But I don’t slow my pace.
I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s a force urging me along.
I pass the split to go to the state park. The fog presses in closer here. I’m suddenly swallowed by the cool mist.
It takes me a moment to realize my footsteps have doubled.
I glance over my shoulder, but the fog obscures the trail.
It’s your imagination.
I run faster, sticking to the far edge of the trail. If someone is behind me, they’re doing a great job of matching my stride. My lungs sear, and the stupid fog just won’t end.
I take another peek over my shoulder, and that’s my downfall.
My toe snags on a root, and suddenly my feet are out from under me. I slam into the ground, barely avoiding knocking my teeth out.
Dead silence surrounds me, and I slowly rise to my feet. My knees burn, my jaw aches. I turn in a small circle.
I feel watched.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
Footsteps pound down the path, but they’re coming from the wrong direction. I barely have time to step out of the way when a jogger appears. Their shoulder clips mine, and I wheel around.
My heart hammers out of control.
Laughter floats toward me.
Fuck this. I need to get out of here.
I sprint out of there like my heels are on fire and I don’t stop until I’m in my yard. I trip up the walkway and burst into the house, gripping the doorframe.
My chest has a thousand pounds on it.
“Riley?” Dad says, rounding the corner with a mug of coffee in his hands.
I cling to the door, which is probably the only thing keeping me upright.
He gently pries me loose and shuts the door, then guides me to the kitchen.
“Sit,” he orders.
I obey.
“What happened?”
I take a deep, shuddering breath. “I think—I don’t know. I thought I was being followed. I fell—”
“I can see that.” He comes back with a wet towel and drags a chair closer to me. He takes my hand and flips it palm up.
I blink, startled. My whole palm is bloody, bits of rocks and dirt embedded in my skin. My knees are the same, little trails of blood running down my shins and disappearing into my socks. How did I not notice?
Easy. You were terrified.
“Dad,” I whisper. My eyes fill with tears.
“Oh, honey.” He folds my fingers around the towel and hugs me.
I rest my head on his shoulder and try not to sob. Tiny little tremors rack through me. I was followed. I know I was.
I heard the laughter.
“Someone was behind me,” I tell him, scooting back. “I’m not making it up.”
Dad narrows his eyes. The change from concerned father to prosecutor is scary, but a comfort all the same. He does this for a living—catches bad guys. Talks to victims. Fights for the truth.
“Start from the beginning,” he says.
“I was running the trail that connects to the park. It was a little foggy. I made it around the loop and was coming back… I heard footsteps behind me. They matched mine, but they didn’t overtake me when I fell. And then…” I shudder. “Laughter. Maybe. It could’ve been a trick on my ears, or my imagination—”
“At what point did you hear someone behind you?”
I close my eyes. “Just after the split off for the state park trail.”
“They could’ve come from that trail, then,” he says. “And perhaps passed you when you were on the ground?” He reaches out and swipes at my chin.
Good grief, there’s mud on his thumb.
I pause. “I guess they could’ve…”
He leans forward. ‘The most important thing is that you’re okay. Nothing else hurts?”
“Just my pride.” My face grows hot.
“I ordered pepper spray while you were gone. Go get cleaned up for school, and I have to go to work.” He stands and pats my shoulder.
“What do you think?” I follow him to the door. “Imagination or…?”
“I don’t know.” He meets my gaze. “I’m glad you’re home safe. It just cements in my mind that I do the right thing by waiting for you to get home. God only knows how long it would take—”
I press my lips together.
Dad and I survive on rules.
Rule number three: no bad-talking the other parent or sibling.
We’ve both seen how gossip and venting can grow into something worse. Unless there’s an actual problem that can be solved… don’t talk about it.
He grabs his jacket and briefcase and heads out. I lock the door behind him, leaning my shoulder on it for a second.
The best thing I can do is shake this off and forget about it. I won’t run that path anymore, at least not in the early morning.
My resolve hardens.
In the shower, I find more little injuries: not just my knees were scraped, but there are tiny scratches all down my legs that sting when the water hits them. A bruise blooms on my chin. I rinse away the blood and dirt and tip my head back.
I’m in my room, shoving things into my backpack, and I cannot find my water bottle. It dawns on me: I took it running, but I don’t think I returned home with it.
Damn it.
It probably flew away from me when I fell, and I didn’t spare it a second thought before I bolted home. Why would I?
I shrug it off. I can always buy a new one.
That bottle had stickers on it from NYU and a trip to Chicago. Sentimental value.
Steeling my resolve, I shoulder the bag. I can search the trail after school. It’ll be safe in broad daylight.
Maybe Noah will come with me.
I open the front door, and a lump forms in my throat.
Just carry on your business, Riley.
It’s still terribly early when I get to school. I’m the first car in the parking lot.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to hear the laughter I heard.
My thoughts snag on Eli for a split second, then I shove him away. There was a time when he was all I could think about, or focus on, but not anymore.
I grab my keys and beeline for the school doors. Amy, my cousin, gave me keys to the library halfway through my sophomore year. She felt bad about the bullying and wanted to give me a safe space.
Unfortunately for her, she put a little too much trust in me. When she was gone one afternoon, I made a copy of her master key. It’s been my dirty secret. So far, though, I’ve managed to stay out of trouble. Just an early morning hideout in the greenhouse, for example, or avoiding locking myself on the roof.
What kind of roof door locks from the inside?
It isn’t like burglars will try to break in through the roof.
Getting locked up there only had to happen once for me to safeguard against it happening again.
The greenhouse doesn’t hold appeal today—and neither does the roof.
I consider my options, then make my way to Mr. Jenkins’s classroom. Margo’s foster dad has always been kind to me. Even though he’s not here, the room itself is comforting.
I step into the dark room and close the door. A bit of light comes in under the shades and from the vertical window in the door, enough that I can pick my way over to the back wall.
The wall of achievement.
The portrait Caleb did of Margo hangs alongside other impressive pieces of art. He managed to catch the tortured gleam in her eye, the slight hint of a smile on her lips.