Page 80 of Someone Knows

I need to get a step ahead, figure out what he’s got planned for me next.

CHAPTER

40

The lock on the front door is broken. He told me that mere days ago. If I’m lucky, he hasn’t gotten around to fixing it. Given the state of my life, I’d say I’mnotlucky, yet still . . . Maybe the universe owes me a little something.

I pull into the driveway and cast a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, as if somehow he might have managed to catch up with me. But all I see is a long, empty road. Good. He’s still stuck on the highway. I swing out of my car, slam the door, and stride across the drive to the front of his house.

I reach for the doorknob and—and nothing.Motherfucker.Hedidfix it. Or it was never broken to begin with. I stare at it for a long moment, wondering if he knew I’d play right into his plans, that I’d follow him home, wander through this very front door. He literally tried to fuck me whilefucking me. I let out a short, staccato exhalation of anger, and kick the door. Well,fuck him, too. I’m going to find out what he knows, one way or another.

Stepping back, I sweep the front of the house with my gaze, searching for where he might have hidden a key. That’s what people with houses do, right? Especially if they live alone, no spouse to rescue them if they lock themselves out. I search beneath a flowerpot filled with weeds, overturnseveral stones in the side yard. I even stretch and reach up high, running my fingers along the top of the doorframe.

Nothing. Like Noah knows he’d never lock himself out. Or he’s better at hiding things, which is absolutely true. He’s hidden so much from me.

I look back at the road again. I have to hurry. If he did see me on the highway, if he is turning around, suspicious I’d come here, he’ll be back soon. I edge around the house, stepping around construction material—a sawhorse, roof shingles on a pallet, piles of brick. The backyard grass isn’t cut like the front, and I have to wade through calf-high growth to try the back door. It slides open easily. Satisfaction rolls through me as I enter, closing it behind me. I stop and look around, searching for clues like they’ll be out in plain sight. But that’s dumb. I’m going to have to search, look places I wouldn’t see wandering through the house. The obvious place to start is his bedroom. I climb the stairs two at a time, rushing to get there. Once inside, I drop to my knees and look under the bed—nothing. It’s neat, tidy. Not a single dust bunny, even.

His closet stands open, and I go for it next. It’s a walk-in, and I turn a slow circle once inside. But there are no shoe-boxes for storage on the top shelf, no bins pushed to the back. Not even a single book to page through. I clench my jaw, gazing at shirts hung neatly on hangers, arranged by color. It almost looks like my closet, and knowing what he’s done, what he’sdoing, that irks me. His dresser holds only clothes—socks matched and underwear folded. What is he, a sociopath?

Maybe. He just might be.

It makes me question his ultimate goal—to punish me? To hurt me?

My eyes land on the last piece of furniture in the room, a wide nightstand with several drawers. It’s so big it’s nearly a small dresser. I drop to my knees in front of it and go through the clutter on the surface—eyedrops, some coins,a candle, the glasses he was wearing the other night, what looks like a homeowner’s insurance policy, a couple of books, and . . . his laptop.

I grab that first, set it on the bed, flip the top open. I pray it’s not locked. I see students with unlocked laptops all the time, like they’re the most trusting idiots in the world. But one touch, and the password prompt pops up. I sigh. Back to the nightstand. The books are books on writing, story structure. Still, I flip through them, but find only notes he’s taken in the margins, a couple torn-off pieces of paper serving as bookmarks.

The first drawer pulls out easily, but it contains nothing but tissues, a bottle of melatonin, condoms, and a spare phone charger. The second drawer is empty. I expect the third drawer to be empty, too, but when I yank it out, there’s a box. A small, old-fashioned gift box, crafted in purple and yellow. It looks more like something that would have belonged to his mother than something that belongs to him. I pull it out, open the top, and freeze.

Photographs.

Polaroids, to be exact, a thick stack of them.

My stomach bottoms out, another memory rising to the surface. Mr. Sawyer, hair blowing in the wind. A blocky camera in his hands, him raising it with a grin to snap a photo of Jocelyn—of me. I blink, and the vision dissolves. I’m not sure if it was real or my imagination coming up with something. But I empty the box of photos into my trembling hands.

The first several are women I don’t recognize. Or maybe “women” is an exaggeration. These are girls, no older than I was. Years are scribbled at the bottom of each. All before I was even in high school. I swallow back bile and keep flipping until I stop at a familiar girl, all legs and arms, in a bikini.

Jocelyn.Me.On a local beach.

The memory from before hits full force—he was kind that day, asked if I wanted to do something different.We met in a parking lot the next town over, and I got to climb into his car with him, got to sit in the front seat beside him. He planted his big, strong hand on my bare thigh, and we rolled down the windows for the whole drive there. I felt so happy—like he was really my boyfriend, like we were together, like we had a future.

At the beach, he spread out big towels and offered me watermelon. We sat together for a long time, and he pulled out a well-loved book of poems, read many of them aloud to me. I lazed on the towel, feeling like things had changed, things were going to be different from now on. Afterward, I stripped down to my bikini, and he gazed appreciatively at my body before asking if he could snap a photo—“Gotta remember a beautiful girl on a beautiful day,” he said. I blushed, so pleased he thought I was beautiful. Of course he could take a photo.

I posed for a couple, in fact, rolling on my stomach and glancing what I thought was seductively over one shoulder.

Now, I flip to the next photograph, and there it is—my ass hanging out of my bikini bottoms, looking about twelve years old. I think I might vomit. Might lose my tiny breakfast.

I swap the photos around again, look at the next in the stack. This time, it’s a different girl. She’s posing in front of a motel room.

A motel room numbered 212. It, too, is dated before he met me—five years before, in fact.

“How many girls did you do this to?” I murmur and realize my hands are wet—the photos are wet—and it’s because I’m crying, big fat tears rolling down my cheeks. How dare he? How dare he do this tome? How dare he do this to all of them? Are they all out there somewhere, going through the same thing I have? The thought angers me, makes me wish I could wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze.

I freeze when I get to another photo of someone Irecognize.Ivy.

I let that photo and some of the others slip from my hands and scatter over the carpeted floor. It’s a mistake, though—half a dozen innocent girls’ gazes staring back at me, trusting me like they trusted him. It’s overwhelming, and I rock back on my heels, holding back sobs. One man hurt so many girls.

“What the fuck are you doing?” A booming voice shouts from behind me, a voice that for a moment, I think is Mr. Sawyer’s. I twist around, panicked.

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