Tess Sharpe - Far From You

“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 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 meeting 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 five 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 floor, 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 throwing 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, horrified.

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

She shreds that final thread of naiveté I have. It’s in pieces on the floor, with the rest of my life. My mother tears apart whatever’s left, determined to find the lies, the pills—anything to prove Kyle and the detective right.

She doesn’t find anything. There’s nothing to find.

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.

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 fingers tighten around the can. “If you cared about her so much, tell me why you lied.”

Someone bangs on the bathroom door. I flinch, dropping the can. It rolls across the tile floor and Kyle takes advantage 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 muffled voices on the outside, snatches of a conversation that starts 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 surgeons cracked my chest after the crash.

I grab the bear spray from the floor, 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 without looking up who it is.

Dread covers me like a body, hot and heavy and fitting 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.

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

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

My parents flit 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 first 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 coffee. 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 that whispers “I’ll make it all go away” flirts 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 finish 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 head outside, padding across the yard in bare feet. The rope ladder 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.

Of course he hasn’t.

His fingers trace a spot on the floor over and over. As I climb into the tree house, I see it’s the board where Mina carved her name, entwined with mine.