Someone is coming up the stairs leading to the rooftop.

Ryan’s head snaps. He jumps in front of me, shielding me from the stairs.

“Get out,” my mom growls.

Ryan’s back turns rigid.

I step out from behind him. “Mom, it’s fine. He’s—”

She cuts me off, ignoring the fact I’m talking. “Stay away from her.” My mom’s voice is strong, threatening. Her hair dances frenetically around her head in the wind, but her eyes are narrow and forceful. I doubt Ryan even notices the way she grasps either side of our rooftop ledge like she might blow over if she doesn’t hold on.

Ryan’s hands dangle at his sides. I consider grabbing one and telling my mom who he is, but I don’t know how to describe him.

Her voice drops. “Don’t think I don’t know who you are and what you did.”

Ryan jams his hands into his hoodie, drops his head, and heads down our back stairs.

My mom leans over the rooftop ledge to make sure he’s gone, clutching the metal rail for support.

I step forward, squeezing the blanket around my shoulders. “I know him, he’s . . .”

Her head snaps in my direction. Her eyes flash. “He’s the reason your father’s dead.”

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

I walk into class well after the bell has rung and throw my bag down on my desk in the back row. Mr. Mater’s showing everyone how to balance equations on the SmartBoard. He doesn’t acknowledge my tardy arrival.

Adam looks up from his iPad, where he’s pretending to take notes. “No sign of your stalker last night, I take it?”

I cock my head and give him the best pissed-off face I’m able to muster at eight thirty in the morning. “Did someone leave his clothes in the dryer too long?”

Adam’s white long-sleeve shirt and leather pants are so tight, I’m surprised he hasn’t lost circulation. He rounds it off with combat boots and a tiny smirk, indicating he knows he can pull it off. And he can. For as skinny as he is, he’s fairly defined, which is beside the point.

Adam shakes his head. “You’re dodging the question.”

I rifle through my bag for my science binder so I can at least pretend to participate. “It was a stupid question.”

“Why are you so overly sensitive?”

A girl a couple rows in front of us turns around and gives us an irritated look. She sports a ponytail too high on her head for a high schooler. I’m tempted to point this out to her when Mr. Mater stops his lesson to look our way. Of course, when he sees that it’s me disrupting his class, his glance skims past me. He continues his lesson as if nothing happened.