Page 8

Eight

Now

Jena practically squeals all the way back to the main highway. “I knew it! I knew he liked you.”

I pull out onto the road and cling to my smile. “You totally called it.”

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, twisting so her back is against the door. “You’ve wanted Dylan forever. Don’t let Brandon’s stupid nonsense tear you down. He’s not worth it.”

I wish it felt that way. “I know he’s not. I just really want to get home on time and be done with the whole night, you know? And ending the day with a lecture about being late for curfew is the last thing I need right now.

She shrugs. “Okay. That’s fair.”

The clock in the dash stares me down.

10:28 p.m.

I wish I didn’t have to stop for gas, but I don’t have a choice. I won’t make it home on less than a quarter tank, and there’s more than miles of twisty remote highway ahead of us. No way am I running out of gas in the middle of nowhere.

The Shell station parking lot is completely empty, but the little store’s lights are on and so are the fluorescents over the four gas pumps. I swing in and park at the pump closest to the main door and shut off the engine.

Jena climbs out of the car and tugs her wallet from the depths of her giant chaotic purse. “I’m going to grab us some waters. Want anything else?”

“No, I’m okay.”

She drops the bag onto the passenger seat, and I watch it bounce off and onto the floorboard with a thud . Everything spills out—makeup, an umbrella, headphones, deodorant, a phone charger, lip balm, lotion, a flashlight, her crazy mess of keys—while she dances inside, unbothered.

I roll my eyes.

A minute or two passes, and there’s no sign of the gas station attendant. I only see one lady behind the counter inside. I’m about to go in and throw a fit—they’re going to make me late!—when I see the self-service sign above the pump.

Shit. I scramble to pull my debit card from my purse and climb out.

“Self-service gas stations can go right to hell,” I mumble, shoving the card into the machine.

It used to be illegal to pump your own gas in Oregon, which suited me just fine. I got to sit in the comfort of my warm car and slip my card through a crack in the window while someone else stood out in the Oregon weather. But no . Someone had to get a stick up their ass and make it “optional” to pump your own gas. Now most rural gas stations are self-serve, and I’m the one stuck out here, shivering in my glitter skirt, shoving the nozzle into my car instead of some hourly worker in an ugly fluorescent vest.

Another cold ocean breeze slides through the parking lot and sinks straight into my bones. I shiver in Dylan’s sweatshirt, immensely grateful he made me keep it. It’s always a good twenty degrees colder here on the coast than it is back home. The heated seats in the Subaru are calling my name.

The numbers on the pump slowly climb and I eye the store. I see the top of Jena’s head bouncing between the aisles. She’s not at the counter yet, which means I have a minute or two to get my phone ready. I unlock it with a sigh and toggle it off airplane mode again.

Time to face the music.

One after another, the notifications appear on the screen. Text. Text. Email. Text. Too many calls. But one notification gives me pause.

10:32 p.m.

No Caller ID

94 Missed calls

1 Voicemail from {Unknown}

A voicemail?

That’s new. All this time, No Caller ID has never left a voicemail.

My thumb hovers over the delete button but I hesitate. Logically, I know nothing good can come from listening to this. As frustrating as the nonstop calls are, they’re quick. The few times I’ve answered, they’ve hung up after five or six seconds of heavy breathing or random background chatter.

This is a thirty-second message. From someone who’s done nothing but try to scare me for months. This voicemail won’t be any different.

And yet, the lure is still strong. What if No Caller ID finally said something useful? What if they slipped up and left an identifiable detail in their message? What if it’s a pocket dial and I can hear them talking? What if this is the key to identifying the caller and finally putting an end to this?

Besides, I don’t have to listen to the whole thing if it’s bad…

I look back at the store. Jena’s still not at the register, and I thank the universe she’s being slow tonight. I press play and brace myself. The sound of someone breathing heavy fills my ear and sends a chill down my back. It’s no different from the other times I’ve answered though. I pull the phone from my ear to delete the message when the heavy breathing stops.

“Time’s up, Brooke.”

The voice is strangely mechanical. Like it’s being filtered to distort the sound.

Someone’s masking their number and their identity.

“I’ve given you plenty of time, but you’ve let me down. So we’re going to play a little game. Maybe…Truth or Shot? You like that one, right?”

My hand starts to shake.

“And since we’re fresh out of shots, how about Truth or Die instead?”

I stop breathing. My brain screams at me to hang up, but I can’t bring myself to move.

“The rules are simple. You’re going to tell everyone what really happened at the lake, or…you won’t make it home. Not in one piece anyway. Truth or die. What’ll it be?”

The voicemail ends and I almost drop my damn phone. I smash the delete button and erase all the missed calls before I throw it on airplane mode and toss it back into the car. I hold my shaking hands out in front of me.

Fuck. That’s horrifying.

You’re going to tell everyone what really happened… What the hell does that mean? We all know what happened at the lake party. There was a whole-ass investigation. No mystery there. What could I possibly have to confess? And how are they going to keep me from getting home?

I suddenly regret not telling my dad about these calls. I didn’t want to be a nuisance or bring him any more fuckups to fix, but there’s a big difference between newspaper pranks or the occasional flat tire, and a full-on verbal threat of death.

There’s nothing ambiguous about truth or die .

I scan the empty gas station and wrap my arms around myself. Again, that prickly feeling of being watched has me on high alert. It crawls up the back of my neck until my entire body is tense.

A loud click slices through the silence and I jump straight out of my skin—but it’s only the gas pump clicking off. I slide the nozzle back into the cradle and climb back into the car as fast as I can, trying to shake the unease crawling up my back.

I reach into the center console for the hand sanitizer. Its apple and alcohol scent replaces the lingering gas smell in my nose and clears my head a bit.

I’m being silly. No Caller ID is just a creepy annoyance; they’re probably far from dangerous. Plus, targeting a Goodwin is an objectively stupid idea. My dad wouldn’t simply go after them in court, he’d also go after everyone they loved too. You don’t mess with a Goodwin.

Besides, Jena is with me and whoever has an issue with me isn’t harassing her.

I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of freaking me out.

I turn the car back on and roll up Jena’s window. Not because I’m scared—definitely because it’s cold out. I stab at the buttons to turn on the seat heaters, anxiously tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel.

Finally, Jena emerges from the store, half dancing to a song I can’t hear. She pulls open the passenger door and hands me a water bottle.

“About time,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “It’s not like I have a curfew or anything.”

“Sorry! I couldn’t decide if I wanted something besides water. I debated a vanilla Frappuccino, but don’t want to deal with the caffeine this late.”

I shake my head at her. “Nobody drinks as much coffee as you. Hurry up. We have to go.”

She pats her pockets, then grabs for her upturned purse, pushing the mess back into her bag. “I just need my phone, and we’re good to go.”

My gaze darts around the gas station again, and I catch my fingers tapping faster on the steering wheel. I force myself to stop.

Jena makes a frustrated noise and digs a little more forcefully through her purse. Then, she checks the sides of the seat and underneath it. “It’s not here.”

I frown. “It has to be here. I’m almost positive you had it with you when we got in the car.”

“Then where is it, Brooke?” she snaps.

I glare at her. “How the hell should I know? I’m not the keeper of all your shit. It’s here somewhere. Can we please find it when we get to my house? I don’t want to be late.”

Instead, she upends her purse a second time and scours through everything.

No sign of the phone

“Perfect,” she says, anger radiating off her. “It’s not in the car, Brooke. I’ve looked everywhere. It’s gone.”

“How could it be gone? It didn’t grow legs and walk out of here.”

She paces away from the car, and back again. Before she can speak, she looks at her open door and her face drops. “Wasn’t this window open?”

My steering wheel tempo doubles. “Yeah, why?”

“Someone probably grabbed it! Why did you leave the window open when you got out of the car?”

My teeth clench and I wave a hand at the absolutely empty parking lot. “Yeah, because there are so many thieves around.”

Even as I say the words, another set echoes in my mind: Time’s up, Brooke.

I whip around to check the parking lot again, but we’re still the only ones here. There’s no way. Someone would have had to creep up to the car while my back was turned, grab Jena’s phone, and vanish all before I finished listening to a thirty second voicemail. Without making a single sound.

That’s not possible…right?

Still, as Jena searches the car for a third time, my doubt solidifies. Did someone steal her phone to rattle me? Because if they did, it’s working. The overwhelming urge to get the hell out of here has me buckling my seatbelt.

I eye the clock in the dash again and my stomach sinks.

10:42 p.m.

Jena moves to check the backseat and I throw out my hand to stop her. “Listen, I’m sure it’s not gone gone. You probably left it at the party, or dropped it along the road near where we parked. I’m sure someone already found it and gave it to Felix, but we can call around when we get back to my house, okay?”

“I can’t go home without my phone, Brooke. This is the third one in a year. My mom is going to lose her—”

“Listen, if we can’t track it down by tomorrow, I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll replace all three if you just get in and let me get the hell out of here. This gas station is giving me the creeps.”

Jena furrows her brows. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. I just really don’t want to be late.” I point at the time.

She studies my face for three or four seconds, like she’s trying to figure out what’s off about me, and I slap on a smile to placate her. Jena’s been mostly oblivious of my No Caller ID stress, and I don’t need that to change tonight. I’m almost free.

“Fine,” she concedes. “But if we can’t track it down, we’re telling my mom I left my phone at your house until it gets replaced. I don’t want to deal with another argument.”

“We’ll go to the store tomorrow. She’ll never know.”

She buckles her seatbelt, grumbling under her breath, and I pull away from the gas station and onto the highway. As soon as we’re in motion again, my anxiety lessens. An eerie gas station is always going to feel more exposed than the highway. Here, I’m encased in steel with the accelerator under my foot. The control is mine. There, I’m a sitting duck surrounded by flammables.

I relax into my seat, which is very toasty thanks to the seat warmer.

Jena plugs my phone back in and hits play on one of my coffeeshop playlists. A quiet indie melody pulses from the speakers and I try to let the music calm that last lingering worry, but nothing will touch it.

Time’s up, Brooke, plays over and over in my head.

We’re almost at the edge of town when the traffic light ahead turns red and I reluctantly slow to a stop. When I do, I realize Jena’s been talking this entire time and I zoned out on all of it.

“… I mean, someone would have to be pretty dumb to steal it. The screen’s locked anyway. It won’t do them any good. And it’s hooked to my Apple ID, so they literally can’t do anything with it.”

I didn’t miss much, then. Only a monologue about her stupid phone.

My mental wince is a sharp one. It’s not stupid. Jena’s biggest concern may be trivial compared to a full-blown harassment campaign, but it doesn’t make it any less important to her.

The light turns green, and someone pulls up behind me as I start to accelerate. It’s the first car I’ve seen on the road since we left the party, which isn’t all that strange for this area on a Thursday night.

Their headlights are higher than the bottom of my back window, casting their lights straight inside the Subaru and reflecting off my rearview mirror. I look away from the glare and try to put some space between us and regain my night vision.

The vehicle behind me stays right on my ass, accelerating as I do. I’m over the speed limit in a few seconds. The driver doesn’t let up.

What the hell is their problem? I glance at my side mirror and get a better view of the car. It looks like a white Bronco, but not one of the nice ones. It’s an old, beat-up model.

O. J. Simpson style.

I’m vaguely aware of Jena still mumbling about her phone but I can’t concentrate. Is this guy tailgating me on purpose? Did I cut him off when I came out of the gas station and didn’t notice?

No. I’m still stuck on the paranoia.

It’s got to be some asshole who doesn’t like me going five miles over the speed limit on this old highway. He’ll probably pass me as soon as we get off the main drag and it goes back to two lanes.

Except, when the lanes finally split, he doesn’t budge. I turn on my blinker and move to the left lane to get out of his way.

He slides over right behind me.

Anxiety races through my veins. This is so stupid. He’s just a bad driver. He was probably shifting to the left lane to pass me at the same time. I turn on my blinker and go back to the right lane, patiently waiting for him to rev his engine and leave us behind.

Instead, he whips back behind us and my rearview mirror is all headlights again.

What. The. Fuck.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jena asks, sounding half irritated and half worried. If my face shows even a fraction of what I’m feeling inside, I probably look like I swallowed a pine cone.

But I can’t summon a smile or an unaffected vibe right now. Not when it seems like the Bronco is inching closer and closer to my car.

“Brooke—”

I shake my head to stop her. “Shut up for a second… I think we’re being followed.”