Addie wasn’t sure how she slept. She knew she did, because she woke up in her bed, covers to her chin. She was still fully dressed and every inch of her body ached. Her head throbbed and her eyes were caked with goo that let her know that she had cried herself to sleep. She didn’t want to think about what had happened, didn’t want to think about R. J. Rosen or GapLakeLove or the fact that the police—the police—had come to her house and nearly accused her of murder.
No, Addie tried to correct herself, tried to console herself, they were just asking questions. She tried to steel herself, tried to breathe deeply, but dread held her down, settling on her chest like a two-ton weight.
“Addie, honey, you up?” He father poked his head through her door with a lopsided grin. “Louisa is downstairs. She made French toast.”
Addie sniffed at the air. It was heady with cinnamon and vanilla, and she could hear the faint sound of a sizzling pan, of Louisa humming something as she flipped. “I don’t feel so well, Dad.”
The smile on Morton Gaines’s face slipped and he stepped into Addie’s room, pressing a cool palm against her forehead. “You okay, sweet cakes?”
Addie’s stomach roiled and she rolled to one side, pressing her palms against her eyes. “Don’t call me sweet cakes when I feel this barfy. Okay, Dad?”
“You could stay home. You could stay here today with Louisa, but you are going to have to go back to school eventually. And it’s not like you did anything wrong.”
Addie wanted to shrink down deeper into the covers. She wanted to clench her eyes closed and fall asleep, to drift off and wake up years from now when all of this was a distant memory, when Lydia Stevenson’s real killer would be caught and no one would remember Addie’s name—or Spencer’s.
“I know that,” she said in a low, strained voice.
“I should have stepped in the second I saw the police on our front porch.”
Addie flashed back to Officers Chadwick and Olson. They were actually decent. Then she thought back to Maya’s dad and the way he looked her up and down for the first time ever, like he was scrutinizing her, like he was sizing her up against the criminals he usually dealt with. Against the murderers he usually dealt with.
“No one believes you have anything to do with this, Addie.”
“They want me to shut down my blog. You want me to shut it down.”
Morton Gaines blinked. “I do. It’s in bad taste, honey, especially now. How do you think it looks?”
Addie pushed herself to sitting. “What does it matter how it looks if I didn’t have anything to do with Lydia’s murder?”
“Kids could read it, get ideas…”
“Are you kidding? Do you really think that happens? Some kid reads some fan fiction and goes out and murders someone?”
Her father patted the covers softly. “Addie, calm down. I’m just telling you—how things look shouldn’t be an issue and in a perfect world they wouldn’t. But here we are.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means you’re going to shut it down.”
“So that’s it?”
“Yes.” Her father was on his feet so fast the bed wobbled. He clapped once, then smiled. “So how about that French toast?”
Addie wanted to force a smile. She wanted to believe that dropping the blog would make everything okay, but it didn’t. The police still thought she had something to do with Lydia’s murder. People in town believed that R. J. Rosen’s books led someone to a copycat kill. And then there was R. J. Rosen himself…
Life imitates art.
Book four opened with Jordan still in bed while the police scoured Gap Lake for Crystal Lanier’s killer.
Where Jordan herself was a sitting duck.
Addie’s mind reeled. On page 17 Jordan was holed up in bed drinking tea and binge-watching Dance Moms. By page 41 she was in the clutches of a sadistic killer.
The story is just getting good.
Addie kicked off her blankets and pressed her bare feet into the carpet.
She wasn’t going to be a sitting duck. She scrutinized her closet, passing by the cache of frilly things that Maya had talked her into, and instead going for what was easy, what was fast—what she could run in. She grabbed jeans and a T-shirt, tucking in the shirt so no one could grab her from behind. She slipped into sneakers and started gathering her hair into a ponytail, then paused. She remembered the instructor on some YouTube channel telling her that ponytails were like handles to pervs—easy to grab. She smoothed her hair, tucking it behind her ears. She threw a few air punches, bobbing and weaving like she’d seen on TV. On a whim she tossed in a roundhouse kick, got her sneaker stuck in the curtains, and brought the whole thing down, curtain, rod, and her entire body crashing to the floor.
She wasn’t exactly a kick-ass heroine.
She took the stairs two at a time, bouncing gently on the foot that was stuck in the curtains.
“Well, you look chipper all of a sudden.” Her father was sitting at the head of the table, leaning slightly back while Louisa heaped his plate with French toast. The smell—usually mouthwatering to Addie—turned her sour stomach.
“I’m feeling a little bit better.”
Louisa pulled out a chair and started to fix Addie a plate. “No, thanks, Louisa. I’m just going to have an apple.” Addie snatched one from the bowl on the counter and turned on her heel before either her father or Louisa could stop her.
She was on the front porch before she stopped talking, before her heart could register a normal pace.
“Hey, Addie.”
She whirled, blinked, and Spencer grinned. “Sorry. It seems like I’m always freaking you out.”
Addie shook her head, forced a smile. “I’m always a little freaky lately.” Her cheeks burned a fierce red. “That came out wrong. Really, really wrong.”
She expected Spencer to say something salacious or annoying; Colton would have.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was just…” He thumbed over his shoulder toward his car, parked in Colton’s driveway.
“Oh, that’s right. Your mom is Colton’s mom’s pusher.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. “What was that?”
“Colton told me. Your mom sells leggings and stuff? He just called her…and your mom…” Addie could feel the heat creep over the tops of her ears. She knew she was blushing a fierce red, probably sweating satellites under her arms. “Sorry, this is really awkward. You have every right to be here.”
She expected him to blow her off or take off running after her marathon blabbering. Instead he just shrugged. “You need a ride?”