Jennifer Armentrout - Don’t Look Back

One of you lived. One of you died.

I somehow felt closer to Cassie than I ever had before. We were still joined by the secret of that night, a memory I couldn’t reach.

At some point I dozed off, and I dreamed of the cliff, of Cassie and a third person who kept staying out of my direct line of sight, hiding his or her identity from me. I woke up, my skin sticky with cold sweat and the covers twisted around my hips. Tears clung to my lashes.

Minutes passed, and I kept my eyes squeezed shut. I tried counting to one hundred, but I only made it to twenty before tiny bumps spread across my skin. A shiver of awareness alerted me to something unnatural in the room.

My breath slowly leaked out of my lips as my muscles locked up. Someone was in the room with me. Every cell in my body knew this. Too afraid to open my eyes, I remained perfectly still.

An icy breath moved over my brow, down my cheek.

I swallowed, and my eyes popped open against my will and a scream came tearing out of my throat. I wasn’t alone.

Swathed in darkness, he leaned over me. All I could see was his chest, but I could feel his breath. I couldn’t move, couldn’t stop screaming as he pulled away. Get up! Hit him! Get away! My brain kept spewing out commands, but my body wouldn’t obey.

He was still there, a cold hand moving along my neck, over my pounding pulse. “Samantha,” he said roughly, voice somewhat familiar. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

Then the lights turned on, blinding me in their startling intensity, and I could move. I jackknifed up, my mouth open, bloodcurdling sounds still coming from me. Arms were suddenly around me, and my shrieks pitched even higher.

“Shh, Sam, it’s okay. Everything is okay. Shh, it’s all right.”

I struggled to recognize the voice and the arms around me. All I kept seeing was the man above me; I felt his cold breath and chilly fingers above my pulse. I couldn’t stop shaking, no matter how soothing the words being whispered in my ear were.

More voices finally broke through—my dad—Mom. It was Scott holding me, trying to snap me out of it.

“What’s going on?” Dad demanded, a black pistol in his hand.

Mom sat beside Scott, placing a hand on my back. “Samantha, baby, talk to us.”

It took several tries to form a coherent sentence. “He was in my bedroom, standing over me! I woke up, and he was there.”

“Who?” Scott asked, pulling back so that his eyes met mine. “Who, Sam?”

Dad rushed to the bedroom windows, fiddling with the locks while I focused on my brother’s face.

“I don’t know, but it was him. It was him .”

Scott’s brows knitted as he glanced over my shoulder. “Was it Del?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom snapped, patting my back. “He wouldn’t come in here and scare her like that.”

I twisted out of Scott’s arms. “I couldn’t see his face, but he must’ve gone out the windows or something.”

His face pale, my dad lowered the pistol. “Oh, Samantha …”

“What?” My voice pitched. “He was in here! He was standing over my bed, touching me.”

Mom stood, pulling the knot on her silk robe tighter. Her eyes met my father’s. “There’s no more waiting, Steven. She needs to see a doctor.”

I sat back, fingers digging into my comforter. What were they talking about? Who cared about a damn doctor? There had been a man in my bedroom.

“She’s fine. She just had a nightmare.” Scott rushed to my defense. “There’s no reason to bring out the straitjacket.”

“What?” I shrieked. Straitjacket? My pulse sped up.

“Scott,” Mom said, sighing, “go to your room.”

He ignored her.

Dad sat down on the other side, catching my hand in his free one. “Baby, the windows and the balcony door are locked from the inside. The alarm is set. It didn’t go off.”

“No. No! There was someone in my room.” I pulled my hand free, scooting back from him. “You have to believe me. I was awake. He was standing over me.”

He shook his head. A sad, tired look pierced his eyes. “There wasn’t anyone in your room. You were dreaming or—”

“Or I’m seeing things? Like the guy in the backseat?” I yelled. Terror dissipated, replaced by rage. “Is that what you think?”

Mom wiped at her face. It was the first time I’d seen her cry, but the tears only infuriated me. “You’ve had a stressful night, sweetie. We’re not judging you, but you need—”

“I don’t need help!” Okay, maybe I did, but I scrambled under Scott’s arm. He grabbed for me, but I was quick when I wanted to be. Maybe some of the things I had been seeing weren’t real, but this … this had been real.

“I think you should sit down,” Dad suggested as he rose. “We can talk about things in the morning.”

Ignoring him, I grabbed my bag out from under my desk and dumped it onto my bed. Among the books, school papers, and pens, four yellow notes fell onto the bed. All of them except the one I’d found in the car.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, eyes bugging out as he saw the notes.

I had the most horrible thought then. What if Scott was leaving those notes? I looked at him, really looked at him. He hated Cassie, but … but no way. I dismissed the notion.

I spread the notes across the bed. “There! See! I’ve been getting these damn notes on and off. Someone has been trying to talk to me, to warn me.”

Mom stepped forward, peering over my shoulder. She clamped a hand over her mouth and whipped around. Her shoulders shook.

“What the …?” Dad picked up one of the notes—the one that read Don’t look back. You won’t like what you find . “Jesus.”

“See!” I almost clapped and jumped. The notes were my only way of proving that I wasn’t a hundred percent insane. “They’re proof that someone knows what happened. Maybe whoever is leaving those notes is the person who was with us that night.”

My father’s fingers curled around the note, damaging the already crinkled paper. “Why didn’t you come to me when you first got one of these?”

“I …” My gaze darted to Scott. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and lowered his chin.

Dad swung around, a vein pulsing across his temple. “You knew about this? You knew this was happening and you didn’t tell me?”

“It’s not his fault,” I defended him. “And really, that’s not the issue here. Someone has been sneaking in here, leaving me notes on my bed, in my locker at school, in my book bag.”

“I’m calling the doctor in the morning,” Mom said, rubbing the skin around her neck until it was pink. “That is the end of it.”

I threw up my hands. “Call the doctor! Fine! But can we focus on the important stuff?”

Scott looked up, pressing his lips together. “I should’ve told you when you first showed me the note, but I just … didn’t want to upset you. I’m sorry.”

Dread snaked down my spine. “What are you saying?”

“The notes, they’re all from the same kind of paper and they’re in your handwriting. From when you were a kid,” he said, glancing at Mom. “You’ve been writing the notes, Sam.”

Denial rushed over me. “No. No way. I’m not writing those notes.”

“Wait here.” He rose, heading out of the bedroom.

Turning to Dad, I pleaded with him. “It’s not me, Dad. I’m not that crazy. There’s no way it’s me leaving those notes! I would remember writing them.”

Dad smiled weakly. “I know. You’re not crazy.”

But I saw the truth in his eyes. I sat in a daze of disbelief until Scott returned with a folded-up piece of green construction paper. “This is a birthday card you made for me on our seventh birthday.” He sat beside me, unfolding it. “See?” He pointed at a stick-figure drawing of a girl with long hair. “That is you and this is me.” He pointed to a stick boy with freckles.