Page 66 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

I lean into his touch loving the warmth of his skin and the sound of the nickname flowing easily off his tongue. “Yeah?”

“Something is wrong. You haven’t said a word since we left my apartment.”

I breathe softly. “I’m fine.” The words rush out of my mouth before I can stop them, only for the lie to sour the tip of my tongue.

“You’re a shitty liar, Summer,” he drawls.

Sinking down in the passenger seat, I pout. “So I’ve been told.”

“I can still come with you…” he starts before I stop him.

“No. I can do this. I have to do this. You should call whoever keeps blowing your phone up.” I look down at my palms, slick sweat, making them sticky. “Besides, you have a career, and this… this is my problem. I’ll call you.”

Grabbing the folder and hugging it tight against my chest, I get out of the car before he has a chance to oppose and hurry onto the porch. When I unlock the door, I slide inside, leaning my back against it once it’s shut. I peek through the blinds, my eyes glued to Alec’s car.

Watching. Waiting. Wishing I was still beside him.

My chest tightens when he finally drives away, leaving me alone in the quiet house.

Walking up the stairs, I’m caught in thought, wondering how I’m going to start a conversation about Mom’s case file to Dad when he gets home. I get this feeling pinned in the center of my ribs. But that’s not what I focus on.

I focus on a very faint shadow on the wall down the hall. Instinctively, I’m on my way to it before I can think twice.

My eyes draw in, remembering Mom’s small library was locked the last time I tried to go inside. But when I press my palm on the door, it creaks open. I can’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t meant to be left open.

I take two steps inside, taking in the space like I’ve done a thousand times before. A white lounge chair sits diagonally, facing the wall-to-ceiling bookshelves that stack against the entire left wall. Each book Mom purchased was by her favorite authors. Some older, some new.

I swing around to the burgundy wooden desk on the opposite side. There is a small stack of books that were left there before I left for college, and my heart aches at the thought that Mom will never get to read the words on those pages.

My feet make their way toward the desk. I reach out, feeling each book’s edges and moving them to read the titles. A small smile fills my face at one of the books I recommended she read, but it falls immediately when my eyes look to the little drawer in the center of the desk.

It’s propped open, like someone had recently been in it.

Inhaling, I shimmy the draw open fully, my eyebrows creasing at what I see.

A manila folder.

One much like the one that has my mother’s case file in it.

The thump of my heart increases with each beat. My fingers tremble over the envelope, and I pull it out. The name on the top has been crossed out in Sharpie.

My eyes move from Mom’s in my hand to the one that is now on the desk. The rounded edges are the same, and the Brooklyn Police Department logo is embedded into the bottom corner.

My chest tightens, pushing away my nerves as I fling open the folder. With wide eyes, I read the name in disbelief and curiosity.

Alec Sokolov.

Why is his file in my house?

Knowing I should close this and mind my own business, curiosity argues with my common sense, leaving me opening it and skimming over the information carefully.

This is a violation of privacy. Illegal at that, but stealing my mother’s file is also, and that didn’t stop me from committing three different crimes in the span of just a couple of hours.

Skipping over the small details, I flip to the next page. My hand flies to cover my mouth, a gasp falling from my lungs at the same time.

Alec Sokolov, 18, was charged with indecent exposure with Samantha Rodriguez.

My dinner from last night that I barely ate is clawing up my throat. Flinging one arm around my stomach, I squeeze my eyes shut momentarily.

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