“So, maybe, once you get some clothes on we could go out or something sometime.”
Sawyer’s cheeks burned despite her lack of clothing, and her heart did a traitorous double thump. Before she could open her mouth, before she could say that she would love to, she was pelted with bitter guilt. A kiss—two kisses—she could pretend didn’t happen. But she couldn’t fall for Cooper. She was supposed to be in love with Kevin. She was supposed to be the mourning girlfriend. Still, the zing she felt while looking into Cooper’s eyes was undeniable, and she wanted to say yes.
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I”—she looked down at here bare toes on the cement—“I have to get going.”
She pushed past Cooper and took off at a sprint, pumping her legs until the heat roiled through them, ignoring the searing tears on her bare feet as she cleared the blacktop. When she was safely in the driver’s seat of her car, engine on, heat on full blast, she started to cry. The tears came slowly at first, little rivulets of angry sobs, but as she thought over the notes, the flowers sent to her house, the shredded remains of her clothes, the tears got heavier, her breath got shorter. Her body hiccupped, caught in the wretched fist of guilt—and fear.
At home, Sawyer changed into sweats and pulled her shredded clothes from her backpack. As she did, a single white business card floated out of her bag, settling on the floor like a flag of surrender. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, rubbing her thumb over the raised gold insignia of the Crescent Hill Police Department. She sucked in a slow breath and dug out her cell phone; she yipped when it chirped in her hand.
“Oh, crap, Chloe, you scared the shit out of me.”
“And a holy hello to you too.”
“I’m sorry.” Sawyer tossed Detective Biggs’s card on her bureau and flopped onto her bed. “I’m just completely freaking out.”
Chloe clucked sympathetically. “Oh, sweetie. Maggie is really getting to you.”
Sawyer nodded. “I’m thinking of calling the police.”
“On Maggie?”
Sawyer pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a headache coming on. She struggled with how much to tell Chloe. She didn’t want her best friend to worry about her. She also didn’t want to have to tell Chloe everything—everything she’d been hiding. “Just…there’s a bunch of stuff going on and Maggie, well, she—it’s complicated, Chloe.”
Chloe paused, considering. “If you can’t explain it to me, how are you going to explain it to the police? I mean, what are you going to say?”
Sawyer sat up, hugged a pillow to her chest. “I’m not exactly sure.” She stopped then, holding the words in her mouth. “Maybe I’ll tell them that someone is stalking me.”
The words were out and hung in the air, oppressive, real. Sawyer felt the itch of tears at the corners of her eyes, the pound of the headache that came with, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “He knows stuff about me, Chloe, about people—people in my life.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m blowing the whole thing out of proportion?”
Chloe’s breath sounded weighted. “I don’t think you’re blowing anything out of proportion.”
Sawyer thought back on the notes now safely tucked away in her underwear drawer—the notes and the peanut butter label.
“He sent me a peanut butter label after Mr. Hanson died.”
Chloe gasped. “Sawyer, that’s evidence! You’ve got to turn that over to the police!”
“It’s evidence against me, Chloe. I’m the one with the label.”
“But he sent it to you. You have to tell them that! They’ll believe you. I mean, why would anyone believe that you wanted to hurt Mr. Hanson?”
“Because…” She paused, sucked in a deep breath. “The other day, after class. I think he—I think he may have—like, come on to me. What if the police think I”—she dropped her voice, swallowed heavily—“killed him?”
“Wait, what? Mr. Hanson came on to you? Like hit on you?”
“That’s not really the—”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Sawyer? God, I can’t believe you had to go through something like that alone. I mean, are you sure?”
Sawyer’s stomach wobbled. “No. I mean yes.”
“He is—was, I guess—really friendly. Maybe you misinterpreted it? What happened exactly?”
Anger pricked in Sawyer’s gut, and she felt herself narrow her eyes. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you—or prove anything to my best friend. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”
“No, of course I believe you, sweetie. I was just asking because—”
The anger blossomed. “Because the medication makes me a little loopy? God, Chloe, I thought you would be the one person to understand.”
“I do, Sawyer, and what I was going to say was that, you know, he drove Libby home that one time, and he is always super helpful with the honor society. He talked to everyone.”
“Was always super helpful.”
“What?”
Sawyer licked her lips. “He was always super helpful. I’m sorry I’m snappy. It’s just—I almost wasn’t sure it was a pass either. But I know how I felt and it was gross. I felt gross afterward. Like I needed a shower. Or a shot of penicillin.”
“Are you going to tell the police that?”
“No. I can’t, Chlo—they’ll think I did something to him.”
“But the note! And Kevin! He was your boyfriend. Why would you kill your own boyfriend?” Chloe’s voice hitched on a sob. “You loved him. He was crazy about you.”
Sawyer wanted to confide in Chloe, but how could she after she’d kept Kevin’s feelings, his abuse, hidden for so long? The lie—even the simple lie of omission—sat in Sawyer’s gut like a fat black stone. “Yeah,” was all Sawyer could answer.
The next morning Sawyer dressed quietly and slipped out the door while Tara and her father were still sleeping. By 7:00 a.m. she was parked in front of the Crescent Hills Police Department, listening to her heartbeat and watching the automatic glass doors of the station swing open and shut as officers came and went. Her hands felt clammy gripping the steering wheel, and her fingers itched to click the key in the ignition, to start the car and drive away.
On a deep, steadying breath, Sawyer got out of the car and stepped into the police department, blinking in the harsh, fluorescent overhead lights. She wasn’t sure what she expected of a police department, but this wasn’t it. The main office was relatively quiet and heartlessly businesslike, with wall-to-wall gray industrial carpeting and dusty silk plants interspersed between modern metal desks manned by uniformed officers. Sawyer started to nervously tug at the strap of her purse.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
“May I help you?”
The officer who smiled down at her had a head of close-cropped dark hair that made his bright green eyes stand out. He was tall and pale and there was something incredibly familiar about the lopsided smile he offered.
“Can I help you?”
Sawyer bit her lip. “Um, maybe? Yeah. I guess.”
“Okay…how about we start with your name?”
“I’m Sawyer.” She wasn’t sure if she should put out a hand to shake or just wave. She chose the latter. “Sawyer Dodd.”
“Are you a student, Ms. Dodd?”
Sawyer nodded, not sure why that would matter. “Yeah, at Hawthorne.”
The officer nodded and smiled. “I thought I recognized you. My brother goes to Hawthorne. I’m Stephen Haas.”
“Haas? You’re Logan’s brother.” Sawyer did a mental head slap. “Detective Biggs mentioned his partner but I didn’t realize—I didn’t put two and two together, I guess. I remember Logan saying that his brother was a cop, though.”