As the tests are passed back, I dare a glance over at Vince. He isn’t looking at me, but he must sense my eyes on him, because he turns to meet my gaze.
I break eye contact immediately, looking down at my paper. I fidget with the stapled corner and run my fingers aimlessly over the edge. I try to look at him out of the corner of my eye, then I try to stop my leg from bouncing underneath the desk.
The burning question that’s been running through my mind nonstop the previous few days emerges again: why was Vince in that house? Was he responsible for the fire? Had he…wanted my neighbors to die? Had he killed them?
Had I, with my silence?
I try to focus on the test, but I can’t even get through the first paragraph.
Pushing back my chair and grabbing the paper, I make my way to the front of the room. The teacher turns, startled, since I should’ve only raised my hand.
“I think I’m going to be sick. I need to go to the nurse.”
It must show on my face, because she doesn’t argue, merely nodding her head, her eyes searching my face with a trace of concern. “Okay.”
I hustle back to my desk to gather my things. I avoid looking at him, but I can feel Vince’s hard gaze on me as I flee.
I don’t care. I can’t. All I want is to get the hell out of that classroom and never see Vince Morelli again.
Chapter Three
Macaroni noodles stick to the pan and I curse the broken dishwasher. Hand washing dishes is the worst, and I never feel like I get them clean enough.
Screwing up my face, I grab a sponge and begrudgingly knock the macaroni off, scrubbing the mushy noodle residue it leaves behind.
It’s been a long, long day.
After I left school I had to pick up my siblings and watch them all night while my mom worked. She went to her boyfriend’s house after, so I ended up putting them both to bed. It’s not an irregular occurrence, since my mom works late hours a lot, but I’m so exhausted that just dragging myself across the room feels like a workout—making them eat and do homework while not fighting was too much to ask.
I have to get some sleep tonight.
Part of me wonders if I should just approach Vince and be done with it. If I could do it at school, I would feel safer. I’m not sure how much more of the cat and mouse games my nerves can take, and at the end of the day, I could actually be endangering my family.
Unease tickles down my spine at that grim realization. If Vince and that other guy did kill my neighbors, what would stop them from doing the same thing to us? They could be planning to burn our house down as I stand here scrubbing dishes.
I drop the sponge into the sink basin, bracing my weight on the edge as my shoulders sag, my head falling forward.
I have to stop thinking about this. I’m driving myself crazy, and there’s nothing I can do about it right now.
I barely register the movement behind me and I’m pushed forward, my hip slamming painfully against the counter. Someone shoves against my back, one arm neatly trapping both of mine against my body, the other clapping a hand over my mouth to stop me from crying out.
A knowing kind of terror drenches my bones and I can’t move, can’t think—for almost a full second, everything stops.
Then I start bucking, rearing back in an attempt at head-butting my assailant.
My head connects with nothing, but taking advantage of my movement, he swiftly repositions the hand trapping my arms, locking it around my neck and pulling me back into a painful position.
My hands fly to his arms, digging my fingers into his skin as I instinctively attempt to pry them away from my throat. It only serves to tighten his grip, so I stop fighting, terrified he’s going to snap my neck and focus on getting myself under control. I force myself to quiet down, in a show of cooperation. I need to see who’s in my home to see if I have a chance. If it’s Vince, I might make it out alive. If it’s some flunky and Vince isn’t there, I’m probably already dead.
I count six seconds before he finally speaks. “Are you done?”
My eyes nearly roll back in relief. It’s Vince’s voice. I attempt something like a nod and the pressure around my neck eases up, disappearing completely as he lets me go. He remains close instead of taking a step back, and for a wild second, I try to remember if there are any knives in the sink—just in case.
What are you thinking? No, that’s a bad idea. I can’t stab a Morelli. Then I really would be dead meat.