Page 51 of Someone Knows

My chest tightens. “Hello?” I snap. “I can hear you breathing,you know!”

Again, I immediately think it’s Noah. And again I remind myself he doesn’t have my number. And why would he call and just breathe at me? Unless . . . unless he’s the one sending the chapters. And his goal is to scare me. To haunt me.Revenge.

I hang up. There’s no need to feed into whatever it is this person hopes to achieve—no matterwhoit might be. Instead, I scroll through my contacts until I get to my mother. My finger hovers over the call button as I think back to the conversation we had just before I walked out her front door.

I’ll call you in a few days to see how you’re feeling, Mom.

How about I call you when I feel like talking instead?

Of course she hasn’t called. I’m pretty sure she never will. I’ve tried not to think about her, not to worry about her. She doesn’t deserve my concern, much less my thoughts. Yet . . . I feel compelled to make sure she’s okay. I’m sure a psychiatrist would have a lot to say about the reasons why. I shake my head at myself, but press the green call button anyway.

“Hello? Elizabeth?” Her voice is creaky, breathless. She sounds awful, like she’s at death’s door. I ignore the pang of guilt I feel that I’m not there with her.

“Mom? Are you okay?”

“I’m dying. Of course I’m not okay.” She coughs, moving the phone away, but I can still hear it, hoarse and rattling. When she comes back to the phone, she clears her throat. “Why are you calling?”

I let a beat of silence permeate the air.Why, indeed?“I just wanted to check on you.”

“Been to church yet?” she asks. “I live a good Christian life, and my sins are numerous. You live a heathen’s life, and your sins—”

“I have to go, Mom. But I love you.” I hang up and stare down at the phone, thinking of all the stories I’ve heard about when a parent is dying, and in those final moments, parents and children who have been at odds find a way of reconciling their differences. I don’t think she and I willever get to that point. She’ll go to the grave swearing she knows best, even though she drank and smoked herself to death.

A knock coming from the other room—fast and harsh—jolts me from my thoughts. Someone’s at my door. Sam, maybe? But would he just show up? I never texted him back today, so probably not. I huff a sigh, climb from bed, and clutch my phone like a weapon while I peek through the peephole. But it’s only Mrs. Patterson, my next-door neighbor.

I crack the door open. I’m not dressed for company. “Hello?”

“Here, dear, I keep getting your mail.” She passes it to me through the crack, gives me a quick smile, then totters away with her cane.

“Thank you.”

I climb back into bed, more unsettled than ever. An hour later, I’m still staring at the ceiling, this time thinking of Jocelyn. She had to have ended upsomewhere. If she were still in Florida, she should’ve shown up in the searches Sam did. I need him to go wider—check the entire United States. After yet another hour passes and my brain is still swimming in the same old pool of dead ends, I finally give up and get back out of bed.

I have papers to grade, grades that still need to be entered into the university’s system, and a few dumb, mandatory human resources videos I’m supposed to watch. So I grab my laptop, take a seat at the kitchen table, and try to make myself useful. But before I can log into the university’s grading system, I notice an email from Hannah Greer. It wasn’t there earlier.

My heart races, blood goes hot with nerves pulsing through my body. I swallow and click. There’s no message, no content to the email. She’s clearly ignoring my request to speak with her over Zoom. The only things the email contains are attachments.

And those are labeled Chapter 4 and Chapter 5.

CHAPTER

24

Chapter 4—Hannah’s Novel

Jocelyn pulled up to the address. She stared at the building, then back down at the numbers, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt. The place wasn’t quite what she expected. Instead of somewhere nice, or maybe even Mr. Sawyer’s house, it was a motel that looked like it had gone out of business. Except the red neon Vacancy sign blinked steadily, so—it was still open? She fidgeted, looking around the bumpy parking lot self-consciously. No sign of Mr. Sawyer.

Eventually, his car pulled in. She looked at her ratty bicycle, parked next to her, wishing her mother’s car hadn’t died this morning. Jocelyn stood just outside the small office, trying to look relaxed and calm, when she was anything but. The sight of him sent excitement through her. He was a good-looking man—older, smarter, more worldly than she’d ever be. And yet he was here to meether.

“Hi!” she called, waving to him. But then she quickly put her hand down, feeling like an idiot for greeting him like such a teenager.

“What are you doing?” He approached quickly, took her elbow and yanked her around theside of the motel. “You can’t be seen just standing out here like that. They’ll assume you’re turning tricks.”

“What?” She looked up, eyes wide. “Turning what?”

“They’ll assume you’re a whore. Look at you, how you’re dressed.” He glared down at her, anger in his voice.

Jocelyn stole a glance down at her short skirt, the V-neck blouse she’d stolen from her mother’s closet. She was trying to look nice for Mr. Sawyer, thought he’d like it. It was . . . mature, she’d thought. Maybe she’d judged wrong, though.

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