Page 88 of Hold Still

I place my laptop case on my shoulder. “Ozzy and his band are recording the new songs this week.”

Felicia grabs my arm before I can leave. She whispers, “I think you’re the frontrunner to move to the national competition.”

My eyes close. “I hope so,” I whisper. I need this win. Mom needs it.

From the table, Greta stands and her assistant distributes a packet to everyone assembled. As I leave the room, she begins, “This details all of the PR coming up over the next week for the Big Reveal…”

Back in my car, I rest my head against the headrest. I’m so happy they liked my work. The possibility of making it to nationals dangles in front of me like a tantalizing chocolate from Edie Z’s.

My mouth waters and my fingers reach into my bag to call Ozzy. Then I remember he’s in the recording studio today and drop the phone. I should call Rose and let her know that Greta got this gig, but she’s still on her extended honeymoon and I don’t want to bother her. I’ll email her when I get home.

Surprised at how long my meeting ran, I drive into an In and Out Burger for a very late lunch. Munching on their delicious fries, I bask in the president’s words. All of my hard work is finally paying off.

My mind returns to the prosecutor’s call, which cuts into my glow. How can Matt be a free man again? My stomach twists. Tossing the remainder of my food into the trash, I return to my car and pull into my driveway an hour later.

Bone tired, I grab my laptop and trudge into the house. Between the news of Matt’s parole and Ozzy’s keeping me sleep deprived, I need to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. But before I can even get my key into the front door, voices waft out to me. Doesn’t sound like Elaine.Great. Mom has visitors to whom I now have to be polite.

Shaking the exhaustion from my body, I tip my lips upward and walk through the door. “Hi, Mom,” I say, hanging my keys on the hook by the door.

“McKenna. I’m so glad you’re back from school, just in time.”

My smile slips. She still thinks I’m in high school. Guess Elaine was wrong about her snapping out of it. “Yeah. It was a rough day.”

“Well, I have someone here who can make it all better. He brought flowers and everything.”

He. Maybe Ozzy got out of the studio early? On butterfly feet, I walk into the house and turn into the living room.

Where I bite back a scream.

Matt stands up from the couch, causing every one of my extremities to clench. “Your Mom offered me some of your cookies.” He raises his cookie-filled fist and, involuntarily, I shrink backward. “Good to see you again, Kenna.”

His use of my nickname. Eating my cookies. Inside of my house. It’s too much.

My instinctive recoil to seeing him morphs into deep-seated hatred. Standing in front of the bay window, I point to the door. In a deadly-calm voice I barely recognize as my own, I order, “Get the fuck out of my house.” I dig through my purse, fumbling for my cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

From across the room, Mom asks, “What’s wrong? Mateo and I were having a lovely chat. Why are you being so rude?”

“Yeah, Kenna.” He mimics, “Why are you being so rude?”

Abandoning my search for my phone, I focus on getting him alone so I can kick his ass out of my house. Mom simply can’t understand what she’s saying. I take a deep breath. “Mom, why don’t you go make some coffee to celebrate”—his name can’t leave my lips—“his release.”

Mom frowns. “Release?”

Shit. I shouldn’t have said that word. Now’s not the time to jog her memory. “Football season’s over. He’s released from practice,” I improvise.

“Oh. Well, sure.” She gets to her feet and leaves me alone with theanimalwho murdered my father. When I’m sure Mom can’t hear me, I hiss, “Last time I’ll say it. Get the fuck out of my house.”

He saunters toward me. I stand my ground, hands on my hips and raise my chin. “Is that any way to greet yourhigh schoolboyfriend?” He mocks, his hands clasping my shoulders.

My body tenses—I refuse to be cowed by this lowlife asshole. “There’s a restraining order against you. You’re violating your parole.” A smile stretches across my face. “You’ll be back in jail before you can say ‘breaking and entering.’”

He squeezes my shoulders. “One, there’s no restraining order. Two, you owe me five years. But for your testimony, the jury would’ve believed my self-defense story. Your father brought that knife.”

“Yet you took it from him. He was unarmed. You killed him.”

Ignoring me, he barrels forward. “And three,” he points toward the opened magazine on the coffee table, “you’re mine. Stay the fuck away from that Ozzy Martinez guy or he’ll join your father in Hell.”

My blood runs cold. I swing at his smug face—how did I ever think he was handsome?—but he catches me by my wrist and pulls me into him. He got stronger in jail. I guess not being on drugs and working out every day will do that.

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