CHAPTER 4

Just as I was rolling over to go back to sleep, my phone vibrated on the nightstand. The sound cut through the silence like a knife, making me flinch. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing whoever it was to leave me alone. Five more minutes. Just five more minutes of peace before I had to face another day running on fumes.

But the phone buzzed again. And again.

I groaned, reaching blindly for it, my arm feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every muscle in my body ached from the tension of the nightmare, from thrashing around all night. When I finally managed to grab the phone and squint at the screen through bleary eyes, Erin's name lit up with three new messages.

Of course it was Erin. Who else would be texting me at—I checked the time—6:47 AM?

The first message read: "OMG OMG OMG"

The second: "YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS"

The third, in all caps: "WE GOT A NEW STUDENT!!!"

I stared at the messages, my exhausted brain struggling to process why this warranted three texts and multiple exclamation points. The school doesn't ever get new students. The last one we got was six years ago when we got a new principal and her daughter had no other schools to go to. That's what happens when you live out in the middle of literally nowhere, in a town so small everyone knows everyone else's business before you even know it yourself.

I typed back a half-hearted "cool" and dropped the phone onto my chest, closing my eyes again. Thirty more minutes of sleep. That's all I needed. Just thirty more minutes and maybe I could function like a normal human being instead of a zombie.

But sleep wouldn't come. My mind was already awake, already replaying the nightmare frame by frame. The pillars. The shadow. And him—that figure I couldn't quite see but somehow recognized in my bones. The way his hand had closed around my shoulder, the searing pain, his voice promising he'd find me again.

My shoulder throbbed at the memory.

I sat up slowly, the room spinning slightly from exhaustion. How many nights had it been now? A week? Two weeks? I'd lost count of the last time I'd slept through the night without waking up drenched in sweat and terror. The nightmares were always the same but different—same location, same sense of dread, but each time they grew more detailed, more real, like my mind was slowly remembering something it had forgotten.

Or something it had been forced to forget.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge that thought. That was crazy. I was just stressed. Exams, the pressure of being the top student in my class—it was all catching up with me. That's what the nightmares were. Stress. Nothing more.

I rolled out of bed slowly, my body protesting every movement. My legs felt like jelly as I shuffled toward the kitchen, desperate for coffee. There was something about smelling a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the mornings that really just started my days off right. The familiar ritual, the rich aroma, the warmth of the mug in my hands—it was the only thing that made me feel human anymore.

I set up the coffee pot, watching the dark liquid begin to drip into the carafe. While it brewed, I headed for the shower, peeling off my sweat-soaked pajamas and leaving them in a heap on the bathroom floor.

The hot water hit my skin and I let out a sigh of relief, closing my eyes and tilting my face up toward the spray. For a moment, just a moment, I could pretend everything was normal. That I was just a regular seventeen-year-old girl getting ready for school, not someone who was slowly losing her grip on reality.

I let the water consume my body, washing away the sweat and fear from the night. My mind wandered to Erin's text about the new student. I really hoped he or she wasn't stuck up like most of the people around here. In this town it was all about money. If your family was rich you were treated like royalty. But if your family was poor you were just scum and treated as such.

I reached for the shampoo, working it through my hair, when my fingers brushed against my shoulder. Pain shot through me, sharp and immediate, making me gasp.

What the hell?

I turned, trying to see my shoulder in the foggy mirror outside the shower. I could make out something dark on my skin, but the steam obscured it. Quickly, I rinsed the shampoo from my hair and shut off the water, my heart starting to pound.

I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, then wiped the condensation from the mirror with my hand.

My breath caught in my throat.

There, on my right shoulder, was a bruise. But not just any bruise—it was dark purple, almost black in places, and it was in the perfect shape of a handprint. Four fingers on the front of my shoulder, a thumb on the back. Like someone had grabbed me. Hard.

Ice flooded my veins as I stared at it. This is exactly where he grabbed me in the dream.

No. No, that's impossible. Dreams don't leave bruises. Dreams aren't real.

I reached up with my left hand and touched it gently, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through my skin. It was real. The bruise was real. But how?

I must have bumped into something yesterday and didn't notice until now, I told myself, even though I knew that explanation didn't make any sense. A bruise this dark, this perfectly shaped—it would have hurt when it happened. I would have remembered.

Unless I did it in my sleep? Maybe I was thrashing around so much I hit the bedpost? But my bed didn't have a bedpost. And even if it did, how would it leave a handprint?

My hands started to shake. I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. My face was pale, dark circles under my eyes making me look haunted. When was the last time I'd looked healthy? When was the last time I'd felt like myself?

Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe the stress really was getting to me and I was having some kind of breakdown. People had breakdowns, right? Maybe I'd hurt myself and didn't remember. Maybe—

My phone buzzed from my bedroom, making me jump. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I was being ridiculous. There was a logical explanation for this. There had to be.

I dried off quickly and walked to my room, checking my phone for the time. 7:23 AM. I had plenty of time to get to school, but Erin's text said she wanted to get there early to scope out the new student. Part of me wanted to text her back and say I was sick, that I needed to stay home. But I couldn't keep hiding. I couldn't let these nightmares control my life.

I threw on sweatpants and a hoodie—something comfortable that would hide the bruise—and twisted my messy long hair into a bun on top of my head. I didn't have the energy for anything more. Grabbing my coffee in a travel mug and my backpack, I hurried toward my car.

The drive to school was a blur. I kept the radio off, needing the silence to think. Or maybe to not think. I wasn't sure anymore. The bruise throbbed with every heartbeat, a constant reminder that something was very, very wrong.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted Erin immediately. She was waiting by the entrance, practically bouncing with excitement, and the moment she saw my car she started pointing toward the front of the school with a massive grin on her face.

I followed her gaze and my heart stopped.

There was a guy standing near the entrance, talking to Principal Morrison. He was tall, muscular, with light brown shaggy hair that fell across his forehead. Even from this distance, there was something about him that made my breath catch. Something familiar.

My heart skipped and my breath caught in my throat. I've seen him before. But from where?