Page 23 of Someone Knows

Around me, the parking lot slowly fills up, but the chapters suck me in as I reread them. Hannah is either a good writer or the scenes are vivid because I already know the story. I leave comments about a few minor things—staying in a particular tense, removing filler words that aren’t necessary. But then I get an idea.

What about adding a plotline about a friend Jocelyn confides in about her relationship with her teacher? That would help develop your character beyond her interaction withMr. Sawyer.

I type the comment and my heart races faster as I reread it. I add,Let’s call her Lizzie as a placeholder. Lizzie could appear as a friend. . . I taste blood as I bite down and continue,Later she could turn out to have a greater role in the story.

Not the sort of advice I give, usually. My writing students need to choose their own plotlines, develop their own characters. But this person isn’t a normal student—they’re messing with me. So I’ll mess with them back. Let them know thatI know. A smirk plays on my lips as I imagine them—whoever they are . . . Sam? Ivy? My own freaking mother?—reading the notes and realizing their game has just been taken up a notch.

A rap at the window jolts me from my thoughts. I look up, expecting to see Ivy staring down at me with surprise in her eyes. But instead, I see a face I’d hoped not to run into again.

Wendell Unger.ChiefWendell Unger.

Is he following me?He must be. I know this town is small, but twice in as many days?

I slap my laptop shut and creak down the window a bit. My heart thumps away in my chest, nerves telling me this can’t be a coincidence. Why didn’t I pay more attention to my rearview mirror? I’d been so focused on following, I didn’t considerbeing followed. Doesheknow? Oh God, a thought smacks me in the face—and it’s not the first time I’ve considered it. What if he’s working with Sam? Some kind of multistate investigation. That happens, right? Though I doubt the detective in New York would be sleeping with the suspect . . .

“Good morning, Ms. Davis.”

“Hello, Chief Unger.”

“May I”—he gestures to the car—“inquire what you’re doing camped out in a parking lot? Again?”

I point at the laptop. “Getting some work done while I wait on a friend. How about you?”

“I frequent the CPS office, unfortunately.Nature of the job.” He presses his lips together. “Why are you waitin’ out here?”

My gaze drifts toward the front of the building. “Umm . . . I came to visit a friend, but she’s out of the office. Figured I’d wait for her here so I’m not in the way inside.”

“Mrs. Ivy Leighton?”

How the hell does he know?“Um, yes. Ivy.” I try not to let him see that I’m rattled. Maybe in a town this small, there aren’t many people who work at CPS. Maybe he knows we’re about the same age, maybe—

“Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Davis. You two were thick as thieves back in the day. Inseparable. It’s a small town, not like your big city. We know who’s friends with who around here.”

I give him a smile that feels forced. “Of course. You have a very good memory.” I’m ready to end this conversation. I don’t want to answer any other questions, not without a lawyer present. But I forgot another thing about small towns—how chatty everyone is. And how everyone expects you to be chatty right back.

Chief Unger doesn’t take the hint as I shift my laptop, look around anywhere but at him. Instead, he leans against the car, tosses his keys into the air, and catches them, like he’s got all the time in the world. My stomach swims. Is he being friendly, or is he messing with me, trying to make me nervous on purpose?

“So, whatta ya do for work up in that big city, anyway?”

“I’m a teacher, a professor.”

“That so? What subject?” He straightens, pulls a circular disc of chewing tobacco from his pocket, and opens it.

The pungent smell wafts to my nose, and I feel like I could gag. My stomach is shaky already. “English. Creative writing.”

“Huh,” he says, and his brow furrows like—likesomething. Like that piece of information is interesting. But English is a boring subject to most people; rarely doesanyone find itinterestingthat I teach it. Most think of grammar rules or overly long books from the last century that are difficult to read.

“Well, best be heading out. Good to see you again.” Chief Unger smacks a hand on the side of the car and crosses the parking lot back to his cruiser. I watch him go, but not before he glances back my way and squints, as though I said something interesting, something he’s going toremember.

Before I can think it through, I’m turning the car on, shifting into drive, and heading back toward Mom’s.What the hell am I doing?Stalking my ex–best friend. Taunting whoever this is via Microsoft Word comments.Coming hometo Louisiana, where nothing good ever happened to me. Where, likely, nothing good ever will happen to me.

CHAPTER

12

Ineed to make a stop.”

My eyes flash to my mother sitting in the passenger seat and back to the road. We just came from a doctor’s appointment. “Sure. Where?”

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