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Authors: S.D. Hendrickson
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walked over to his trailer. Pain twisted under my knee, but I ignored each stabbing jolt through my leg.
I knew he watched my every move from behind the thick curtains. Stomping all the way up the steps, I came to a halt in front of the aluminum door. I wanted to snatch the handle and barge into his cave. Let him react to that kind of probing into his life.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy, Wyatt Caulfield,” I shouted loud at his presence just on the other side of the thin wall. “I know you can hear me. I’m coming back.”
S TILL FUMING MAD, I PULLED in front of the library to get Blaire. She climbed into the passenger’s seat, wearing her blue crocheted wool hat in the hundred-degree heat. Her dirty-blonde strands stuck out the bottom like long pieces of straw. My identical brown eyes stared back from her face. “So the unsub’s pissed at you.”
“Don’t start that again.” I pulled out before she got the latch buckled on her seat belt.
“Slow the hell down,” she shrieked.
“I’m going the speed limit.”
“You are not. I can see the damn numbers.”
“You don’t even drive. You know nothing about what the limit is on this road.” I took the corner, hearing the tires screech.
“Shit!” Blaire yelled when I floored the gas through the yellow—well, red light. A car honked as I cleared the intersection.
Wyatt plagued every confusing thought on the twenty-minute drive to our hometown of Beckett. He took back my invite. Who takes back invites? People don’t take back invites! Once the words left your lips, you had to grin and bear it. Every word said better come out as a good one because you had to pay the price for them.
I pushed the gas down to the floor as I topped the hill on the outskirts of town, feeling the tires lift slightly off the pavement. My stomach caught in my throat, and Blaire gasped. “Shit, Emma. Stop messing around.”
I ignored her words. Wyatt and his complicated issues wrapped through my head. I didn’t know how long he’d been barricaded up in that trailer. The socially awkward recluse spent way too much time by himself. Whatever had pushed him to shut down had pushed him good. All a big, guarded mystery behind his closed-off mind that he refused to share with me.
I parked in front of my parents’ house. It wasn’t a big one. Average I guess, for Beckett. Our mother worked as a teller at a bank while our father worked at the car dealership over in Stillwater. He’d been employed there in some capacity since high school. After we were born, he’d moved up to a sales position. And he’d bought us the Fusion for our eighteenth birthday.
In the world of parents, they were good ones. Loving. Caring. Encouraging and very involved in our lives. They were standing faithfully at the track meet on the worst day of my life. The day my running career ended. Even though I was cursed with the short legs of a Smurf, I had placed second in the state track meet my junior year. My coach said I may be little, but I had Hulk-size determination, beating in the heart of a cross-country runner. He said I was guaranteed a scholarship as long as my performance continued.
But my senior year, I fell in the middle of the season. It was just a regular track meet. Nothing special. My knee had been acting up. I had iced it the night before, which was the usual protocol. During the tenth mile, I hit the ground just right, twisting my knee, causing splintered pieces of bone to burst right through the skin in a bloody mess. I had surgery and drain tubes for a week, followed byfour weeks bound in plaster and another four weeks trapped in a horrendous boot.
The accident had devastated me. I loved to run. I needed to run. My body craved the euphoric moment that happened like clockwork. I missed it every single day.
Losing the ability to run wasn’t technically the worst part of my fall. I had counted on the scholarship for school. After the accident, I didn’t have many options. My
I knew he watched my every move from behind the thick curtains. Stomping all the way up the steps, I came to a halt in front of the aluminum door. I wanted to snatch the handle and barge into his cave. Let him react to that kind of probing into his life.
“You can’t get rid of me that easy, Wyatt Caulfield,” I shouted loud at his presence just on the other side of the thin wall. “I know you can hear me. I’m coming back.”
S TILL FUMING MAD, I PULLED in front of the library to get Blaire. She climbed into the passenger’s seat, wearing her blue crocheted wool hat in the hundred-degree heat. Her dirty-blonde strands stuck out the bottom like long pieces of straw. My identical brown eyes stared back from her face. “So the unsub’s pissed at you.”
“Don’t start that again.” I pulled out before she got the latch buckled on her seat belt.
“Slow the hell down,” she shrieked.
“I’m going the speed limit.”
“You are not. I can see the damn numbers.”
“You don’t even drive. You know nothing about what the limit is on this road.” I took the corner, hearing the tires screech.
“Shit!” Blaire yelled when I floored the gas through the yellow—well, red light. A car honked as I cleared the intersection.
Wyatt plagued every confusing thought on the twenty-minute drive to our hometown of Beckett. He took back my invite. Who takes back invites? People don’t take back invites! Once the words left your lips, you had to grin and bear it. Every word said better come out as a good one because you had to pay the price for them.
I pushed the gas down to the floor as I topped the hill on the outskirts of town, feeling the tires lift slightly off the pavement. My stomach caught in my throat, and Blaire gasped. “Shit, Emma. Stop messing around.”
I ignored her words. Wyatt and his complicated issues wrapped through my head. I didn’t know how long he’d been barricaded up in that trailer. The socially awkward recluse spent way too much time by himself. Whatever had pushed him to shut down had pushed him good. All a big, guarded mystery behind his closed-off mind that he refused to share with me.
I parked in front of my parents’ house. It wasn’t a big one. Average I guess, for Beckett. Our mother worked as a teller at a bank while our father worked at the car dealership over in Stillwater. He’d been employed there in some capacity since high school. After we were born, he’d moved up to a sales position. And he’d bought us the Fusion for our eighteenth birthday.
In the world of parents, they were good ones. Loving. Caring. Encouraging and very involved in our lives. They were standing faithfully at the track meet on the worst day of my life. The day my running career ended. Even though I was cursed with the short legs of a Smurf, I had placed second in the state track meet my junior year. My coach said I may be little, but I had Hulk-size determination, beating in the heart of a cross-country runner. He said I was guaranteed a scholarship as long as my performance continued.
But my senior year, I fell in the middle of the season. It was just a regular track meet. Nothing special. My knee had been acting up. I had iced it the night before, which was the usual protocol. During the tenth mile, I hit the ground just right, twisting my knee, causing splintered pieces of bone to burst right through the skin in a bloody mess. I had surgery and drain tubes for a week, followed byfour weeks bound in plaster and another four weeks trapped in a horrendous boot.
The accident had devastated me. I loved to run. I needed to run. My body craved the euphoric moment that happened like clockwork. I missed it every single day.
Losing the ability to run wasn’t technically the worst part of my fall. I had counted on the scholarship for school. After the accident, I didn’t have many options. My
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