Far From You

11

NOW (JUNE)

My mom’s car is in the driveway when I get home. As soon as I open the door, I hear heels, brisk and sharp against the floor.

She’s immaculate, her straight blond hair in a slick bun. She probably came straight from court; she hasn’t even unbuttoned her blazer. ��Are you all right? Where have you been?” she asks, but doesn’t pause for me to answer. “I’ve been worried. Macy said she dropped you off two hours ago.”

I set my bag onto the table in the foyer. “I left you a note in the kitchen.”

Mom looks over her shoulder, wilting a little when she sees the notebook paper I’d torn off. “I didn’t see it,” she says. “I wish you would’ve called. I didn’t know where you were.”

“I’m sorry.” I move toward the stairs.

“Wait a moment, Sophie Grace.”

I freeze, because the second Mom gets formal, it means trouble. I turn around, schooling my face into a disinterested mask. “Yes?”

“Where have you been?”

“I just went for a walk.”

“You can’t leave whenever you like.”

“Are you putting me under house arrest?” I ask.

Mom’s chin tilts up; she’s ready for war. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t fall back into bad habits like before. If I have to restrict you to the house to do that, I will. I refuse to let you relapse again.”

I close my eyes, breathing deeply. It’s hard to control the anger that spikes inside me. I want to break through the ice-queen parts of her, shatter her like she’s shattered me.

“I’m not a kid. And unless you plan on staying home from work, you can’t stop me. If it’d make you feel better, I can call you to check in every few hours.”

Mom’s mouth flattens into a thin slash of pearly-pink lipstick. “You don’t get to make the rules, Sophie. Your previous behavior will no longer be tolerated. If you step one toe out of line, I’ll send you back to Seaside. I swear I will.”

I’ve prepared myself for these threats. I’ve tried to examine every angle Mom might come at me from, because it’s the only way to stay a step ahead of her.

“In a few months, you won’t be able to do that,” I say. “As soon as I turn eighteen, you can’t make any medical decisions for me. No matter what you think I did.”

“As long as you live under my roof, you’ll follow my rules, eighteen or not,” Mom says.

“You try to send me back to Seaside, and I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“It’s not a threat. It’s the truth.” I look away from her, from the way her hands are shaking, like she’s torn between holding and hurting me. “I’m tired. I’m going up to my room.”

She doesn’t try to stop me this time.

I haven’t been allowed a lock on my door since forever, so I shove my desk chair against it. I can hear Mom climb the stairs and start to run a bath.

I shove all the clothes off my bed, taking off the sheets and blankets and pillows, too. It takes me three tries to flip the mattress, both my legs shaking at the effort. Panting, I finally succeed, my back protesting all the way. I step over the pile of sheets and blankets and pull a notebook from my bag. There are loose pages stuck between the bound ones, and I shake them out on top of the mattress before going over and grabbing tape and markers from my desk.

It takes only a few minutes. I don’t have much to go on—yet. But by the time I’m done, the underside of my mattress has been turned into a makeshift evidence board. Mina’s junior-year picture is taped underneath a scrap of paper labeled VICTIM, and the only picture I have of Kyle is taped under SUSPECT. The picture’s an old one from the Freshman Fling when all our friends went together. Mina and Amber and I are crowded to the side, laughing as Kyle and Adam are caught midshove and Cody looks on disapprovingly. We look young, happy. I look happy. That girl in the picture has no idea that her entire life’s gonna get trashed in a few months. I circle Kyle with my Sharpie before moving on. To the side of the picture, I tape my list, the number one question: WHAT STORY WAS MINA WORKING ON?

In smaller letters, I add: Killer said “I warned you.” Were there threats before this? Did she tell anyone?

I stare at it for a while, imprinting it in my head before I turn the mattress right side up and remake the bed.

I peer out into the hall, checking to make sure Mom’s still in the bathroom. Then I grab the cordless—tomorrow I’ll ask her if I’m allowed a cell phone—and take it into my bedroom.

I punch in a number; three rings before someone picks up. “Hello?” says a cheery voice.

“It’s me,” I say. “I just got out. We should meet.”