Page 75 of Liars and Liaisons

She cuts off, yanking her phone back to look at the screen. After a second, she curses under her breath, and my skin warms at the profanity. There’s something so goddamn enticing about hearing vulgar words from her pretty, perfect red lips.

Like she’s a little tainted despite how hard she tries to pretend otherwise.

Sighing, she drives her fists into her eye sockets. Her ensuing throaty scream shakes the treetops, sending a few birds fleeing.

I stand there, waiting for what I can feel in my bones is coming.

One minute passes. Sixty long seconds.

Then two.

I count to sixty twenty times before she takes off. I’m not even sure if she takes her phone, but one second, she was still as a doe, and the next, she’s sprinting toward the estate, graceful as a gazelle, even as the scent of her fear permeates the air.

I’m on her heels, my long legs eating up the distance despite hers being long as well. Yoga doesn’t seem to have given her any extra agility points, and she’s also in unfamiliar territory. I have the home court advantage, and she knows it.

Sweat and the spice of apple cider fill my nostrils as she runs. Her braids flail behind her, a speck of darkness against the red dress and pale skin beneath.

Inside the mansion, the party rages on. None of the patrons are the wiser.

She veers left when she passes the barn, and I notice the split second of hesitation in her step when she stumbles. Just slightly, but enough that I know she’s absolutely terrified.

Then, she hops the small garden fence and disappears into the sunflowers.

25

Fuck,fuck, fuck, fuck.

Like a broken record, the single word loops on an uneven beat, wrapping around my brain like a cast.

I didn’t realize until twenty minutes ago how much the almost attack had affected me. Thought going down to the lake might do me some good, especially since I wasn’t allowed at the party, and Nate finally let me out of his sight long enough that I could escape.

I’m having trouble remembering if it was always so suffocating to be around him or if this is part of the new “vengeful” personality he’s developed. It’s likely the latter, although it’s also possible I simply ignored the red flags before in favor of what I thought was a cookie-cutter romance.

Turns out, just because he respects your boundaries for a while and seems nice on the outside doesn’t really mean much. He’s really just planning to murder you.

Now, I can’t breathe, but for entirely different reasons.

I thought something seemed off at the shore, could feel the air shift with something sinister. The hackles on the back of my neck rose, and I searched the pitch-black night for proof. Still, I wanted to be sure I wasn’t just hearing things.

When a twig snapped in half, heavy with the even weight of a large shoe, I knew. Heart racing, I took my father’s call, keeping my eyes peeled for the first sign of movement.

I barely registered anything he said as I listened, my body tight and tense with apprehension. Something about needing the money last week and how he was disappointed that I hadn’t already helped him out. Like every phone call before, he ended it with a promise to one day pay me back, and then the line went dead.

Dread filled me, and I bolted. The second my feet started toward the house, the telltale sound of fast, intent footfalls pounded on the ground behind me, and I panicked.

Took the first left that opened up past the barn and went straight into the sunflower field.

It’s wildly overgrown, the petals looming several feet above me and facing away from the house, having turned, chasing the sun throughout the day. The perfect place to hide—or get lost trying.

My mouth is dry from excessive panting, and my ankles scream in protest as I run, shoving aside leaves and stalks. I’ve never paid attention to how large the field is, but when I’ve been pushing through for a solid five minutes, concern notches along my sternum at the vastness.

Finally coming to a stop, I crouch down and listen. No footsteps fall around, and the rustling of the flowers has paused with me.

I press my palm to my mouth as a sudden wave of nausea racks through me. Imaginary gravel scrapes down my throat when I swallow, and with shaky fingers, I slip Elena’s knife from my bra and flip it open.

I’ve never wielded a weapon before. Aside from the rock, I guess. My mom doesn’t like them, and she pretty much had me conditioned to pacifism at birth.

“Jesus would want you to turn the other cheek, my sweet sunflower. Violence doesn’t solve anything. It only creates more problems.”

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