Don't Turn Around by Michelle Gagnon Page B

poorly lit, just a few streetlamps spaced far apart. She couldn’t see much in the shadows, but it didn’t look like there was anyone out there. She stood there uncertainly, debating. She’d left the messenger bag by the door the night before, packed with everything but her laptop, jacket, shoes, and the clothes she was wearing. Paranoid, but she wanted to be able to leave quickly if necessary. Should she go? It was freezing outside, and she was already cold. This was probably just someone trying to spook her, or even flush her out, forcing her back out on the streets where they had a better shot at finding her.
    She decided to ignore the warning and went back to her laptop. But another email had already popped up from the same sender. The subject line was the address for the apartment.
    Noa’s hands started shaking so hard she could barely center the mouse to click it open. She froze. The body of the message was a jpg of a building at night. In the single lit window, she caught a glimpse of her profile peeking out from behind the curtain.
    Someone had taken the photo minutes before when she’d checked the street. Which meant they were right outside.
    Noa slammed the laptop shut and skidded across the room, jamming it into the messenger bag. She struggled to pull on her boots—thank God she hadn’t gotten the kind that laced up. Tugged on her jacket and did one last check of the room.
    As she closed the front door behind her, the elevator bell chimed.
    Noa raced for the emergency stairwell at the end of the hall. She heard a shout, and glanced back over her shoulder. No security guards this time, just a bunch of big men dressed in black. She pushed open the door and launched herself down the stairs. She could hear them tearing down the hall after her.
    Peter rang the dorm buzzer again. He’d tried texting and calling Amanda, but she wasn’t picking up, even though it wasn’t that late. Which made him a little worried—could she still be pissed off about what he’d said earlier?
    Peter checked his watch: a little past midnight. It had taken forever to get here without a car. He’d left his Prius at the house, with Bob’s speech about how spoiled he was ringing in his ears. Screw them, he’d thought—he didn’t need any of it. So he’d hiked a few miles to the nearest T station and waited what seemed like forever for a train to arrive. He’d just gotten to the point where he was worried that he’d missed the last train when one pulled into the station. He’d had to change trains twice to get here, each time forced to wait at least a half hour. Now he was exhausted, starving, physically and emotionally drained. It was freezing outside, too. Ice had formed a solid layer over the pavement and wind gusted over it, sending scattered leaves racing across the surface like speed skaters.
    Laughter sounded out behind him. Peter turned to see two figures making their way down the path that led to the dorm: a girl and boy, walking together. The walk was slippery, but not so treacherous that the girl needed to clutch the guy’s arm the way she was. His head was bent toward her, and he said something. The girl tilted her chin up, laughing in response, and Peter’s heart clenched.
    It was Amanda.
    When they were ten feet away, she saw him. The guy with her looked up, too, then asked, “What is it?”
    Amanda murmured something. They paused, then kept walking toward him.
    Peter tucked his hands in his pockets. His stomach wound in on itself in a tight gyre as Amanda stopped in front of him.
    “Peter,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
    “I tried calling, but your phone must be off.”
    “I had study group.” Abruptly she took her hand off the guy’s arm, as if she’d just noticed it was there.
    Peter examined him: six feet tall, black hair, blue eyes, square jaw. Wearing jeans and a toggled wool coat. Standard prom king, the kind of guy who quarterbacked the football team, edited the school paper, and