doesn’t spot me tailing him in the rearview. The whole way, my fingers tap on the wheel and I scrape my teeth over my lip until it’s tender and raw.
“It’ll be fine,” I repeat over and over.
Thirty-Five
Thea
The drive isn’t long. Mr. Coleman pulls off onto a residential road not far from downtown. There are a handful of houses on the short dead end street, a patch of woods beyond that. Most are decorated for the holidays with lights and lawn ornaments, but Mr. Coleman’s car pulls into the driveway of the one house on the block without festive trimmings.
Feeling too conspicuous, I park my car a few houses away, scooting low in my seat so I go unnoticed. I hold my breath as they get out of the car, prepared to dart across the street to save my lookalike. Mr. Coleman gestures with one hand as he talks, the other tucked in his coat pocket. My heart shoots into my throat as the girl beams and follows him inside.
“No! Don’t go inside! Shit.” My knee bounces as my worry rises.
I can’t just walk up to his door. He already caught me following him once today. What can I do?
Rubbing my forehead, I finally reach for the folder in my bag. My hands shake as I open it, fully ready to believe Connor.
The name on the records has me releasing a choked sound—Harold Knight Coleman. Henry’s email was henry.k.c. The initials are the same. I frantically flip through the photos and copies of reports in the file as my breathing turns shallow. With shaking hands I lift a photo of myself, one I remember emailing to Henry when I was fifteen.
“Oh my god. No.”
I didn’t want it to be true, because thinking about it already hurts. The overwhelm crashes back into me and I squeeze the edges of the folder until the pages crinkle. God, I sat in his classroom when he had my photos, knew who I was.
A strangled sob escapes me.
The next photo in the file is a row of gold heart-shaped necklaces against dark velvet, each with a name card. One of them has my name on it, just like Connor said. Shit.
I can’t run from the agonizing truth any longer.
Mr. Coleman was the monster all along. The one who kept me from growing out of my insecurities, making them fester with his manipulation and abuse. He is Henry, my abuser.
And now he has another young teenage girl in his house.
My chest feels tight.
Connor was right. I wish I hadn’t hidden behind denial and listened to him.
I want to tell him, but when I grab my phone, it’s dead. I never plugged it into the car charger on the drive over, too worried I’d lose track of Mr. Coleman’s car. Now I’m kicking myself. When I try the power button, the battery icon blinks on the screen, mocking me in its uselessness. I can’t even call Maisy’s dad about Mr. Coleman to make a report about what happened to me.
Glancing from my phone to his porch, I blow out a breath. I can’t wait for the phone to charge. The sophomore girl is still inside. He could be trapping her right now. If I leave to get help, will it be too late for her? Maybe I can knock on the doors of other people on the block. But how long will it take?
There’s one thing I know for certain: I won’t stand by and let Mr. Coleman harm any other girls like he hurt me. I’ve seen the folder. Hell, I lived the folder.
I have to do something.
Stuffing the file back in my purse, I take the bag and grab the all-in-one tool from the glove box Maisy insisted I have. It’s for car accidents, but it could do damage as a weapon in an emergency. Climbing out of the car, I shove it in my coat pocket as I hurry to the closest house across from Mr. Coleman’s. I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. I knock again, shifting restlessly on my feet.
“Come on. Damn it. Why doesn’t anyone answer their doors anymore?”
I run to the next house over, trying there. No one answers. This is wasting time.
Shaking out my hands, I head for Mr. Coleman’s house. I keep low as I sneak around, peeking in windows carefully. Inside, it’s rundown with cracks in the plastered walls. My breath catches at the sight of the dual monitor computer surrounded by an array of old