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away.

It’s sunny out. A crisp February day, snow still capping the moun-

tains. There are kids playing in the park as we pass it. It seems strange,

life going on now, aft er everything.

Dad opens the car door for me aft er we pull into the driveway, but

when we get into the house, I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs. He

looks at me, concern in his face.

“Do you need help, honey?”

I shake my head. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Remember, the detective should be here in about an hour. Do you

think you’ll be ready to talk then?”

They’d sedated me at the hospital. I’d been too out of it to answer

questions when the police had come by.

The idea of talking about it makes me want to scream, but I say,

“I’ll be ready,” before I labor up the stairs. I almost wish I hadn’t

burned my cane when I was fi ft een, because right now I could use it.

I turn the water on and undress slowly in the bathroom, peeling

off my sweats and henley.

34

F A R F R O M Y O U

That’s when I see it: a smear of red-turned-brown on my knee.

Mina’s blood.

I press my fi ngers against the spot, my nails digging into my skin

until beads of fresh, bright red appear. My fi ngers are stained with it,

and it makes my chest go tight, tight, tight.

Five months. Three Weeks. One day. Ten hours.

I breathe in. The air’s steamy from the shower, hot, almost sticky

down my throat.

I toe off the sneakers Dad had brought me to wear home. My feet

are still dirty. I’d been wearing sandals last night. Along with every-

thing else I was wearing, they’re probably sitting in a bag somewhere,

to be tested for evidence.

All they’ll fi nd is her blood. My blood. Our blood.

My nails dig deeper into my knee. I take a breath, then another.

On the third, I step into the shower.

I let the water wash away the last of her.

When I get out of the shower, I fi nd my mother ransacking my room.

“Are there more?” she demands. There’s mascara running down

her face, eyes fl ecked with red as she rips the sheets off my bed and

fl ips up the mattress.

I stand there wrapped in a towel, my hair dripping down my

shoulders, stunned.

“What are you doing?”

“Drugs, Sophie. Are there more?” She rips the cases off the pillows,

unzips them, and pokes her hand inside, searching inside the fl uff .

“There aren’t any drugs in here.” I’m reeling from the anger that

throbs off her like heat.

Mom grabs my jewelry box off my dresser, shaking it upside down.

T E S S S H A R P E

35

Bracelets and necklaces tumble out, fall in a heap on the ground. She

yanks my dresser drawers with enough force to pull them clean out

and dumps their contents on the bed.

As she scrabbles through shirts and underwear, tears leak from

the corners of her eyes, smearing more black down her face.

Mom is not an emotional person. She’s a lawyer down to her bones.

She likes control. Rules. The chaos she’s rained down on my room is so

out of character that I just stand there, my mouth open.

“Mom, I’m not doing any drugs.” It’s my only defense: the truth. I

have nothing else.

“You’re lying. Why are you still lying to me?” More tears course

down her face as she throws open the closet doors. “Detective James

was just downstairs. He told me they found OxyContin in your jacket

pocket.”

“What? No.
No!
” Shock penetrates through the numbness that’s

taken over me. My eyes widen as I realize that she believes him . . . as

I realize what this means.

“The police talked to Kyle Miller the morning. Kyle says Mina told

him that you two were going out to Booker’s Point to score.”

“No!”
I’m on a loop, the only word I can get out. “Kyle’s lying! Mina

was barely even talking to Kyle. She wouldn’t even pick up her phone

when he called!”

Mom looks up at me from the closet, and there’s shame mingling

with the smeared mascara and tears in her eyes.

“They found the pills, Sophie,” she says. “You left them in your

jacket at the crime scene. And we all know they weren’t Mina’s. I

can’t believe this. You’re not even home a month, and you’ve already

relapsed. Which means everything Macy did . . .” She gestures wildly

with one of my shoes and shakes her head. “I should have sent you to

36

F A R F R O M Y O U

rehab. I should never have let you go to Macy. You need professional

help. That’s my fault, and I’m going to have to live with that.”

“No, Mom. We weren’t out there to score, I
swear
. Mina was meet-

ing someone about a story she was doing for the newspaper. I’m not on

drugs! I haven’t taken or bought anything. I’m clean! My tests at the

hospital were clean! I’ve got fi ve and a half months!”

“Stop playing games, Sophie. Your best friend is dead! She’s dead!

And it could’ve been you!” She throws the shoe across the room. It

thumps against the far wall and scares me so badly, my knees buckle.

I crash to the fl oor, hands over my head, my throat choked with fear.

“Oh God, sweetie. No, no, I’m sorry.” My mother’s face is a study in

remorse, and she’s down on the ground with me, cupping my chin in

her hands. “I’m sorry,” she says. She’s not just apologizing for throw-

ing the shoe.

I struggle to breathe with her so close. I can’t stand the contact.

I push her away, scooting until my back’s pressed against the wall.

She stays where she is, crouched next to my dresser, staring at me,

horrifi ed.

“Sophie, please,” she says. “Tell me the truth. It’ll be okay. As long

as you tell me. I need to know, so I can fi gure out how to keep you out

of trouble. It’ll make you feel better, sweetheart.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are,” she says, the ice creeping back into her voice. She

draws herself up, standing straight over me. “I won’t let you kill your-

self. You’re going to stay clean, even if I have to lock you up.”

She shreds that fi nal thread of naiveté I have. It’s in pieces on the

fl oor, with the rest of my life. My mother tears apart whatever’s left ,

determined to fi nd the lies, the pills—anything to prove Kyle and the

detective right.

T E S S S H A R P E

37

She doesn’t fi nd anything. There’s nothing to fi nd.

But it doesn’t matter. Kyle’s words, those pills shoved into my

jacket, they’re enough to convince anyone. Even her.
Especially
her.

Two weeks later, she sends me to Seaside.

7

NOW (JUNE)

“Seriously, Sophie?” Kyle folds his arms across his massive

chest, looking from the bear spray to the door and back

again. “You’ve lost it. Put that down, you’re gonna hurt

yourself. The ventilation in here sucks.”

He’s probably right. But I keep the can aimed right at

him. “You lied to the cops about why Mina and I were at

the Point. Innocent people who want their girlfriend’s killer

caught don’t do that.”

He gapes at me. “You think I had something to do with

it? Are you kidding me? I loved her.” His voice quavers.

“Mina’s gone, and it’s
your
fault. If you weren’t such a

junkie, she’d still be alive.”

My fi ngers tighten around the can. “If you cared about

her so much, tell me why you lied.”

Someone bangs on the bathroom door. I fl inch, dropping

the can. It rolls across the tile fl oor and Kyle takes advan-

tage of the distraction, jumping for the exit.

“I won’t stop,” I warn him as he fumbles with the lock.

“Screw you, Soph. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

He slams the door shut behind him. I can hear muffl ed

voices on the outside, snatches of a conversation that starts

T E S S S H A R P E

39

with “Don’t go in there, man.” before Kyle’s voice fades.

I press my hand near my heart, like that’ll help it calm

down. I can feel the ridges of the scar there, where the sur-

geons cracked my chest after the crash.

I grab the bear spray from the fl oor, put it in my purse,

and head to the door. By now, Kyle’ll be long gone. Probably

off to spread the news that Sophie Winters is back home

and crazier than ever.

Someone’s standing at the door when I open it. I almost

smack into his chest, my bad leg twists as I step back, and I

falter. When a hand reaches out to steady me, I know with-

out looking up who it is.

Dread covers me like a body, hot and heavy and fi tting in

all the wrong places. I’m not prepared for this. I’ve avoided

thinking about this moment for months.

I can’t face him.

But I can’t walk away.

Not again.

“Trev,” I say instead.

Mina’s brother stares back at me, tall and broad and so

familiar. I force myself to look into his eyes.

It’s like looking into hers.

8

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

It’s been four days. It seems longer. Or maybe shorter.

My parents fl it around me during the day, quiet, guarded. They’re

planning. Preparing to go to war for me. Once my mom realizes I’m

not going to tell the police what they want, she goes into lawyer mode.

She spends all her time making phone calls, and Dad paces, back and

forth, up the stairs, down the hallway, until I’m sure he’s worn a path

there.

Mom’s trying to keep me out of juvie. The bottle of Oxy they found

in my jacket wasn’t much, but it was enough to get me into plenty of

trouble—if Mom didn’t have so many friends in the right places.

She’s going to save me, like she always does.

She doesn’t think she saved me the fi rst time, but she did. She sent

me to Macy.

The days aren’t so bad, with the click of Mom’s heels and the thud

of Dad’s footsteps. How Dad cracks open my door every time he sees

it’s closed, just in case.

The nights are the worst.

Every time I close my eyes, I’m back at Booker’s Point.

So I don’t close my eyes. I stare. I drink coff ee. I stay awake.

I can’t keep it up much longer.

I want to use. The constant itch inside me, the voice in my head

T E S S S H A R P E

41

that whispers “I’ll make it all go away” fl irts at the edges of me. There

are parts that are starting to prickle, like blood rushing into a foot

gone numb.

I ignore it.

I breathe.

Five months. Three weeks. Five days.

Two in the morning, and I’m the only one awake. I fold myself on

the bench built into the dining room window, wrapped in a blanket.

I watch the yard like I’m waiting for the man in the mask to charge

through the gate, ready to fi nish what he started.

I teeter between hope and terror that he will. A high-wire act

where I’m never quite sure if I want to be saved or fall.

I need to make this stop.

A light in the yard distracts me, coming from the rickety tree

house nestled in the old oak at the foot of my garden. I grab my robe

and go downstairs, padding across the yard in bare feet. The rope lad-

der is frayed, and it’s hard to pull myself up with my bad leg, but I

manage.

Trev’s sitting there, his back against the wall, knees drawn up.

His dark curly hair’s a mess. There are circles underneath his eyes. He

hasn’t been sleeping, either.