I’m afraid of what they’ll find, especially if they happen to see Ford.
This is bad.
So bad.
What is it about Ford Mann that makes me lose my mind and forget my purpose? He’s a distraction I absolutely cannot afford.
Dad will connect these dots. He will. Just as soon as he’s healed and not laid up in bed in pain.
My stomach twists and my vision darkens. I’m going to faint. Or be sick.
Ford did this. I know he did.
The walk to class is difficult because my knees keep buckling. Why would he hurt my dad? He doesn’t know him. He barely knows me. Yet, I’m not an idiot. I told him on Wednesday that my father hit me, and coincidentally, Dad gets jumped later that night.
I could have called Ford and confronted him over the phone. But every time I picked up my phone, I couldn’t bring myself to call him. It doesn’t make sense. This thing with him is too fast. For him to beat my dad up as badly as he did feels over the top—an extreme reaction to a comment made by someone he barely knows.
You had phone sex with him. He knows you enough.
This isn’t right. His infatuation—bordering on obsession—is too much, too soon. I’d thought he could help me, but I’m thinking I’ll just be jumping from one possessive monster into the arms of another.
I’m supposed to be saving me and Della, not causing more problems for us.
God, I trusted him. I really trusted him. And look where that got me. I can’t afford any slipups and Ford is becoming my biggest slipup yet.
My ears ring as I near the classroom door. What will I even say to him? Should I just ignore him and hope he goes away? This thing is spiraling and the moment my dad comes out of his painkiller-induced haze, he’s going to want retribution. He’ll exhaust all his resources to find out who did this to him. And when he finds out Della’s tutor—my classmate—did this, he’ll blame me somehow. The timing is too suspect not to.
And then what?
I can’t even begin to imagine.
As I enter the room, my gaze automatically snaps over to our spot. Relief floods through me when I don’t see him. Maybe he’s ashamed of what he did. Maybe he doesn’t want to face me. My heart rate slows and the churning in my stomach settles. I’ll still have to see him later when he comes over for Della, but at least, for now, I’ll have a reprieve. It gives me more time to plan what I’ll say to him.
All thoughts come screeching to a halt when my skin feels as though it’s crawling. That creepy feeling you get when someone is watching you, peeling you apart layer by layer. I snap my head to the right, my stare landing on a muscular guy dressed all in black who’s sprawled out in a desk that seems too small for him.
Ford?
I freeze mid-step, unable to look away. His eyes aren’t maple syrup or smooth caramel today. No, they’re fathomless like melted dark chocolate, hot and swirling with some unknown emotion. With just one burning stare, he drags me into unknown depths where I can’t breathe or move or speak.
Terror.
It’s the only emotion I can describe that’s setting my nerves alight and my hairs standing on end. The urge to flee is overwhelming, but fear has me paralyzed, rooted in place.
He has a personality disorder.
I know it. I can see it now.
It’s the only explanation. I read once about dissociative identity disorder. The different alters that live within one person and varying personality traits, but also medical conditions. It was a fascinating subject to read, but it’s not so fascinating when the villainous alter is watching you like you’re a snack he’s about to eat.
And not in a sexy way.
Like he will tear the meat from my bones and spit the leftovers in a heap after.
Ford needs help. I’m absolutely certain that this version of him is the one who hurt my dad. The empty deadness in his dark eyes is terrifying.
Move, girl.
Just move your legs and sit far, far away from him.
I can’t move, though.
I’m a little rabbit with her foot caught in a trap. The predator is salivating over me, toying with me.
There’s no way in hell I’m confronting him. Not now. Not with him dressed like he’s ready for a funeral—my funeral. Not with the way he cuts me open and dissects me with his eyes.
He sits up in his seat, slowly raking his gaze over my form. I feel exposed and naked. Heat burns over my flesh. His stare alone is almost painful. A tremble quakes through me.
And still, I can’t move.
“You okay?” a guy asks, stopping beside me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Yeah, mine.