Don't Look Back(81)

Ms. Winchester didn’t look surprised. “Sam? Tell me, Sam, how is that you’re out here, buying prom dresses, while my daughter lies cold in her grave?”

“I—”

“You’re just like him,” she said, eyes glistening. “I told her to have nothing to do with you, but she didn’t listen.”

I flinched. “Like who? Who am I like?”

Cassie’s grandfather appeared suddenly, grabbing Ms. Winchester’s arm. “That’s enough. You’re making a scene.”

“I don’t care,” she spat back, wrenching her arm free. And she was making scene. Everyone in the cozy diner was staring. Locals. Tourists. No doubt this would be all over school by Monday. I wanted to fade into the cushion at the same time I wanted her to answer my question.

Julie started to stand. “I think we should go, Sam.”

I rose on weak legs. “Ms. Winchester, if I remembered anything, I swear I’d tell—”

“How can you not remember?”

“I don’t—”

Her hand snaked out, connecting with my cheek. The smack reverberated through the diner, and the sting was fiery hot. Eyes watering, I put a hand to my cheek, stunned.

Tears ran down Cassie’s mom’s face unchecked. “My baby had problems, but she didn’t deserve that. You were her best friend, her only real friend. And she’s dead and you’re shopping for prom dresses. How can you live with yourself?”





Chapter twenty-three





Living was hard, but I was alive and that had to

count for something. Right now, it was harder than normal. When I got home and my mom saw my freshly slapped cheek, she went through the roof like a rocket. “We should file a police report, Steven.” She followed my father around the kitchen island. Little pieces of hair stood out from her twist like a dozen tiny fingers lining her temples. “How dare that woman hit our daughter?”

Dad grimaced. “I think contacting the police isn’t the best course of action right now.”

“I have to agree, considering it was the mom of the girl they think I killed who smacked me.”

“Samantha!” Mom whirled toward me, face aghast.

“What?” I threw my hands up. “It’s true.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been taking your medication?”

“Yes,” I grumbled, sitting down on the stool. A step outside the kitchen, Scott was eavesdropping. Not as if it was necessary. Anyone within five miles of our house could hear Mom. He made a face at me when our gazes met.

Dad leaned against the bar, lowering his head so we were eye to eye. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m just surprised.”

“You’re entire cheek is bloodred.” Mom placed her cool hand against it. “Hitting our daughter is unacceptable.”

Pushing off the counter, Dad placed his hand on Mom’s lower back, but she quickly stepped away. “I think it’s best if we let this just die down,” he said, dropping his hand to his side.

A snowball’s chance in hell right there. Mom looked as if she wanted to lie down and die first, but Dad eventually got her calm. Surprisingly, Mom wasn’t drinking, which meant this was the perfect opportunity to really make her go crazy.

“So,” I drew the word out obnoxiously, earning a look from Mom. “I got a dress today for prom.”

“Oh.” Mom blinked and a faint smile appeared. “Did you? In town?”

“Yes. It’s a really pretty vintage dress from this thrift store. It’s in my room.”

“Thrift store?” she repeated slowly.

From the other room, Scott choked on his laugh. I kept my eyes focused on our parents.

“How much damage did you do on the Black?” Dad asked, referencing his credit card. I dug into my pocket and handed over the receipt. His brows shot up. “Honey, our daughter is perfect.”

She peered over his shoulders. “That’s all? I have to see the dress.”

Taking a deep breath, I slapped my hands down on my thighs. “And I have a date.”

Excitement lit her usually serious hazel eyes. “Did you and Del make up?”

There was another strangled sound from the other room, and I was two seconds from body-slamming Scott. “Uh, no . . . we didn’t make up.”

“Then who are you going to prom with, princess?”

I glanced at Dad. “I’m going with Carson.”

Mom sucked in a sharp breath and stared at me. It was almost as if I’d admitted to being part of a terrorist cell. “Samantha...”

“Don’t.” I stood, prepared to do battle. “I want to go to prom with him, and I’m going. He’s a good guy and there’s not a thing that’s wrong with him. And I swear to God, if the fact that his dad works for us is mentioned, I will lose my shit.”

“Samantha!” she snapped. “Language.”

Choosing the moment to make himself known, Scott strolled into the kitchen, clapping. “Hear! Hear! I second and third that.”

Mom folded her arms. “Scott, go to your room.”

He sat in the stool I was standing beside. “Carson is a really good guy. Better than Del the Dick.”