“I don’t know. He’s probably just some neighbor wondering why we have a half-deflated Santa near the front door of the house.”

My thoughts laugh at me, whisper another story, remind me that it was my neighbors who took me into their home and broke my brother as well as my sister and me.

Sharp objects, have you forgotten?

All those days forced into restraints.

All the blood spilled across the carpet.

The stench of rust hanging in the air.

Trust. Trust. Trust.

How can you still be so naïve?

Lyric looks at me with concern. “Yeah, I guess so … but he’s not even looking at the front door. And I think I saw him earlier, too, and he looked like he was staring at your window.”

I squint through the darkness to get a better look at him: middle-aged, going bald, a beer gut, and what looks like a scar on his jawline. For a brief moment, I pause, trying to connect the guy to my past. But my effort is worthless. The people who kidnapped me are buried in the darkest parts of my mind along with the memories of what they did to me.

“He looks like almost every other guy who lives on the street.” My inner voice laughs at me again. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Even I don’t sound that convinced by my words, though.

“Maybe.” Lyric sounds doubtful. “Ay, I don’t want you to be upset with me for bringing it up, but… I was thinking about how those detectives said that maybe Aunt Lila and Uncle Ethan should keep an extra eye on you until they can figure out who was behind…” She anxiously waits for me to say something. When I don’t, she tacks on, “Maybe we should mention something to them, just in case.”

My eyes wander back to the man and I realize the he’s looking right at us. I instantly stumble back into the shadows and pull Lyric with me. Then I position myself in front of Lyric to protect her from being seen.

“Do you think he can see us?” Lyric whispers, fisting the bottom of my shirt as she peers over my shoulder.

“Not now.” My body convulses with spasms as her knuckles graze my lower back, but she doesn’t appear to notice, too preoccupied by the man. “But I’m sure he did before we ducked back here.”

I observe the man from around the corner of the garage. He continues to stare in our direction, before finally fixing his attention back on my house. Then with a jerk on the dog leash, he scurries down the sidewalk toward the end of the block and out of sight.

“That was weird.” Lyric steps around me, the absence of her warmth leaving me oddly cold inside. “We should definitely mention it to Aunt Lila.”

“Yeah, I guess we should. If you think so, anyway.” When I face her, she scowls at me. “What?”

“Not you guess,” she scolds. “You will tell her, or I will. I don’t care if it’s nothing. After … what happened, I’m not going to risk it, risk something happening to you.”

“There’s no use arguing with you, is there?”

“Nope. Not about this.”

“All right. When we get home from band practice, I’ll make sure to bring it up to Lila. Only for you, though. I’m not worried.”

Liar, liar,

all the time.

Worry dances in your mind,

round and round,

a broken record.

A song stuck on repeat,

singing through veins

as you lie restlessly in bed.

Liar, liar,

all the time.

Always worrying they’ll return,

and death will burn your skin again.

A few minutes later, when we’re satisfied the man isn’t going to return, we pile into Lyric’s dad’s 1969 Chevelle since the Challenger her dad bought her a little over a month ago is nowhere near ready to drive yet. Then we buckle up, turn on the radio, and Lyric slams the gas pedal down. The tires squeal as she backs down the driveway and onto the road.

“If you’re not careful, one of these days, someone is going to call the cops on you about your driving,” I tease as I relax back in the seat. Just being with her gives me a little bit of inner peace sometimes.

“If it happens, it happens.” She cranks the wheel and fishtails the car onto the main road with an up-shift. “I mean, what are my parents going to do, get mad at me? My mother’s gotten more tickets than I can count.”

“True.” I pick up the iPod from the dock and start browsing through the songs. “But they could—”

My phone vibrates from inside my pocket. I fish it out and swipe my finger over the screen to read the text message.

Lila: We need to talk about something important when you get home.

Me: Okay. What’s it about?

I grow anxious that perhaps she found out I met with a hacker tonight. I haven’t been punished very much by the Gregorys—I’ve tried to stay out of trouble as much as possible ever since they adopted me. I’m guessing with something as severe as illegal hacking, their relaxed approach at parenting would disappear.

Lila: I really just want to talk to you about it when you get home, not on the phone.

Me: Okay. I’ll be home in a few hours. Can you at least tell me if I need to be worried?

Lila: No, no need to be worried.

I start to put my phone away when another text comes through.

Lila: I don’t want you to worry all night, and knowing you, you will. It’s about the police. They want to talk to you again about your brother. Please don’t panic. I’m sure it’s nothing.