Page 25 of No Place Left to Hide

I laugh and then he’s gone, walking toward the front porch. Jena passes him about halfway to the car, and he surprises me by giving her a high five as they pass each other. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jena high-five another human before. She’s spending too much time with Felix and the team. Next, they’ll be slapping each other’s asses.

The wind whips up the road and cuts straight through the sweatshirt. A violent shiver runs down my back. I hop into the car and hit the ignition button.

Jena’s taking her sweet time getting to the car, so I grab my phone from the console and flick it off airplane mode. A flood of notifications roll in as soon as it connects to service.

I have a bunch of congratulatory text messages from family—my mom must have made the rounds on the Goodwin phone tree before her charity event—and then, of course, the inevitable.

10:21 p.m.

No Caller ID

71 Missed Calls

As I stare at my screen, it lights with a fresh call, vibrating silently in my hand. My stomach sours. I toggle it back into airplane mode and the call cuts off. This guy needs to get a fuckinglife. Get a dog. Make a friend. Creep out your neighbor. Find a girl with bad teeth to pretend you matter—just leave me the hell alone.

Before I can delete the missed calls, the passenger door opens. I tuck my phone under my leg so she won’t see what I’m doing and try to release some of the tension from my shoulders.

Jena drops into the passenger seat and beams at me. She’s almost vibrating in place. “Nice sweatshirt. Aren’t you so glad I dragged you out of the house? Tell meeverything.”

I crank the heat and wait for her excitement to bleed into me, but even that doesn’t work. I should be gushing about Dylan brushing the hair from my face. Recounting his nervous prom invitation. Downloading every detail about our walk on the beach. I should betalking a mile a minute about Yale and Brown and how everything is finally working out. Instead, my mind conjures images of Brandon’s screaming face in the darkened windshield, and all I feel is deep, hollow regret.

You’re a fucking monster for what you did to my sister!

I should have stayed home.

Seven

Before

September 2nd

I slip into the kitchen and stick my phone into the back of the silverware drawer. The dancing has resumed in the den, and the sophomores are nowhere to be seen. The music is safe for now—though that’s the least of my problems.

The side door to the deck closes beside me, and I see Dylan pulling the door shut on the other side. He’s alone.

A moment later, Claire comes out of the library with a scowl on her face.

Holy shit. Dylan must have turned her down.

I watch her stare after him with a burst of vindication. I can feel the smugness make a home on my face. Maybe this party isn’t a total wash after all.

I wonder if Claire’s going to follow him onto the deck. Instead, she heads straight for me, because of course she does. Getting with Dylan was never about Dylan. It was always about getting a rise out of me.

I fold my arms and lean against the sink, waiting for the inevitable.

“He doesn’t want you, you know,” she says, as she comes to a stop in front of me.

I reach for the mess of discarded Solo cups on the counter and systematically stack them into an orderly pile on the marble countertop. When trying to appear unaffected, turning your attention to a task always helps. “Who are we talking about?”

She laughs, and Jena slides up beside me, staring Claire down.

“Oh good. Your bodyguard is here. Tell me, Jena, do you ever wonder how much more you could be doing with your life if you weren’t stuck so far up Brooke’s ass?”

Jena snorts. “There’s a difference between being up someone’s ass and having their back. But I understand why the concept might be foreign to you, since you’ve alienated everyone who might have had yours.”

Claire’s eyes narrow. “You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

“Why don’t you tell us more about your imaginary friends at your new school, and how happy you are to have left Waldorf behind? I’m sure quitting the firm to do oil changes was your dad’s first choice too, right?”

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