Page 112 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

My friend Peggy sent me a text. Must have been when I was asleep.

KRAZY 2NITE. MISS U ALREADY. CALL ME IN THE MORNING.

But I call her straight away, because I need a dose of reality.

She doesn’t answer. Guess she’s busy. I go downstairs and rifle through the first aid kit for painkillers while I wait for Deputy Thatcher to arrive.

I buzz his patrol car through the gate about twenty minutes later, and go to open the door.

That’s when I remember that I told the boys in the woods where I’m staying. They could be waiting in the bushes, waiting for this exact moment to jump me.

But not if there’s a cop on the lawn.

Thatcher is thirty, maybe thirty-five, and handsomely rugged. Guess they have good genes in this place—everyone looks like they walked off the pages of a magazine.

He takes one look at me and frowns. “Are you okay?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

His frown deepens, and he looks past me to the interior of the mansion where only the kitchen light is on. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Winters...” A hand lands on my shoulder. “You need to come back to the station with me.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.” Sympathy floods his brown eyes.

I feel so disconnected right now. Like I’ve possessed the body of Nim Winters while she’s still inside, moving around and talking. Everything comes as a vague surprise.

“Is Vicky also dead?” The worddeadsounds all kinds of wrong in my head, but I force myself not to linger on it.

“We only found two—” Thatcher cuts off with a grunt. “No, Nim. We’ve been trying to contact her since we got the report.”

I shake my head. “Can I go home now?” I whisper, watching the Deputy without blinking.

He stares at me for a beat before glancing around the house again. “Why don’t you go fetch your things? I’ll organize you some transport once we’re back at the station.”

“Okay.” I make for the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor, and pause with my hand on the railing. “Should I bring their things too?”

Deputy Thatcher starts after me. “Sure. Were your parents using their own vehicle, or a rental?”

“Their own.”

“I’ll send someone later to collect it. Let me help you with the bags.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I feel disembodied as I pack my things away. The worddeadkeeps playing in my head, but I can’t seem to connect it with my parents. I saw them a few hours ago. They were smiling, happy,alive.This is just a nightmare, right? A terrible, never-ending nightmare.

Thatcher is silent as we take the bags to his cruiser and pack them in the trunk. He opens the passenger door for me, strangely quiet the whole time.He must think I’m in shock. Fuck, I probably am. This all feels like it’s happening to someone else.

What I do know is that I want to get the fuck out of Cinderhart as fast as Deputy Thatcher can make that happen.

Chapter 7

Mason

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