Truly, Madly, Deadly

THREE

Chloe fell into step with Sawyer as they walked down the junior hall the following morning. “So I didn’t hear from you last night.”

Sawyer worked the straps on her backpack, her eyes on her shoes. “Sorry. I got busy.”

“Were your dad and Tara howling at the moon or something equally metaphysically odd?”

Sawyer thought about the lone shoe, about Detective Biggs perched on the edge of her couch. “Did a detective come to your house?”

Chloe stopped cold, spinning to face Sawyer. “Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“A detective? No. Never. But the DEA came out to bust my neighbor’s pharmaceutical business once.” She wagged her head. “Leave it to the Feds. Always trying to take down the small businessman. Hey.” She reached out and pinched Sawyer hard on the arm.

“Hey! Ow!”

“You’re zoning out on me.”

“I know, DEA.”

“It was funny. You didn’t laugh.”

Sawyer forced a smile as big as she could muster. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“So unload.” The final bell rang and Chloe shrugged, her hand on the door to her English class. “Later.”

It was dark by the time Sawyer made the turnoff to Blackwood Hills Estates. The days were getting shorter, and though Sawyer usually liked the crisp, cozy days of fall, the impending darkness now felt like sheets of doom across the empty housing development. Her father kept promising that the streetlights that now reached out like cold, stiff hands toward the sky would be lit soon. Soon, Sawyer figured, probably meant when another family moved into the housing tract.

Now Sawyer’s headlights made only dim slits in the blackness, obscured even more by the bales of fog rolling over the brand new blacktop. That was the thing about living in a town that billed itself as “oceanside adjacent.” No real ocean views but all the ocean fog and the occasional brackish scent of filthy bay water.

Sawyer zipped through the blackened streets, sighing as she passed empty house after empty house. The Dodd house was the first to be populated, though it sat at the very back of the housing tract. It rested on a gentle slope, and once the rest of the neighborhood was full, the house would have an excellent view of twinkling lights before the miles of cypress trees beyond. The brochures called Blackwood Hills a “forested oasis.” Sawyer called it an annoyingly long distance from civilization and creepy in the dark.

The porch light glimmered at the front door of the Dodd house, and Sawyer picked her way through rocky dirt and a maze of landscape flags and spray-painted future walkways. She sunk her key into the lock, kicked open the front door, and dropped her backpack on the marble foyer floor.

“I’m home.” Her voice echoed in the empty house, ricocheting off the sixteen-foot ceilings and through the new drywall. “Dad? Tara?” Sawyer expected a massive spray of pink or blue balloons or—God forbid—one of each, but there was nothing save for the boxed remains of her old life butting up against her parents’ wedding gifts and cheery stuff for the baby. She toed a floppy giraffe and stepped over the boxes, flipping on the lights in the kitchen.

“Hello?”

Sawyer sucked in a sharp breath, hearing the racing double-thump of her heart when she saw the note on the kitchen table, propped up against a bottle of sparkling cider. She clawed at her chest and laughed a weird, maniacal giggle when she recognized her father’s precise writing on the note.

“It’s a girl!” she read out loud. “Just think of all the things you can teach your new baby sister. Tara and I have gone out to celebrate. There’s pizza in the freezer. Love, your always proud, Papa. Papa?” Sawyer snorted, flicked the note, and eyed the cider.

“Brilliant.” Sawyer flicked on her cell phone and walked to each corner of the professional-grade kitchen, eyes glued to her cell screen. She balanced on one foot near the bay window and then hopped up on the granite countertop, looking for a cell-phone signal. She let out something halfway between a groan and a growl and snatched the landline phone from the wall.

“What kind of place doesn’t have cell service?” Chloe said the second Sawyer picked up.

“Hell, Calcutta, and Blackwood Hills Estates. Scratch that. I think Calcutta’s gone fiber-optic now.”

“So, convo—wait, what did you call it?”

“Convocation.” Sawyer smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“No, I’m the scrappy bootstrap one who will win a scholarship for her writing prowess, making everyone in the trailer park titter.”

Sawyer jutted out one hip. “Titter?”

“It’s a TP thing. You tract home chicks wouldn’t understand. So, are we hanging out or not?”

Sawyer’s lower lip pushed out. “Doubtful. I’ve got sparkling apple cider and an apparent baby sister.”

“Cider?” Chloe sputtered into the phone.

“And a baby sister on the way.”

“And they expect you to toast the mutant spawn with sparkling cider?”

“I don’t think she’ll be a mutant. Tara’s gorgeous.” Sawyer looked around the eco-green kitchen. “And so very environmentally correct.”

“Whatever,” Chloe said, rattling cellophane on her end of the phone. “You know what goes well with sparkling cider?”

“What’s that?” Sawyer asked, pouring herself a mammoth bowl of cereal and rearranging herself on the glazed granite countertop.

“Beer.”

Sawyer wrinkled her nose, crunching her cereal. “That sounds gross.”

“You want me to head over? If I leave now I can be there by next Tuesday.”

Sawyer frowned. “No, thanks. I’m not feeling company-worthy right now. Can we convocate next week?”

“Wow, convocate?”

“I think I just made it up. Anyway, I think I’m just going to eat my celebratory pizza chaser after my cereal, take a bath, and resign myself to failing Spanish.”

“Que bueno. Have a great night in the graveyard of American dreams.”

“Try not to let your Airstream rust.”

Sawyer set her bowl in the sink and changed into her pajama pants, turning on every light in the house as she went. Though a new build, the Dodd house still settled and creaked in ways that made the hair on the back of Sawyer’s neck stand up. She turned on the television and cranked the volume, letting the canned laughter and faux family’s voices fill her empty house.

The rest of the week passed uneventfully with no new notes and Sawyer burying herself under a mountain of college applications and midterm prep. So when the door of her Spanish class opened the following Friday afternoon, Sawyer was knee-deep in Spanish verb conjugation hell and didn’t look up.

“Flower-grams!”

Sawyer’s heart ached, remembering last year’s onslaught of fundraising carnations. She and Kevin had just started dating and he had showered her—a dozen per class—in pink and white beribboned flowers, each bearing a special message: I love you, You’re beautiful. Those flowers were pressed in a cardboard box marked “Sawyer’s Room” now, right next to the note she thought was her favorite—a fuzzy bunny rabbit drawn on binder paper with the words I’ll never hurt you printed across it. Sawyer swallowed back a lump, hid her moist eyes behind her book.

Maggie was the head of the flower fundraising forum, and she marched into the classroom now, beaming in a waft of carnation-scented air, her minions flanking her, arms laden with blooms.

“Mr. Hanson, members of the junior class. As you know, our flower-gram program not only raises school and personal spirit—”

“I think I feel my lunch being raised,” someone muttered.

Maggie shot daggers. “As I was saying, these flower-grams raise spirit and cash for our junior prom. So, if you’re one of the few who don’t receive a flower today, there are still three more days to get yours.” Maggie donned a dazzling, pageant-worthy grin and narrowed her eyes at Sawyer. “Or consider sending one to yourself. No one but you and I will know, and it’s for a good cause.”

Sawyer rolled her eyes and went back to the verb to play.

“Now, without further ado, your flower-grams.”

Maggie cleared her throat and started reading off names as her minions zigzagged through the classroom, depositing single stems, sentiment cards tied with ribbons and fluttering like leaves.

Maggie paused, seeming to choke on the next name. “Sawyer Dodd.” She said it with a curled lip, no attempt to mask the disdain in her voice. “Two flowers.”

Maggie’s minion deposited two flowers on Sawyer’s desk without making eye contact. Sawyer lowered her Spanish book. It seemed as though the room dropped into a curious—and accusatory—silence. If Sawyer’s boyfriend was dead, their stares seemed to say, who was sending her flowers?

Sawyer unfurled the first note with trembling fingers. Would her admirer reveal himself—clear up the mystery message?

“To Tom Sawyer—Goin’ up river. All my love, Huck Finn.”

Sawyer felt her blood start to pump again and she grinned. Chloe was Sawyer’s Huck Finn—and Sawyer had painted more than a few fences for her—and although the “up the river” joke wasn’t original or new, it never failed to bring a smile to her lips.

Confident now, Sawyer reached for the second note and smoothed it against her desktop.

Her smile dropped.

Dear Sawyer—

You’ve got a great smile, but I don’t get to see it enough. Maybe I could change that if you’d let me take you out.

—Cooper

Sawyer swung her head to the right, her glance just catching Cooper Grey’s flushed cheek as he picked up a pen, started doodling, and focused hard on his notebook.

Cooper was new to Hawthorne High—a transplant from Kentucky or Kansas with a soft, sexy drawl, a well-muscled body, and a shy smile that Sawyer had often seen from the corner of her eye. He and Sawyer sat next to each other but never really spoke.

Sawyer swallowed hard and reached for Cooper’s arm just as the bell rang. The aisle flooded with students pushing their way out the door.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mr. Hanson shouted, flapping his hands like broken moths. “Tests. Come pick them up on the way out.”

Sawyer was deliberately slow putting her things away. Though Cooper seemed sweet, dating was the last thing on her mind. She wanted to let him down easily, privately, but once she turned around, the classroom had emptied, and he was gone.

Sawyer hiked her backpack over her shoulder and was stopped at the head of the class by Mr. Hanson, what she supposed was her Spanish test tubed in his hands. He thumped it against his palm once, then held it out to her.

“Your test.” It was almost a question, and Sawyer was suddenly unsure whether or not she wanted to reach for it. Mr. Hanson was handsome, with dark hair that backed away from his forehead and eyebrows that rose expectantly. Sawyer wasn’t sure why, but the raised eyebrows paired with Mr. Hanson’s narrowed, leather-brown eyes unnerved her. She steadied her backpack and felt her eyes dart to the back of the classroom to the door, to the rows of abandoned desks behind her. Finally, they flitted over the page in Mr. Hanson’s hand.

“This is mine?”

“You know, Sawyer, I’m worried about you.” Mr. Hanson handed her her test, and she swallowed hard.

“Forty-seven percent?”

He offered her a sympathetic smile, set his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently. The motion sent something warm through Sawyer, and she wondered if she could slip away without seeming rude.

But then she thought of Dr. Johnson.

Dr. Johnson was her father’s go-to shrink for all things teenage trauma–related. Getting a divorce? Drop your kid at the shrink. Kid’s boyfriend dies? Shrink. Grades dropping, kid not coping, possibly cutting? Shrink, shrink, shrink.

“I’m sorry about this.” She shook the test. “I’ll try harder. I know I’ll do better next time. But maybe I can do some extra credit or something? I really do want to boost my grade.”

“Extra credit?” Mr. Hanson’s eyebrows went up. “I suppose we could work something out.”

“Thank you. I just—I just really need to end up with at least a B in this class.”

Mr. Hanson moved his hand to her upper arm, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her bare skin. His touch sent a cold, electric shock through her—Sawyer thought of a wet, serpentine eel darting through rocks—and her skin pricked out with gooseflesh.

“Ooh,” Mr. Hanson said, rubbing both of Sawyer’s arms now. “You’re freezing.”

“No,” Sawyer said, stumbling backward. “I’m okay.” She swung her backpack from one shoulder, putting it between herself and Mr. Hanson. He took a step closer anyway.

“I should get going.”

“You know, Sawyer, your grade is dropping like a stone. That’s not like you.”

“I know, I—”

“I know you’ve had a really rough month.”

Sawyer nodded, a rush of tears forming behind her lashes. She was angry; she was terrified; she wasn’t even sure at what. But she would not cry, she told herself. She had already spent too many embarrassing hours bursting into tears at inopportune moments. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, nails digging half-moons into her palms.

“I’m not trying to be the bad guy. I know you’re probably really sad and confused.”

Mr. Hanson’s eyes were dark, an intense shade of brown. When he moved to touch Sawyer’s cheek, she tried to dodge him—in her mind, at least. Her body was rigid, her feet rooted to the floor.

“Probably even a little lonely.” Mr. Hanson smiled softly. “That’s normal. I lost someone too, so I understand.” He slipped the test from her stony fingers. “But a college might not be as understanding. They’re strangers. Those people won’t know what a smart, talented girl you are.”

Sawyer’s spine stiffened. “Mr. Hanson, I—”

“I want to help you.” He laid the test aside on his desk, peeled the backpack from Sawyer’s stiff fingers, and set that aside too.

“I think I can probably get my grade up if I just work a little harder.” She took a microstep backward. “I’ll do that. I mean, I know I can…if I just…work harder.”

Mr. Hanson’s hand fell from her elbow, his fingertips trailing just slightly over the bare skin of her forearm, giving her goose bumps. Mr. Hanson smiled. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I help out a lot of my students.”

“Oh.” Sawyer’s mind was working, ticking. Everyone loves Mr. Hanson, Sawyer’s mind reasoned, he’s just being friendly. Stop being such a freak. She forced a laugh that was too loud, sounded tinny and too high-pitched in the empty room.

“Would you like me to help you? It’ll only take a minute.” Mr. Hanson picked up the teacher’s guide to Sawyer’s Spanish textbook and she immediately relaxed, suddenly feeling embarrassed.

See? He’s a teacher. Stop. Being. A. Freak.

Sawyer nodded slowly, trying to force some nonchalance into her stance, into her voice. She shifted her weight. “Sure. Thanks.”

Mr. Hanson pulled out his desk chair for Sawyer and ushered her into it. She sat primly, and he slid her test paper in front of her. He leaned close, one hand on her shoulder, the other caging her at his desk. “You see right here?” He pointed, and Sawyer nodded quickly.

“It should have been nosotros,” she answered slowly.

“Right.” He squeezed her shoulder. “See, that was probably just carelessness. Now, what about this one?” He pointed to something lower on the page and Sawyer bent to examine it, his fingers trailing down her spine and resting on her lower back. He began to make small circles with his thumb and Sawyer swallowed heavily, her heart beginning to thud. Every muscle in her body screamed that something was terribly wrong, but when she turned to look at Mr. Hanson, his face was open, his smile kind.

He’s helping me, Sawyer said to herself, swallowing hard. That’s all it is.

“I know you can get this. You’re a smart girl.” Mr. Hanson winked. “Not just a pretty face.”

Sawyer glanced at the clock and pushed away from the desk, standing. “I really should get going. Um, thank you. Uh, for helping me.”

“That’s all I want to do for you, Sawyer. Help.” He opened his arms for a hug, and the stupidity that Sawyer felt crashed over her in a tremendous wave.

She stepped into his embrace and felt his arms wrap around her, a quick, innocent squeeze.

See? Innocent. Stop being such a jumpy stupid freak.

But his hands locked behind her and his lips found her ear. His breath was hot and moist. “I’m always here to help,” he whispered.

He hugged her just a little bit tighter, and Sawyer stumbled forward, off balance. She pressed her face into the collar of his Lacoste polo shirt. She tried to right herself, to push herself apart from Mr. Hanson, but he was still in mid-hug.

Suddenly, all Sawyer wanted was to get away. It was illogical and rude, she thought, but she felt stifled and trapped and uncomfortable. Six minutes or six seconds could have passed—Sawyer couldn’t be sure—but Mr. Hanson’s scent, smoke and musky cologne and sweat, choked her and she gritted her teeth, biting her lip hard in the process. She tasted the blood in her mouth just as she felt Mr. Hanson’s fingers slip from the small of her back, trailing to the waistband of her jeans, then resting on her back pockets.

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, she screamed in her head. He doesn’t know that he’s touching me.

A hundred thoughts zipped through her mind. Step back casually. Don’t mention it. Don’t embarrass him.

She tried to back away, her whole body stiffening, but he didn’t let her go. Finally she ground her palms against his chest, pressing against him.

“Mr. Hanson, I have to go. I have to go right now.”

“What are you talking about? You came to me.” His breath was raspy, muffled by her hair, and Sawyer paused, anxiety welling up inside her. She had come to him. He only wanted to help. Her head started to spin. He was trying to help…right?

He pressed against her once more, his belt buckle digging into her, and something inside of her snapped. Terror—and anger—shot through her.

“No!” She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and brought her knee up, hard and fast, catching him off guard and between the legs. Mr. Hanson groaned and doubled over, grabbing her ponytail. Sawyer stumbled backward, wincing at the dried-leaf sound of strands of her hair breaking as Mr. Hanson pulled against her. She pushed away again, hand clawed, nails raking over his cheeks, leaving an angry red wake puckering his skin.

“Jesus, Sawyer!”

“Stay away from me! I have pepper spray!” She held her backpack in front of her like a shield, blindly digging through the front pocket while keeping her eyes fixed on Mr. Hanson. He pressed his palms forward and chuckled, the sound shooting ice water through her veins.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking. I was just trying to offer you some homework help.” He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled open the door. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood.”

Sawyer shook her head, willing herself not to cry. “No, I didn’t misunderstand. You—you—”

Mr. Hanson crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned one hip against his desk. There was a hint of a smile on his lips—Sawyer couldn’t tell if it was kind or sly—and one eyebrow was quirked. She could feel the cheek-reddening heat in her face, and a strand of hair was pulled out of her mussed ponytail, flopping in front of her eyes. But Mr. Hanson looked fresh and at ease. Sawyer stumbled back, her mind tumbling.

“You—you did.”

She tried to force what happened to the forefront of her mind, but already it was slipping behind the haze of self-doubt.

Kevin always said she overreacted. He said she was oversensitive, that she always took things the wrong way. Maybe this was one of those times?

Sawyer snuck a glance at Mr. Hanson through the filter of her chestnut–colored hair.

“I appreciate you coming in for homework help, Sawyer, but you should get going now. The building is almost empty.” He cocked his, head pressing his lips to into a thin smile. “You never know what’s lurking out there after dark.”

Sawyer glanced down the deserted hall and back at Mr. Hanson. His smile took on a sinister edge, the glint in his eyes unmistakably challenging. She tore down the hallway, the heels of her boots slapping the linoleum, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls and echoing in her ears. She didn’t breathe until she burst through the double doors onto the campus lawn. She took one look at the darkening sky, then doubled over, hands on knees, tears and snot rolling over her cheeks and dripping from her chin.

“Sawyer?” Logan’s voice was kind and tentative. “Are you okay?”

She straightened up quickly, used the heel of her hand to swipe at her eyes and chin. She sniffed, forced a small smile, and masked a hiccup.

“Logan, hi.” She saw the polite concern in his cocker-spaniel eyes and opened her mouth, but she stopped herself when Mr. Hanson’s icy glare and challenging smile flashed in her mind. She felt like he was all around her, like his breath was still bathing her neck. Her skin burned where his fingers had been. “I’m okay, thanks. It’s just that—”

“I know,” he said softly.

Sawyer’s stomach seized. “You do?”

“Kevin.”

“Kevin?” Sawyer paused for a beat and then pumped her head. “Right, Kevin.” She shirked off the guilt that pricked at the back of her neck for using Kevin—what happened to Kevin—to cover. She dug in her pack for her car keys. “I should get going. I didn’t have track. My parents are probably wondering where I am.” She knew she was babbling, but it felt somehow comfortable to talk about normal things.

The hard crack of the double doors opening behind her stopped her, made her heart drop to her already weak knees.

“Sawyer Dodd. Just the young lady I was looking for.” Mr. Hanson’s voice—light, unaffected—oozed through Sawyer like a searing poison, and everything inside her tightened, went on high alert. She didn’t turn to face him. She heard Logan rattle around in his bag, heard him pull out something cellophane, and everything dropped into slow motion, the tiniest, most inconsequential sounds—cellophane tearing, Logan chewing—became suddenly deafening.

“Oh, hello there, Logan.”

Sawyer didn’t have to look at him to know that Mr. Hanson was smiling at her. She could feel his stare, his breath coating every inch of her.

“Hey, Mr. Hanson. Want one?” Logan asked, offering up his pack of peanut butter crackers.

“No, thanks. I’m allergic to peanuts, remember? And actually, I was looking for Sawyer. She forgot her Spanish test. She must have been in some hurry to get away today.”

“Sorry.” Sawyer’s voice sounded robotic, automatic, and she felt herself turn slowly, but she kept her eyes fixed on Mr. Hanson’s scuffed leather topsiders. “I was in a hurry.”

Mr. Hanson held out the test to her, and she pinched it between forefinger and thumb. He didn’t relinquish it to her until she met his eyes. They were flat, serpentine.

“Why don’t you come to my classroom and we can talk?”

A jolt of anger shot through her. “No.” It was short-lived, and Sawyer felt her knees begin to shake. A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts and she heard Logan crunch another cracker, chew it loudly.

“I promised Logan I would drive him home, and I’ve already made him late.” She crumpled the test in her left hand, locked Logan’s wrist with her right. Logan stood quickly, eyes wide with surprise, the half package of peanut butter crackers rolling off his lap. “Sorry, Logan. I’ll take you home now. My car’s in the lot.”

Sawyer hurried down the steps, dragging Logan behind her. Finally, he shook her hand from his and paused. “I didn’t ask you to drive me home. I can take the bus. It’ll be here at 3:50.”

Sawyer looked over his shoulder and saw Mr. Hanson still standing in front of the double doors, a suspicious smile on his face.

“That’s almost an hour away. You’ll be waiting here alone. I can drive you. It’s no big deal.”

“I have to go to work. I work at Cassini’s Market.” Logan looked skeptical. “It’s pretty far out of the way.”

“You’re in luck. I’m going pretty far out of the way. Besides, I could use the company.”

Logan paused, considering. “Okay, I guess.”

“This one’s mine.” Sawyer sunk her key into the lock, her back toward Mr. Hanson. She didn’t want to turn and look. She told herself she wouldn’t turn and look. She threw her backpack into the car, buckled her belt, and glanced, surreptitiously, out the corner of her eye as she turned the key. Mr. Hanson was no longer standing on the steps, watching her.

Somehow, that didn’t make Sawyer feel any better.

“Nice car. I normally only like classics, but this is pretty cool.” Logan’s voice snapped through Sawyer’s brain, and she turned the key and hit the gas, shoving him hard against his seat.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“I don’t blame you for being in a rush to get out of here.” His smile was wide and slightly goofy.

Sawyer smiled, suddenly feeling comfortable as she pulled out of the lot, leaving Hawthorne High in her rearview mirror.

“Do you always wait almost an hour to catch the bus?”

Logan stared silently out the window for so long that Sawyer wasn’t sure he had heard her. “No,” he said finally. “Only when I miss the 2:47.”

“Stuck in class or something?”

“Something like that.”

Sawyer chewed on her bottom lip. “Can I ask you something, Logan?”

He shrugged, narrow shoulders hugging his ears. “I guess.”

“How come you’re wearing your gym clothes? I could have sworn I saw you in jeans earlier.”

She saw a muscle in Logan’s jaw tremble, then stop. “I…” He drifted off, sucked in a sharp breath, and then started again. “I was wearing jeans. They’re wet.”

Sawyer’s eyebrows went up, and Logan turned around in his seat, eyes wide. “No. No, no, not like that. I didn’t pee myself or anything. I—I sort of fell in the fountain.”

“The school fountain? How do you ‘sort of’ fall in that fountain? There’s a three-foot wall around it.”

Logan pinned her with a glare. “Ask the football team.”

They were silent until Sawyer’s car nosed out of town and onto the highway.

“So, you work at the market?”

Logan nodded, a pink triangle of tongue darting across his lower lip. “My brother got me the job last year.”

“Oh, does he work there too?”

“He did through high school. He’s a cop now.”

“Did he go to Hawthorne? I don’t think I remember him.”

Logan turned to look at Sawyer full in the face. “Stephen Haas?”

Sawyer’s mouth formed a tiny o of surprise. “Stephen’s your brother?” She shook the look off her face.

“You don’t have to hide your amazement. Nobody puts two and two together. We’re not exactly”— Logan looked down at his thin legs, shook his narrow, balsa wood arms—“similar. Anyway, he’s a cop now. You can exit here.” Logan tugged on his bottom lip. “Um, Sawyer? Why did you want to take me home today?” He gave a small chuckle, somewhere between self-effacing and hopeful. “I mean, I know you don’t like me like that. We’re not exactly friends.”

Sawyer turned to see Logan, head bent, eyes studying his hands in his lap.

“We could be. I was just trying to be friendly.” But the twinge in Sawyer’s voice wasn’t convincing even to herself.

“No one’s friendly in high school.”

Sawyer grinned and flipped on her blinker. “Up on the left, right?”

“Right, left.” He laughed, paused. “What about Mr. Hanson?”

Sawyer’s stomach did an eleven-story drop, and she swallowed bitter saliva. “What do you mean?”

“He can be kind of a jerk, huh?”

Sawyer’s eyes went wide, and she felt that now-all-too-familiar prick of heat climbing her neck.

“He threatened to fail me just because he didn’t like my accent.”

Sawyer wished her accent was the only thing Mr. Hanson was interested in. “This is your stop, right?”

Logan glanced up as Sawyer pulled the Accord to a stop in the Cassini Market parking lot.

“Oh, right.” Logan hiked up his backpack and looked Sawyer over hard, as if trying to be certain that she was really there, that she had indeed offered to drive him—and driven him—to work. “Thanks a lot, Sawyer. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

Sawyer pressed her lips together and gave him a finger wave before pushing her car into gear and veering off toward the new stretch of highway that led to Blackwood Hills Estates. The sun was bleeding over the horizon, casting long shadows over her car as she finally pulled into the housing development. What remained of the setting sun lit the windows of the finished models, giving them a homey glow and lived-in appearance that seemed to counter the howl of the wind kicking up, the snap of the New Homes This Way! flags.

Andrew Dodd was standing at the granite counter, chopping celery into precise little C’s when Sawyer walked in. He fixed Sawyer with a grin.

“Well, there’s the big sister!”

Sawyer licked her lips and tried to smile, tried to force the memory of Mr. Hanson into the deep recesses of her brain.

She was making too much of it.

It didn’t mean anything.

She would have to face him tomorrow.

Sawyer’s stomach lurched at the last thought, and her father’s smile slipped from his face. “Something wrong, muffin?”

Sawyer shook her head and cleared her throat. “No, no. It was just—just a long day today.” She snagged a piece of celery and nibbled it slowly. “So where is our little incubator, anyway?”

Andrew jutted his chin toward the French doors, where Tara, pregnant, pink-cheeked, and hands full of fresh-cut herbs, was walking in. Sawyer’s stepmom had clear, ice blue eyes rimmed with ultra-long doe lashes and a pixie-like nose that turned up at the rounded end. Her shoulder-length hair stood in a perfectly tousled golden halo that made Sawyer reach up and self-consciously smooth the knotted rope of her own hair, mousy, thin, a “before” picture brown.

“Hey, Tara.”

Tara’s lips broke into a face-brightening smile. “Sawyer! I’m so glad you’re home!” She crossed the kitchen with a waddling stride and dropped the herbs on Andrew’s cutting board. “Your dad and I want your input on girl names.” She rubbed her bulbous belly, still smiling. “My students have already been giving me their ideas.” Tara was a professor of environmental biology at Crescent City College.

“But their name list basically reads like the cast of one of those housewives shows,” Andrew broke in. “Is David really a girl’s name nowadays?”

Tara’s grin was still wide, unaffected. “Can you believe we’re going to have another girl in the house?”

A rush of something tore through Sawyer—annoyance, jealousy—she wasn’t sure what. She wanted to turn and run, to slam her brand-new bedroom door, and pull her covers up over her head. She knew she’d be comforted by the familiar industrial laundry soap smell; Sawyer did her own laundry with the same brand her mother had left behind, refusing to use Tara’s ultra-organic, made-from-sunshine-and-hippies crap. The clean chemical smell comforted and soothed her; curled up in her blankets with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, Sawyer could almost believe that her mother hadn’t left.

“I can’t wait to buy all those sweet little pink things.” Tara beamed.

Sawyer swallowed hard, trying to bite back the bitter taste of the words caught in her throat. She looked at Tara’s earnest face and her father’s lovestruck, adoring one; pressed her lips together into a flat but convincing smile; and nodded her head. “Sure. That would be fun.”

“Dinner will be ready in thirty,” Andrew said.

“You know, I’m not really that hungry.”

Tara’s face fell. “Isn’t today your long run day? You really need to eat, Sawyer.”

“Track practice was canceled because of the rain.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder. “I think I’m just going to hop in the bath. I’ll come down and grab something later, okay?”

Tara opened her mouth to answer but closed it promptly. She nodded, a pasted smile that Sawyer had flashed all too often crossing her face.