The Last Secret You'll Ever Keep Laurie Stolarz (best books to read fiction .txt) 📖

It felt better outside—calmer, cooler, way less stifling. I told myself, I’ll just take a second to breathe. I’ll only need a minute to process.

But before I knew it, I was out on the street, calling my aunt. It went straight to voice mail, which was really no surprise. My aunt was working until six that morning: the overnight shift. It’s her job to stick people with needles, as an IV nurse. But even if I’d wanted to leave her a message, her mailbox was already full.

I called my friend Felix next, a fellow Emo. He’d recently gotten his license.

Felix picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Terra Train. Aren’t you the night owl? Calling me after one…? Please tell me you’re doing something scandalous and that you can send me a pic.”

“Not quite.”

“Just the audio, then?”

“Listen, I know it’s late, but can you come pick me up?”

“On my magical broomstick? I don’t have a car, remember?”

“Can you borrow your stepdad’s?”

“Why? Is everything okay?”

“I wouldn’t be calling at this hour if it were.”

“Where are you?”

“Jordan Road, not far from the college. I was at a party, but Jessie ditched me.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to hang out with that psycho-train? You know she’s a compulsive liar, right? All that crap about partying with the royals and her family’s private jet…”

“Do you think you can come get me?”

“That bad?”

“The worst.”

“Okay, um, maybe? Give me five minutes, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back.”

We hung up, and I started walking, trying to focus on the road and not the shortness of my breath or the tearing of my heels in my stupid wedges. I hated them now. I hated Jessie too. And with each step I took away from the party, I hated myself more and more—for ditching Garret, for not saying goodbye. It was too late to go back now.

Cars drove by. Some guy honked his horn. Another guy rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and asked me for my fee.

A VW van slowed down as it passed. I held up my phone and snapped a shot of the license plate, just in case. My parents had taught me that too—rule number three: Always have your phone ready—to make a call, to take a pic …

What was taking Felix so long?

I crossed the street and turned a corner onto a quiet, narrow road. Trees lined it on both sides, making it seem even darker. There weren’t nearly enough streetlights. A lone one at the end blinked a bunch of times, shining over an old car with a boxy hood.

I moved closer, just as a car door slammed. I stopped short and peered behind me. A prickly sensation crawled over my skin.

Footsteps began in my direction—a scuffing sound, like rubber-soled shoes against the gravel. I reached into my purse, dug into my card case, and felt for the card with the sharpest edge (a trick I’d learned in self-defense class).

A porch light shone a few doors down. I sped up, heading toward it. The person behind me sped up too.

Should I cross the street?

Or call for help?

Or knock on someone’s door?

I clenched my phone and woke it up.

“Excuse me?” a male voice called from behind. “I think you may have dropped something.”

I started to run, rounding a corner, cutting between two houses and through an open, grassy area.

What was this? A public park? A private field? And what was I doing in a secluded area? Like some stupid cliché.

Tall, massive trees fenced me in on both sides. Should I use my flashlight, or was I safer in the dark, camouflaged by the night?

A stick broke somewhere behind me. I quickened my pace and looked down at my keypad, just as a text came in from Jessie: a drunk emoji, complete with a cockeyed expression, along with a message: Where are you???? My sister said you can crash here too #score

I accidently clicked the message, my fingers trembling, my pulse racing.

And then, out of nowhere …

Bam.

Whomp.

I fell to the ground, landing with a hard, heavy smack. My legs splayed open. My card went flying.

“I’m so sorry,” some guy said.

My world whirred.

The guy was dressed in black; tiny light reflectors accented his clothes: his pants, his shirt, his hat.

I sat up just as the guy extended a hand to help me up.

“I thought you were going to the right, but then you swerved left,” he said. “It’s so dark.”

And so cold.

Plus, I couldn’t stop shaking. Even my teeth chattered.

The guy’s eyes narrowed; they were pale blue. His fingers looked exceptionally long, covered by light-reflector gloves. “You really shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour.”

I scooched away and got up on my own. Where was my card?

His gaze traveled down my legs toward my stupid shoes. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to call someone for you? Or walk you back to the main street?”

Back? How had he known I’d come from the main road? I shook my head and pressed my phone on again.

“Here,” he said, shining his flashlight over my Emo ID, just a few inches from his feet (gray running sneakers, the New Balance brand, with a thick white tread). He picked it up and handed it to me.

I hesitated before defying yet another one of my parents’ rules—this time about never allowing a stranger to hand me anything. I took the card and secured it in my grip, imagining it like a blade.

“Okay, well, right through there.” He nodded toward a path, then pointed his light in the same direction. “Straight ahead … It’s Maple Street.”

I kept focused on his posture. His shoulders were back. His stance was guarded. His feet were set about a foot apart. Predators normally inch forward, commanding space while assessing trust. It appeared he’d actually taken a step back.

Another stick broke from somewhere behind us. His gaze followed.

“Be careful out here,” he said before moving on. He started running again.

So did I.

My flashlight shining,