Page 134 of Under the Lies

A few of their friends, like Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Rochester, glance over, whispering to each other.

Noah’s hand presses into my back.

“Mom, Dad,” I force cheer into my tone. “You know Noah. We’ve been kind of dating.”

My mother’s upper lip snarls and father’s scowl deepens further, if that’s even possible, while Noah turns to me slowly as his fingers dig tighter into my back, letting me know he’s here. He’s ready to step in if I need him. To fight the backlash for me.

“Sayer Brooks.” My name is a verbal lashing on my mother’s tongue.

I don’t have a middle name and it’s time like these that I’m glad I don’t. Two names sound bad enough. I don’t want to imagine what kind of wounds she could inflict with a third.

My father stands beside her, not saying anything. He doesn’t have to. Not when his twisted lips and throbbing vein above his eyebrow say it all.

If we weren’t in a crowded room full of their friends and journalists, they would ream me out and possibly strangle me. I’m with the one person who, in their eyes, helped tarnish our family name.

I don’t have time to pay attention to my father, though. Or my mother.

Not when Noah is rigid at my side.

Noah stands quiet, not moving. I don’t even know if he’s breathing.

He glances down at me and I feel sweat gathering along my hairline as a shiver crawls up my spine.

Something’s wrong.

Before any more words can be shared, the lights go out and people scream in panic. Names get shouted and people start to rush in an unseen panic. Bodies knock into me. Noah’s hand falls away and I feel his body heat leave mine.

I hear him call my name. At least, I think I do.

Just as I begin to move, to answer him, unfamiliar hands wrap around my waist and my mouth and I’m pulled back into a solid chest of a tall, tall man.

A man who’s not Noah.

I struggle, kick and bite, trying to get free but they hold me to the point of tears stinging my eyes and I can do nothing as something goes over my head and tightens around my neck, the pressure making it hard to breathe, let alone scream.

With my voice stolen, I feel something sharp pierce my skin. Everything goes dark behind my eyes as I’m carried away into the unknown.

I don’t know how long I’m knocked out for before I wake up against a leafless tree, dead from the winter. My face is frozen and limbs rigid as I struggle to stand up.

Dazed, I look around.

Where am I?

Slowly, the memories of the art gallery come to me. Of stranger’s hands grabbing me. A prickling sensation in my neck.

I lift a hand, touching the spot. A little knot now resides there.

What happened?

I see nothing but trees. Barren, hibernating trees. Dark with only the faintest stars for light.

Am I in a field?

I take a few hesitant steps only to stop dead.

It’s not a field. It’s a cemetery.

Rows and rows and rows of headstones greet me.

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