Don't Look Behind You (Don't Look Series Book 1) Emily Kazmierski (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

quesadillas are almost ready. The delicious scent of melted cheese wafts as I go down the hallway. An elaborate collage of photo frames runs the length of the wall, broken only by the closed doors. There are photos of a young couple who must be Noah’s parents. I recognize his nose on the woman’s face, but his smile is definitely from his dad. Baby Noah grins at me, his hair slicked up in a mohawk of soapy bath water. Beyond this are photos of his siblings as babies, swaddled in pink and blue blankets and wearing hospital beanies. His mother smiles at the camera with tired eyes. Interspersed between the faces I recognize are images of a boy I can’t place.

“Hey Noah, do you have another brother?” I call.

When he doesn’t answer, I peek into the kitchen.

Noah’s jaw is tight, his eyes fastened to the griddle where the quesadillas are browning.

I’m starting to get to know Noah, and the look on his face makes it clear that I’ve stumbled on to a sensitive topic. Biting my lip, I retreat into the hallway.

Did he say the bathroom was the first door on the right, or the second?

Taking a guess, I open the first. Definitely not a bathroom. Instead, my eyes fall on a twin bed, unmade with a rumpled blue comforter kicked down to its foot. There’s a small, well-loved wooden desk and chair in the corner. I turn to take in the rest of his room, hoping he’s okay with me being in here.

Above the bed there’s a large poster of an anime character with wolf ears and red clothes standing next to a girl in a green and white school uniform. I’m guessing this is a safer topic. “You’re an Inuyasha fan?” I toss out, hoping he can hear me over the crackle of melting cheese and browning tortillas.

No answer.

Still, I’m pleased that he has a poster of one of my favorite anime shows. A spark of something like enthusiasm ignites in my chest, but it’s quickly snuffed out by what I see next.

Taped to the back of Noah’s door are articles and maps. A collage of face sketches done by a forensic artist have been printed from a printer low on ink. Headlines cut from newspapers shout at me in thick black letters. Serial killer. Gruesome murders. Artist rendering. Mayday murders. If you have any information on the identity of this person, please call...

My stomach lurches at the soulless look of the man in the sketches. They’re not great, but my mind fills in the rest. The room starts to spin and my pulse goes thready. Someone is breathing hard, and it takes a second to realize that the ragged inhales are coming from me. Something deep in my belly recoils. Recognizes the base undercurrent in that gaze. Recalls the one and only time I beheld someone with that animalistic sneer on their face.

Panic gurgles in my throat, making me lurch backward when the door swings open.

“There you are. The quesadillas are…” Noah’s words drop off at my ghostly expression. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow, throat dry. My eyes bob between the boy and the murder board he’s got hidden behind his bedroom door. Tears threaten, but I bite my tongue, fighting them back.

Understanding dawns on Noah’s face and he opens his mouth to speak.

I’m shaking my head. My entire body is quaking as I back away from him toward the hallway. I can’t talk about this. I can’t. Before he can get even a word out, I bolt.

Scrambling down the pebbled drive, I dig my phone out of my backpack and panic-dial Aunt Karen.

“Megan? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Please,” I choke out. “Come get me. I can’t stay here.”

“Don’t panic. I’m coming!”

“Too late,” I mumble after the phone line goes dead. My fingers glide over a folded piece of paper as I return my phone to the front pouch of my bag. Dread fills me as I stare at it. I’ve seen those ripped edges before. Plucking it out, I warily unfurl the lined sheet.

Don’t try to find me. I’ll come for you when the time is right.

The tide of panic in my chest rises as I swivel around, looking for the boogie man hiding in the trees. When the time is right. What does that even mean?

Noah is standing on the porch, watching me with a worried frown. He acts as lookout until Aunt Karen pulls up in her car and I scramble inside, slamming the door to ward off the demons chasing me.

Day 87

The room is immaculate. A row of cabinets lines the wall, each labeled with something more ominous than the last: utensils, gauze and skin grafts, prosthetics.

My fingers curl around the edges of the chair I’m sitting on until they hurt, but I don’t let go.

Don’t dare look to the mirror in the corner, afraid of what I’ll see reflected there.

I have to do this. There is no other choice.

“Are you ready?” Aunt Karen asks, her eyes steady on mine.

I nod, once.

“Hold still,” the woman wearing latex gloves scoots her stool closer and studies my face. My cheek. The cleaning cloth stings as she rubs it over my skin.

She examines the reference image on the computer screen at her elbow before sliding her concentration to land on the planes of my face. Pulling her tray of tools close to her knee, she selects one and holds it up.

I feel nothing as the woman pulls the skin taut and gets to work.

I refuse to close my eyes, forcing myself to watch as the branding scar

blooms

on my

cheek.

Chapter 10

Day 109, Thursday

I’ve been thinking about the second note, but no matter how much I wrack my brain, I can’t figure out how it got into my backpack, unless it happened at school. The only times I don’t have it are during PE and drama club. Someone must have snuck into the locker room while we were outside running a mile despite the heat and put it in my bag.

Which