We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,39

one thing I really can’t afford. Not tonight. It’s the second to last game of the season, an away match in the neighboring town. I’m certain several scouts will be there to watch me pitch. Vanderbilt. Bryant. Maybe even an MLB recruiter. But with my thoughts so tangled up in Jo, there’s no way I’ll deliver the performance they’re expecting. I need to get my head on straight before I’m standing under the stadium lights in five hours, making an ass of myself.

In an attempt to clear my mind, I cut my last class, climb into my truck, and go for a long drive down the coast, keeping mostly to the back roads. It’s a perfect time of year. Flowers in full bloom, tree boughs hanging heavy with green. Landscapers mowing lawns, nannies pushing little kids on swings at the park.

I cruise through several coastal towns, almost on autopilot. Beverly, Peabody, Salem. The streets flow by outside my windows in a blur, barely making an impression. I don’t have any real destination in mind. I just drive.

After nearly an hour, I wind up at the lighthouse on the tip of Marblehead Neck. Shutting my engine, I sit and watch the waves crashing against the shore, spraying sea-foam into the sky. Gulls circle overhead, occasionally dropping shells to crack them open on the parking lot asphalt. Swooping down, they devour the spoils with throaty cries of victory. On nearby rocks, cormorants sun themselves, their black wings spread wide.

There’s plenty of harbor traffic on a warm day like this. Sailboats of all shapes and sizes crisscross the blue expanse, growing smaller and smaller as they head out to sea. When my eyes catch on a small red one, my heart lurches inside my chest.

Rationally, I know it can’t be Cupid — Jo’s Alerion is docked miles and miles away, at its slip in Manchester. Still, I strain to keep the small craft in my sights. As if somehow, by holding onto it, I might also hold onto the girl whose face it conjures in my mind. The girl who slips away from me a little more each day, bound for far-flung horizons where I cannot follow.

My eyes sting in the wind. I brush an escaped tear off my cheek. Breathing deeply, I wait until the sailboat fades into an indiscernible speck before I climb back into my truck and head for home.

Gull Cottage sits quietly in the clearing, giving no indication of the danger awaiting me within its walls. I whistle lightly under my breath as I jog up the steps, fiddling with my keys.

My parents will be working up at the main estate for several more hours. I doubt I’ll see them until late this evening, when I get home from my game.

I lift the key toward the lock. My hand goes still before I can insert it. My pulse begins to pound faster inside my veins. Every hair on the back of my neck raises in high alert.

The door is already ajar.

I was in a rush this morning. Maybe I didn’t pull it closed properly…

Except, I’m always careful to close the door. Always. If I don’t, I get a long-winded lecture from Ma on the surprising prevalence of burglaries in wealthy towns with tiny police departments.

As if we own anything worth stealing.

Using the tip of my key, I push the door open wider and peer through the crack. There’s no indication anyone is inside — no strange noises, no furniture upended.

Just in case, I slide my iPhone out of my back pocket. My palm is sweaty against the glass screen as I toggle it open. I have no one to call for help, but I feel better with it in my hand when I widen the gap between door and frame.

My pulse thuds between my ears, a steady drum beat. Stepping across the threshold, I creep into the cottage as quietly as possible. My eyes scan the room, taking inventory of every item. Searching for the smallest details out of place.

Everything looks exactly as I left it.

“Hello?” I call tentatively, taking a few more steps into the living room. “Ma? You here?”

Silence booms back at me.

My shoulders slump as the tension leaves me in a whoosh. Shaking my head at my own paranoia, I walk toward the kitchen in search of a snack.

Must’ve left the door open after all. Let’s hope Ma doesn’t find out, or I’m in for—

The thought explodes into fragments as something hard slams into the back