Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) by Emily Kazmierski (ereader iphone txt) 📕

“It’s fine. Let’s sit in the living room.” It comes out too loud. Embarrassment makes my ears heat. But the relief of being in the air conditioned room overpowers it. We plop down on the old leather couches, scratched here and there, and drink our lemonade.

“BRB,” Viv says. “The restroom is?”

“Down the hall, first door on the right.” Once again, too loud. I slurp down lemonade, hoping it’ll make my pits stop sweating.

“Can I get some more ice?” Fiona asks, peering into her glass where the last shards of it are rapidly dissipating.

I shoot out of my seat. “I’ll get you some.”

“I’ll help.” Marisa is at my heels all the way into the kitchen.

Opening the freezer, I use a plastic cup to scoop the ice. The fridge is so old it doesn’t have a dispenser in the door.

Marisa tries to whisper into my ear, making me jump sky high.

“Sorry,” I stammer. “What was that?”

“I need help,” Marisa says, barely above a whisper. “With the play. I have to get my lines memorized. If I don’t…”

“I, um. What do you normally do to memorize your lines?”

Marisa shakes her head. “This is my first big role. Last year I played a tree.”

My mouth drops open. “Your…” I swallow. Try again past the cotton in my throat. “Your largest role before now was as a tree?” It all makes sense. The nervous fidgeting when members of the crew watch the actors practice. The flubbing of lines. The frantic help-me stare she kept throwing my way at our last meeting. She was anxious because this is all new for her.

The girl nods, eyes on mine. “Now you’re getting it.”

“But I thought you…”

“Look, I just, I have to get it right, okay?”

“I know there are techniques you can use to…”

The front door opens and shuts.

“Oh, hello. Fiona was it?” Aunt Karen’s voice sounds friendly on the surface, but I know better.

Bolting from the kitchen, I rush into the front of the house. “We were just hanging out here in the living room. See? Lemonade.”

Aunt Karen looks from Marisa, who clearly was just in the kitchen with me, to Viv, who picks this moment to come back from the bathroom. The simmering annoyance behind the woman’s eyes makes me gulp down more cloyingly sweet lemonade.

She shakes it off, her hand moving from the small of her back. There’s a lump under her shirt like she stuffed something down the back of her waistband. Some of that expensive chocolate she eats when she thinks I’m not looking, perhaps? Not wanting to think about sweaty chocolate any more than never, I shove the thought away.

Aunt Karen makes small talk for a few minutes before ushering the girls to the door. They leave, full of lemonade and probably wondering why my guardian is so overprotective. Aunt Karen twists the lock on the door and turns, hitting me between the eyes with a look so cold I wish I had a sweater.

“Megan,” she asks, “what did I say about visitors?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Aunt Karen’s expression softens. She takes a couple steps closer. “I asked the sheriff about that blue car you’ve been seeing.”

“You did? What did he say?”

Her frown tells me everything I need to know before she even speaks. “It was a dead end. The owner died a year ago, and nobody has registered as its new owner.”

“So what you’re saying is it’s a stolen car, and anyone could be driving it.”

She puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Just, follow my rules, okay? And you’ll be fine. I’ll keep you safe.”

I don’t have a choice but to believe her.

Chapter 9

Day 108, Wednesday

Noah’s house is a small blue bungalow set back from the road in a stand of gnarled oak trees. The dairy and its sea of monochrome bovines is right next door. The smell is intense, even inside Aunt Karen’s car with the windows rolled up.

“Let me know when you need me to come get you,” she says, her eyes drooping to my backpack before settling on my face. “You have everything?”

I assure her that I do before sliding out of the car. “I’ll text you.”

The gravel spreads over the ground as Aunt Karen pulls away, leaving me alone on the long drive. With a deep breath, I start toward the house, the rough stones jagged under the soles of my sandals.

An unearthly squawk makes me jump and whirl around.

There’s a black-and-white striped chicken standing a few feet away, its dark beady eyes locked on me. Luminescent green feathers plume out behind the bird.

I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a chicken in person, and this one is kind of pretty. I hunch over to get a better look.

It lunges toward me with a bird-like war cry.

With a screech, I take off for the house, hoping that I’m faster than the foul fowl hot on my tail.

“Ouch!” I yell when the demon bird’s sharp beak makes contact with my heel. “Noah! Help.” My eyes slide between the bungalow’s white front door and a large oak tree with a horizontal branch just low enough for me to grab.

The demon bird squawks, making another jab at my heel.

Cutting off the gravel path and dropping my backpack into the dirt, I leap onto the lowest branch of a sprawling oak tree and pray chickens can’t fly. They can’t, right?

The spawn of bird satan ruffles its feathers in the sunlight as it stalks around the trunk of the tree. Cocking its head like a velociraptor, it looks up at me. The bird clicks its beak together and pecks at the ground. I don’t know where chickens are on the animal intelligence scale, but I’d swear this thing is pretending to forage so I’ll climb down from the long, rugged branch where I’m perched.

Fat chance, bird.

The chicken flaps its wings and leaves the ground, swooping just underneath my dangling feet.

Eep! Thankful I’m wearing long shorts instead of a dress, I