with Tate.
Outside, Main Street is bustling, thick with the smell of winter: roasted almonds and cinnamon and fresh snow.
Tate chatters ceaselessly, “I’ve been playing basketball as long as I can remember …”
Passing Charlotte’s dad’s ski shop and Waterford Bakery we walk down Main Street. However, as we turn onto Second Avenue, my hex sense flips on like a switch.
Twenty meters farther down is a man standing alone, with the bottom of his left shoe propped against the wall—him.
Same height. Same fur trim on his parka. His elbow bent at the same awkward angle. It’s the same man who watched us enter the Creamery an hour ago.
A sedan turns onto Broadway; its headlights illuminate the man briefly. He’s casually using his phone; bowing his head, his hood conceals his face.
Something in his stance discomforts me.
Tate continues talking. “I’ll get a scholarship … my dad played at Montana too … that is if I don’t fail German …”
As we draw nearer, the man in the parka steps away from the wall, alert, like he’s been waiting. Anticipating. Preparing.
A stiffness seizes my limbs. I am not afraid. Not in Waterford. I’ve incorrectly evaluated threats since I arrived. I am safe here.
Parked on Broadway, beyond the intersection, I see a red truck. Rusty, with a broken taillight. Though there are plenty of beat-up trucks in Waterford, fear tingles my nerves.
I recall the night at Fish Market a few weeks ago—why didn’t I scan its plate?
“Sophia?”
I blink up at Tate. “Yes?”
“I can teach you to drive if you want,” he suggests. “You should never do that move in a vehicle with a high center of gravity.”
“What move?” I ask, perplexed.
“Your spin-charade at the dance? That was dangerous.”
“That was an escape-and-evade maneuver, Tate. We were evading you.”
He nudges my arm flirtatiously. “I’m not that easy to avoid.”
“Evade,” I say softly. I’m preoccupied with watching the man, who is still a distance away.
Tate snakes his arm around my shoulders again. For the first time all night, I let him. I even put my arm around his waist—insurance.
As we near the man, he remains on the far side of the street, still staring at his phone, still not flinching. My tension dissipates. My body begins to decompress.
But then Tate drops his arm from my shoulder.
Fumbling around, he groans. “I left my keys.” He pats his pockets. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Seconds later, he’s jogging around the corner back to Main Street.
I am alone.
At once, my eyes snap to the man. He lifts his eyes slightly. As if he’s been observing us all along. He watches Tate disappear from view, then he looks at me, then quickly looks down at his phone.
He fiddles with his headphones. Then he holds his phone casually to his ear.
In the distance, I hear everyone laughing and shouting—Mason’s laugh is so loud it echoes. My friends are a block away. Thirteen seconds, if I sprint.
Ahead, the man starts walking along Second Avenue toward Main Street, toward me.
Abruptly I turn on my heel.
I divert toward Broadway, intending to loop back to the Creamery. I walk faster, eager to put distance between us.
A crunch of salt on the sidewalk—a thick grinding sound of soles scraping along concrete—causes me to glance back.
The hooded man has crossed the street and is stepping onto the sidewalk behind me. His footsteps beat rhythmically in time to mine, quickening as they get closer.
My pulse thumps in my chest. He is so close I can hear the cadence of his ragged breath—ten meters. Five.
I’m not afraid. I shouldn’t pull out my Ladybug.
Compromising, I unlatch my silver watch and wriggle it off.
The ragged breathing nears.
I’m almost to Main Street. I walk faster.
His gait loosens. His stride lengthens.
Heavy boots hit the pavement.
I position the clasp in place atop my second knuckle, listening.
Every walk has a signature. This one is familiar.
Behind me, a smooth engine approaches, braking fast. A door opens. Footsteps hasten.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, coursing like lava.
I have to confront him. Them.
At once, I reach into my waistband and spin around.
The man in the fur-trimmed parka jerks to a stop.
Someone is standing between us.
CHAPTER 21
“Back off.”
The man in the parka steps toward me.
Aksel puts his hand on my hip, sweeping me completely behind him.
“I said, back off,” Aksel snarls.
The man goes still—too still—like he is contemplating how to react. Then, he pushes off his hood.
He has brown curly hair and hazel eyes; I don’t recognize him. At all.
I drop my fingertips from my waist.
He stares at us wide-eyed—startled. Dumbfounded. Shoving his