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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

fl oor.

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 disinter-

ested mask. “Yes?”

“Where have you been?”

T E S S S H A R P E

51

“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 fl attens into a thin slash of pearly-pink

lipstick. “You don’t get to make the rules, Sophie. Your pre-

vious 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 exam-

ine 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,

52

F A R F R O M Y O U

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 fl ip

the mattress, both my legs shaking at the effort. Panting, I

fi nally 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 loose 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 the 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 Fresh-

man Fling when all our friends went as a group. Mina and

Amber and I are grouped together, laughing as Kyle and

Adam are caught midshove and Cody looks on disapprov-

ingly. 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 mov-

ing on. To the side of the picture, I tape my list, the number

T E S S S H A R P E

53

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.”

12

THREE MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

It takes only a few days at Seaside for it to really sink in: Mina is dead.

Her killer’s running free. And no one will listen to me.

Nothing has ever made less sense.

So I sit in my room, on my cramped little bed with its polyester

sheets. I go to Group and am silent. I sit on the couch in Dr. Charles’s

offi

ce with my arms folded, staring straight ahead as she waits.

I don’t talk.

I can barely even think.

At the end of my fi rst week, I write a letter to Trev. A pleading, cramped

soliloquy of truth. Everything I’ve wanted to say for so long.

It’s returned, unopened. That’s when I realize I’m all alone in

this.

There is no one who believes me.

So I force myself to think about it, tracing back every second of

that night. I ponder possible suspects and motives, both logical and

wild.

My head is fi lled with one sentence, an endless loop of the words

he’d said right before he shot her:
I warned you. I warned you. I

warned you.

I let it push me forward, hour by hour.

T E S S S H A R P E

55

I still don’t talk to Dr. Charles.

I’m too busy planning.

On my fi ft eenth day at Seaside, my parents are called in for the fi rst

family therapy day.

My father hugs me, enveloping me in his husky arms. He smells

like Old Spice and toothpaste, and for a second I let the familiarity of

it comfort me.

Then I remember him throwing me in the car. The look on his

face as I begged him to please, please believe me.

I stiff en and pull away.

My mother doesn’t even try to hug me aft er that.

My parents sit on the couch, relegating me to the slippery leather

armchair in the corner. I’m grateful that Dr. Charles doesn’t make me

sit between them.

“I brought the two of you in early,” Dr. Charles says. “Because I

think Sophie is having some diffi

culty expressing herself to me.”

My mother pins me to the chair with her gaze. “Are you being dif-

fi cult?” she asks me.

I shake my head.

“Answer me properly, Sophie Grace.”

Dr. Charles’s eyebrow twitches in surprise when I say, slowly and

clearly, “I don’t feel like talking.”

My parents leave frustrated, only a handful of words spoken

between us.

Nineteen days in, I get a card. An innocuous thing with a blue daisy

on it and the words get well soon in big block letters.

I fl ip it open.

56

F A R F R O M Y O U

I believe you. Call me when you get out.
—Rachel

I stare at it for a long, long time.

It’s weird what three words can ignite inside of you.

I believe you.

Now I’m ready to talk. I have to be.

It’s the only way out of here.

13

NOW (JUNE)

Mom is gone by the time I wake up the next morning. On

the kitchen table she’s left a note and a new cell phone.

Call me if you’re going to leave the house.

After I make some toast and grab an apple, I call her at

the offi ce.

“I’m going to the bookstore, then maybe get some coffee,

if that’s okay,” I say after her assistant’s transferred me over.

I can hear a printer and some chatter in the background.

“All right,” she says. “Are you going to take the car?”

“If I have permission.” It’s a deadly little dance we’re

doing, circling around each other with closed-lipped

smiles, careful not to bare our teeth.

“You do. The keys are on the rack. Be home by four. Din-

ner’s at seven.”

“I’ll be home.”

She hangs up with a perfunctory good-bye. I can hear

the strain in her voice.

I put it out of my head and get the keys.

Stopping by the bookstore, I buy a paperback, mostly

so I’m not telling Mom a fl at-out lie. Ten minutes later, I’m

pulling onto the old highway, heading north, out of town

and into the boonies.

58

F A R F R O M Y O U

There’s no traffi c this far out. Just a truck here and there

on the narrow two-lane road that cuts between summer-

bleached fi elds and red-clay foothills studded with oaks. I

roll the windows down and turn my music up loud, like it’s

enough to shield me from the memories.

The house is at the end of a long dirt road studded with

potholes. I maneuver around them, making slow progress

as two big chocolate Labs bound out from the back fi eld,

tails wagging.

I park in front of the house. As I get out, the screen door

bangs open.

A girl my age in polka-dot rain boots and Daisy Dukes

runs down the stairs, her red pigtails bouncing. “You’re

here!”

She gallops up and wraps her skinny arms around me.

I return the hug, smiling as the dogs circle us, yelping for

attention. For the fi rst time since Macy dropped me off, I

feel like I can breathe.

“I’m really glad to see you,” Rachel says. “No, Bart, stop.”

She yanks the dog’s muddy paws off her shorts. “You look

good.”

“You too.”

“C’mon inside. Mom’s at work, and I made cookies.”

Rachel’s house is cozy, with multicolored rag rugs scat-

tered over the cherrywood fl oors. She pours coffee, and we

sit across from each other at the kitchen table, bowl-sized

mugs warming our hands.

Silence spreads over us, punctuated by sips of coffee and

the clink of spoon against ceramic.

T E S S S H A R P E

59

“So . . .” Rachel says.

“So.”

She smiles, a big stretch that shows all her teeth, so gen-

uine it almost hurts. I don’t think I can even remember how

to smile like that. “It’s okay that it’s weird right now. You’ve

been gone a long time.”

“Your letters,” I say. “They were—You have no idea how

much they meant to me. Being in there . . .”

Rachel’s letters had saved me. Full of random facts and

going off in three directions at once, they’re a lot like her:

scatter brained and smart. Her mom had homeschooled her

since she was a kid, which is probably the only reason we

hadn’t met until that night. Rachel’s the kind of person you

notice.

I trusted her. It had been this instant, instinctual thing.