The cold was overwhelming and bone deep when Sawyer stepped onto the porch. Her breath came out in puffed white clouds, and her muscles seized up as her lungs sucked in the icy air. She launched herself anyway, hands fisted, legs pumping. It didn’t take long for the warmth of motion to surge through her body. She zipped past three half-built houses, studs exposed like spindly skeletons as the warm air surged through her lungs, broke through her muscles.

Sawyer was a distance runner, not a speed runner, but she left her house quickly, clearing her street and her block in record time. As she ran she could feel the memory of Kevin, of the note, of Chloe and the oozing red gash pulling her back, doing its best to weigh on her, but she pushed harder, faster, her fists punching at the air in front of her, her heart metering out a quick, hot rhythm with her footfalls as they rang out hollow in the empty street. As she ran, something nagged at her periphery—something she was missing. She was deep in thought, trying to grab the missing piece, when she heard the footsteps behind her. They were quick, keeping easy pace with her, their echo cracking against the empty streets, bouncing off the model homes. Sawyer slowed and the footsteps mirrored her rhythm.

She stopped.

Suddenly the silence was too deep, too thick. It sunk into Sawyer’s chest, enveloping her so that she felt claustrophobic. Her fingers clawed at the zipper of her windbreaker, then pulled at the collar of her shirt. The street was deathly silent now.

Had she imagined the footsteps?

A branch broke behind her, and Sawyer sucked in a breath and held it, afraid to turn around—afraid not to. Her eyes searched the horizon in front of her and the breath seeped out of her body little by little as she saw each cookie-cutter house in front of her, each as perfect and as empty as the last.

She took off like a shot.

She dug into the air with her fingers and pumped her legs until her thighs screamed, wet heat breaking across the muscles. She squinted as the wind smacked at her face, turned the tears she didn’t know were falling into painful blasts of cold. She was making headway, had reached the looped street that returned to her house as the footsteps became more pronounced, more frantic. Her feet ached and her left calf seized, the pain shooting through her like needles in her bloodstream. She tried to will it away, tried to command her brain to make her legs move more, faster, harder, but her knee collapsed over her cramped calf and Sawyer felt herself falling, the whole thing in achingly slow motion. She noticed every detail on this block’s more finished houses as she went down—the unobtrusive almond-colored paint, the chocolate-brown trim, the shadow under one of the eaves. And she knew she was being watched.

Her shoulder hit the pavement first, sliding enough to accommodate her upper arm, her splayed palms, her belly, and her chin. She felt her skin make contact with the frozen ground, felt it tear and burn as she slid in the gravel. The smack had sucked the wind out of her so when she tried to scream, nothing came out except a low, offensive moan. She searched wildly for her assailant, for the shadow under the eave—but there was nothing there. Again the silence was everywhere, until a crumpled paper bag caught on the breeze and flitted across the sidewalk, coming to rest on a would-be porch.

Sawyer rolled onto her back and worked to pull air into her folded lungs. When she could breathe and her heartbeat dipped back to a normal thump, she pushed herself up, wincing as the gravel dug itself deeper into her ruined palms. She looked around her, her fear still palpable in the early morning light, still aching in her exhausted muscles.

The street was deserted. There was no one there.

Her teeth started to chatter, and the tears fell freely over her cheeks. She sniffed as she began a slow, laboring jog back to her house. Her jaw ached by the time she reached the low arc of her property, and as she stepped onto the porch, her eyes caught the faintest glimmer of something in her periphery.

A flash—from a camera? Sawyer wondered.

It was there and then gone before she could blink, and it was soundless, but Sawyer whirled anyway. Nothing. No person releasing a shutter, taking another shot. No car speeding away. Just…nothing.

Frustration knotted in her chest, and she used her fists to rub at her eyes, then blinked, her gaze lasering in on the landscape around her: empty houses; damp, desolate street; gravel upset where she fell.

After someone had chased her?

Sawyer shook her head, trying to clear it. She imagined the morning fog thick between her ears. Had she taken a pill last night?

Yes, yes, I must have, she reassured herself. That’s got to be it. That stuff makes me see shit, makes me paranoid. That’s all it is.

But even as she worked to convince herself, something remained, something nagged at her periphery and the feeling of unease settled like a stone in her gut.

When she sunk her key into the lock, her father was on the other end, pulling the door open. He grinned until his eyes fell on his daughter, fell on the bright red raspberry on her chin.

“What happened to you?”

“I—I fell. Someone was chasing me and I fell.”

Andrew Dodd opened the door wider and pulled Sawyer inside. “Who was chasing you?” He looked over her shoulder. “Who would be out at this time in the morning?”

Sawyer sniffed. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know who it was?”

She shook her head.

“Was he in a car, on foot?”

Sawyer shrugged again. “On foot, but I didn’t really see him. I saw a shadow, and like, a camera flash. And I heard the footsteps. He was keeping pace with me.”

Andrew smiled then. “Keeping pace with you? Sawyer, are you sure you heard someone? It’s a little creepy out there with all the empty houses, I know. Don’t you think maybe your imagination was working overtime and you just scared yourself?”

Her father was trying to be gentle, but the anger boiled in Sawyer’s belly. “You don’t believe me.”

Andrew cocked his head. “Sawyer…”

“I’m not making this up, Dad.” Sawyer paused, sucking on her teeth. “Oh my God. You think this is about the nightmares, don’t you?”

“You mentioned they were back, and Tara mentioned she saw the Trazadone out on your nightstand again when she was straightening up.”

“Why the hell was Tara in my room?”

Andrew quirked a fatherly eyebrow. “Now, Sawyer, Tara was just helping out.”

“You mean helping herself to my business. Besides, the stupid nightmares came back right after Kevin died, Dad. Not now. And today, I was outside, I was running, I was awake!”

“I know, I know.” He held up his hands, palms forward. “I’m sure you think you really did hear something, but, Sawyer, there’s an eleven-foot iron fence around this whole development. And the gates are closed at night.”

Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself, thinking of the footsteps, the headlights from the previous night. “But they aren’t locked.”

* * *

Sawyer tried Chloe’s phone a second time after she got out of the shower, but there was no answer.

“Hey, it’s me again. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay after last night. I got your text that you made it home okay with Ryan, but I’m still worried. Call me. Besides, I want to know if we’re still on for the game tonight. I totally understand if you don’t want to, though; I’m not really sure I’m up to it either…” She clicked her phone shut, feeling slightly uneasy, and made her way down the stairs. Though she had gotten up and run this morning, the heft of too many sleepless nights and the drug-addled fog started to become overwhelming. She poured herself a giant mug of coffee and sank down at the kitchen table, her mind ticking.

Could the person who hurt Chloe be my admirer?

There was no reason why, Sawyer thought, as she worried her bottom lip. Chloe was her best friend; she would never hurt Sawyer. Sawyer gulped, her saliva burning her throat—she would never hurt Sawyer the way Kevin had. The thought was errant, rushing through her subconscious, and she rolled onto her side, pulling her knees up into a fetus position.

The first time, it was barely a shove. It happened so fast that Sawyer wasn’t even sure it had. Kevin had his arms around her immediately, steadying her, kissing her, telling her it was an accident. And she believed him. He loved her so much—he told her all the time. He called her all the time. It was powerful, he said. His passion for her consumed him, and sometimes he didn’t even know what he was doing. He never meant to hurt her.

No one would have understood.

Sawyer squeezed her eyes shut, and Kevin’s face, his fervent eyes, flashed in her mind. Then it was Cooper, his hand so gently clutching hers, and her lips burned, guilty.

* * *

The only palm in Pacific Palms Park was four feet high and sat at the gated opening to the development. With its abandoned, chipped-paint guard shack and grass that was more yellow than green, it didn’t look like much of a park, either. Sawyer veered through the once-white latticework gates and snaked around the neighborhood of prefab houses rooted to cracked concrete. When she pulled up to the Coulter house, Chloe was already outside, pacing the carport.

“Hey,” she said when Sawyer pulled her car to a stop. “What took you so long? I thought you were coming straight here.”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me now?”

“Yeah, I’m the jealous boyfriend.”

Chloe laughed, the comment innocent and flippant to her, but it struck Sawyer. She forced herself to laugh it off. “Are you ready to go?”

“No, and neither are you.”

Sawyer looked down at her jeans and black T-shirt ensemble. It wasn’t exactly couture, but she thought it would pass for football attire.

“You look nothing like a Fighting Hornet fan.”

Sawyer tried to smile; this would be the first football game she would attend since Kevin’s death. As it was, Chloe had had to beg Sawyer for ten minutes straight to come to the game. “It’s a big one,” she reminded her friend, “and you’re going to have to go to a football game again sometime.”

Though she wasn’t crazy about the idea of the game and was less crazy about the idea of dressing up for it, Chloe was hard to turn down when she was beaming at Sawyer, her enthusiasm boundless—and catching.

“Come on in,” Chloe said, “unless you mind slumming in the double wide a minute.”

Sawyer grabbed the screen door behind Chloe. “It’s not a double wide. It’s manufactured housing.”

“Whatever it is, it comes with wood paneling and Astroturf.”

They stepped into the living room—a perfect square of wood paneling and shag carpeting, the smell of a thousand cigarettes ground in. The windows were covered with heavy drapes in a nauseating pattern of swoops and flowers, and the only light was coming from the enormous TV. It took up nearly one whole wall, and Chloe’s grandmother was in the chair directly opposite it, a cigarette clamped in the corner of her mouth. Though it was midafternoon, she was still in a housecoat and slippers, and Sawyer knew that the old lady only changed for church or for bingo.

“Hey, Nan, you remember Sawyer.” Chloe clapped the back of her grandmother’s chair.

“Hi, Mrs. Coulter.”

Mrs. Coulter took a long drag of her cigarette, her cheeks hollowing. The glow from the television flashed over her as she sat stiffly on her chair, making no move to answer her granddaughter.

“Come on.” Chloe grabbed Sawyer’s arm and dragged her toward the back of the house.

“Where are your parents?”

Chloe shrugged. “You mean Stepford mom and new daddy? Hell if I know. Let me just get my purse.” She grabbed a wide leather bag, stuffed a black sweatshirt into it, and began fiddling with something on the top of her bureau.

Sawyer studied Chloe’s wall, plastered with photographs—mostly of the two of them, mugging for the camera, cheering at Hawthorne games. She pointed to one. “What’s this one from?” It was a glossy photo of Sawyer in a windbreaker. She was in mid-run, her face contorted with effort, misted with sweat. Her ponytail sailed behind her, and the strain on her face was evident. The shot was so close up that there was very little in the background except a mottled gray blur.

Chloe squinted. “I don’t know. One of your million track practices. One of the million times you blew everyone else out of the water.” She smiled.