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Wait.

No.

The footsteps are coming closer now as my sluggish

brain trips over Adam’s confession, tracing it back.

I didn’t tell anyone; not even Mom or Matt.

It isn’t Matt on the other side of the rock.

If this isn’t Matt . . .

If it wasn’t Matt’s baby . . .

We’d kill for one another. That’s what family does.

That’s what Adam did. The realization jolts heavy in

my stomach, and I can’t stop the sharp gasp for breath as it

hits me.

“What was that?”

308

F A R F R O M Y O U

Before Adam can answer, there are boots moving on the

ground. Those sure and steady steps that can’t be Adam.

His
boots. Coming toward me.

He’s too fast. I try to get to my feet, but my bad leg col-

lapses under me. I scrabble at the rock. I need a handhold

to pull myself up. I need to run. I need to try.

But it’s too late.

He rounds the corner of the group of boulders I’m

crouching beside, and when he turns his head and sees me,

something like relief sparks in his eyes.

“Sophie,” he says, like it’s a normal day. Like I’ve been

lost in the woods and he’d been sent to fi nd me. “You’re

hurt.” He reaches out, and he looks so
concerned
when he

touches my face.

My head smacks against the boulder in my effort to get

away. My good leg kicks out, twitching as every muscle

locks up, screaming
runrunrun
. Pain throbs through me so

badly, I lose my breath.

He smiles at me. That you-can-do-better smile that he

used to shoot us when we’d miss a goal. “It’s okay, Sophie,”

Coach Rob says. “I think it’s time we have a talk.”

62

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

Aft er Mina stops breathing, I can’t let go of her. I know I have to. I

need to get up. Find help.

I have to let go.

I whisper to myself, rocking, her back pressed into my chest, her

head cradled in the crook of my neck, my arms around her. “C’mon.

C’mon.” But it’s almost impossible to unclench my fi ngers. To grasp

her shoulders and lay her down on the ground. I tuck my jacket

beneath her head. I wish, in a frantic moment that’s so sharp it leaves

me gasping, that I had something to cover her with. It’s cold outside.

I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, smoothing it behind her

ear. Her eyes are still open, hazy now, staring but not seeing the end-

less sky.

My hand shakes as I close them. It feels so wrong, like I’m taking

away the last part of her.

I stagger up off my knees and drag myself, stumbling, toward the

car. The door’s open, and the keys and our phones are gone.

Help. I need to get help.
I repeat it over and over in my head. I have

to drown it out, the voice that screams
Mina, Mina, Mina
, over and

over and over.

I take one unsure step. Then another. And another.

I walk away from her.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

63

NOW (JUNE)

His hand slides from my cheek to my throat, applying the

barest amount of pressure.

A warning.

“Don’t move,” he tells me quietly. “Adam,” he calls, rais-

ing his voice, and Adam rounds the corner to stand behind

him. There’s blood all over Adam’s face, and he’s cradling

his right arm like it’s broken.

I lunge, because it still burns inside me, how much I

want Adam dead. It’ll never go away. It’ll probably be the

last thing I feel.

Coach catches me by the throat and he squeezes, his

fi ngers biting into my neck as he shoves me back against

the rock, crowding against my body in a way that makes a

whole new kind of fear bloom inside me.

“I told you not to move,” he says, and again, it’s his coach

voice. Like he’s disappointed in me for missing a goal.

I whimper. An involuntary sound that wants to be a

scream, but I don’t have the power for it.

“Why didn’t you kill her that night, too?” Coach asks

Adam. He doesn’t even look at him; he’s staring at me, eyes

scanning my face like he’s trying to memorize it. That and

T E S S S H A R P E

311

the punishing press of his body against mine keep me fro-

zen and silent. “It would’ve been easier.”

Adam swallows, looking down at his feet. “But she

didn’t do anything. I didn’t want to—it was Mina who was

the problem.”

“You created a whole set of new problems by leaving a

witness,” Coach says. “Not smart, Adam.”

“I’m sorry,” Adam mutters. “I was just . . . I wanted to

help you. I thought I had it covered.”

Coach sighs. “It’s okay,” he says. “We’ll fi gure it out. You

don’t have to worry.” His hand tightens on my throat, and

I can barely get a breath in. I start coughing, making my

ribs move against each other all wrong, a grating, painful

sensation that makes me dizzy. “I’ll take care of it,” he says.

“You have your gun?”

I have to bite down on my tongue to hold back the panic

caught in the back of my throat. My head’s spinning; I’m

not getting enough air.

“In the car, I think.”

“Go get it. Then come right back.”

“But—”

“Adam.”
Coach turns to look at him impatiently. “My job

is to look out for you. Your job is to listen to me. What do

we say?”

“Family fi rst.”

“That’s right. So let me take care of this. Go get the gun.”

I can hear the rustle of brush as Adam walks off. Coach

waits until he’s gone before turning his attention back to

me. His hand loosens on my neck, moving lower.

312

F A R F R O M Y O U

“No.”
The word rips from my lips, because I’m terrifi ed

of what he might do. But he leaves his hand resting on my

shoulder, pinning me to the boulder.

“They’ll fi gure it out,” I pant, wanting more air not being

able to get it. “They’ll get you. You can kill me, but they’ll

get you. It’s over.”

“It’s not over until I say it is.” Coach’s fi ngers fl ex into my

shoulder, fi ve points of pain radiating through me. “I won’t

let you ruin my nephew’s life.”

But I’m going to.

And with that understanding, despite the panic, a beau-

tiful sense of calm falls over me. It’s probably shock or

trauma more than an epiphany, but I don’t care. It feels too

good after all the fear.

Adam’s blood is all over my car. Even though Coach will

kill me, this is the end for them. Trev and the police will

fi gure it out. He’ll make sure they pay.

I lift my head with some effort. My vision wavers; I’m

running on adrenaline and I’m gonna crash soon, but I

want to be looking into his eyes when I say it. “I’m going

to ruin both of your lives. I don’t have to be alive to do

that. Too many people know what I was doing. By now,

the police are looking for me—and for Adam. They’ll fi nd

my car. They’ll fi nd my body, wherever you dump it. You

know my mom—you think someone like her will stop at

anything? My dad thought you were a friend, but he’ll see

through you. My aunt is a bounty hunter; fi nding people is

her job. Trev has all the evidence—he’ll never rest until it’s

done. Until you’re done. You were right, Coach: family does

come fi rst. And my family will bring yours down.”

T E S S S H A R P E

313

“I’m not going to discuss this,” Coach says, like I’ve

brought up something mildly annoying.

“You’re a murderer. You killed Jackie and her baby. You

probably raped—”

The shift in his demeanor—so in control, so steady and

normal even while he’s got me pinned against the rock—

is lightning fast. He slams me against the boulder and I

cry out as he presses close. My spine feels like it’s being

crushed by his weight. “Don’t you ever say that,” he hisses.

“Should I have let Matt drag her down with him? I saw the

way he was going. I
loved
that girl. And she loved me.”

My eyes widen at the implications. “You—did you—

were you and Jackie . . .
together
?” The disgust drips from

me. He’s my
dad’s
age. It’s almost worse if she’d loved him.

If she’d trusted him.

He doesn’t say anything.

“You didn’t even have to force her to go with you, did

you?” My voice cracks. It hurts to talk. My throat’s bruised

from his hands. “I bet it was easy. Just told her you wanted

to talk about the baby, and she got right in your truck.”

He stares at me, his hands loosening on my shoulders,

transfi xed by my words, by the exposure of the secret he’s

been keeping for so many years. I recognize that look, know

it all too well. When you’re kept by a secret, the fi rst time

you hear it spoken out loud is mesmerizing.

Over Coach’s shoulder, through the shadow of the tress,

I see a pin prick light. It moves steadily back and forth, like

someone’s looking for something.

Looking for me.

Trev.

314

F A R F R O M Y O U

Coach doesn’t see it; he’s lost in the past. “I told her to

get rid of it, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t understand

what it’d do to me. She just—” He lets out a rough exhale,

angry at a girl who just wanted to live.

His hands tighten on my shoulders, pinning my arms

and lifting me off my feet. I scrabble frantically with my

hands, trying to grab something, anything. My fi ngers

brush against some loose pebbles, scattering them, and

then snag a bigger, rougher piece of slate, unable to get a

good enough grasp to lift it.

I lick my bloody lips. The light is getting closer, and there

are more now—I count four, sweeping steadily toward us.

If Coach sees them, hears the footsteps, he’ll kill me before

they can stop him. I have to keep him talking, keep him

distracted.

He looks me in the eye, big, cold pools of dark, and my

stomach lurches at the smoothed lines of his face, at how

relieved he looks.

He’s made up his mind.

“She was going to give it up,” I gasp out. “Did you know

that? That she was talking to an adoption counselor? She

was gonna do what you wanted.” It’s a gamble, but it’s the

only card I’ve got left.

Coach’s grip on me falters for a split second. It’s just

enough for my fi ngers to reach the loose piece of slate, and

I swing it high, slamming it into his head as hard as I can.

He grunts and lets go of me, and I duck beneath his out-

stretched arm as he lunges forward, trying to catch me.

I manage only a few steps before my leg gives out and I

T E S S S H A R P E

315

collapse on the ground. I shout as loud as I can, even though

it hurts so much I think my eyes will pop out of their sock-

ets. I crawl forward, hoping they’ll reach me before he does.

I can hear shouting now; it’s close, so close. Please just let

them fi nd me. . . .

Coach slams into me from behind, fl attening me before

roughly fl ipping me over. I yelp; my shoulders take the

worst of it. My head slams against the ground as he pins

me again with his body, grasping my hands with one of his,

forcing them to the ground above my head. I want to curl

away from him, from the pain that him pressing down on