch me; he’ll notice.”

  “Do you really think Kyle sent me after you?” Adam says. “Come on, Sophie. You’re smarter than that. Now, you’re gonna tell me who’s been helping you. I know about Trev. What’s the redhead’s name? Did you mix her and Kyle up in this? And the reporter? What did you say to him?”

  I have to breathe deeply to keep from panicking. Remind myself that Trev is probably still with the cops. That Rachel and Kyle are safe in a crowd of people.

  It’s just me who’s dead.

  “What are you gonna do, Adam? Kill all of them, too?” I ask shakily. “You aren’t thinking this through. You thought it through before. I know you did. You were prepared last time. You brought the rebar and the pills so you wouldn’t have to kill me. That was smart. It worked, didn’t it? But you’re not ready this time, so why don’t you just think for a second?”

  “Shut up.” Adam wipes fresh sweat off his face with a shaking hand. But as soon as he touches the gun again, his fingers steady, like the feel of it comforts him. “You’re gonna tell me everything you know. About Jackie. About Mina. And about who knows what you know. I’ll make you.”

  There’s no reasoning with him. He’s going to kill me no matter what.

  We round a curve, passing by another sign: PIONEER ROCK VISTA POINT (1 MILE).

  I can’t waste another second—I need a plan. Now.

  If I can’t calm him down, I might as well make him angry. Make him lose control, slip up. I need a window of opportunity.

  “I’m not telling you shit,” I say, with a lot more strength than I’ve got. “You’re a fucking murderer, and so is your brother. Your whole family—there’s something wrong with you.”

  In profile, I can see Adam’s pretty-boy face twist, the mean gleam in his eyes a stark contrast. His hand tightens on the gun. “Fuck you,” he growls between gritted teeth. “You don’t know shit about my family. We look out for each other. We rely on each other. We’d kill for each other. That’s what family does.”

  It fills me, the anger, trampling every other feeling in its power. He took away the most important person in my life and he’s sitting there with a gun, ready to kill me, lecturing me about family. I want to throw myself at him. I want him writhing on the ground, want him to feel what she felt. I want him bleeding while I watch and laugh and refuse to call the ambulance until it’s too late.

  I want him dead. Even if I have to do it myself.

  The idea surges through me, giving me strength, and I push up on my knees on the backseat and lurch forward, clumsy with the drug and adrenaline. I manage to loop my bound arms around his neck; the edge of the zip tie bites into his windpipe, and I pull back with all the force I’ve got.

  His cut-off gasp, stifled instantly by the zip tie, is the most perfect sound.

  He jerks the wheel, an involuntary movement that nearly sends us into a tailspin down the mountain. Choking, he fights back, scrabbling to hook his free hand between my wrists as we swerve across the narrow two-lane road. Any second, we’ll veer off the pavement, down the red clay cliff on one side or tumbling into the lake on the other—and I don’t care. I don’t care. I hope we crash. It’ll be worth it, as long as he’s dead, too.

  “Soph—” he gurgles, frantically clawing at me with his free hand, his blunt nails digging into my skin.

  I lock my arms, muscles straining as I pull back as hard as I can. He’s wedged a fingertip between the zip tie and his neck, and my arms are trembling with the effort of resisting him. He’s so much stronger than I am, but if I can just hold out…

  The gunshot splits the air, and the windshield implodes in a shower of shards. I flinch from the flying glass, jerking back, and suddenly Adam’s hands aren’t on the wheel anymore. One’s holding the gun and the other��s pinning my wrists, and the car’s spinning, too fast, too close to
the safety rail. I have one second, one hysterical breath to take in before metal screeches and sparks, and we’re through the guard rail and racing down the slope, trees and boulders blurring as our speed picks up and I know it’s over. The end.

  Third time’s the charm.

  60

  FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

  I wake to the sound of Mina dying. A death rattle.

  “Mina, oh my God, Mina.” I crawl over to her; it’s like I’m moving underwater.

  She’s lying on her back a foot away, bathed in the light from the car’s brights and the blood, her blood, has already stained the dirt around her. Her hands rest against her chest, and her eyes are barely open.

  There’s blood everywhere. I can’t even tell where the bullets went in. “Okay, okay,” I say, words that have no meaning, just to fill the air, to drown out the sound of her breath, the way it comes too fast and shuddery, wet at the end, like her lungs are already filling.

  I rip my jacket off, press it against her chest where the dark wetness keeps spreading. I have to stop the blood.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathes.

  “No, no, it’s okay. Everything will be okay.” I look over my shoulder, half convinced he’s lurking somewhere, waiting to finish us off.

  But he’s gone.

  She coughs, and when blood trickles out of her mouth, I wipe it away with my hand. “I’m so sorry, Sophie,” she whispers.

  “You don’t have to be. It’s okay.” I press harder into her chest with both hands. “It’s okay. It’ll all be okay.”

  But the blood bubbles up against my fingers, through the denim of my jacket.

  How can there be this much blood? How much can she lose before…

  She swallows, a convulsive movement, and when she breathes out, more red stains her mouth. “Hurts,” she says.

  When I reach out with one hand to smooth the hair off her forehead, I leave a trail of blood behind. All I can think about is that time in third grade. She fainted when I cut my arm open so badly I needed stitches; she didn’t like blood. I want to hide it from her now, but I can’t. I can see it in her eyes, that she knows what’s happening, the thing I can’t accept.