Grabbing my keys off the desk, I slink down the stairs and head for the back door. My palms sweat as I punch in the alarm code, deactivating it, praying the staccato beeps don’t wake my mom.

I tiptoe down the porch stairs like I might disturb someone hiding in the bushes waiting to kill me. Careful not to activate our floodlights, I hug the house, tracing the perimeter of our yard, while watching the night for any sign of movement.

The leaves on our Japanese maple flutter all at once. For a split second my heart leaps as I think it’s a person hiding among the dead blooms of our hydrangea bushes. Not exactly a hallucination, but still too neurotic if I’m going to make it four blocks.

I sidle up against the fence and inch around the garage. My hand grazes the brick as I round the corner and pass the side door. I’m about to clear it when the door jerks open. A thick hand grabs my wrist and yanks me inside my garage. Before I can make a run for it, the door slams shut, trapping me inside.

A burst of adrenaline ignites every nerve in my body. I spin, looking for my attacker, ready to punch or kick, whichever I can get in first.

Someone grabs my shoulders to steady me—and I’m looking into Ryan’s eyes.

I shake him off, gulp for air. “What are you trying to do to me?”

Ryan’s hands slide down my arms, lingering at my wrists.

I bend over. Visions of Adam’s silhouette cowering in the alley flash like a strobe light inside my head. Blood leaks from his face. I shut my eyes. Squeeze the images out. “Don’t do that. I can’t . . .”

Ryan bends low, until his face is near mine. He clears a chunk of hair from my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. “You okay?”

I step back and inhale, burying the images of Adam. They threaten to slice me open as I shove them deep into my gut and work to regain my courage, release the pressure in my chest.

Ryan stands, leans against the hood of my mom’s SUV, and waits for me to finish my mental breakdown.

I shuffle, searching for space, but my elbow hits the mountain bike propped against the wall. The front wheel turns, scraping the concrete. The back wheel clashes against a metal shelving unit littered with tools we haven’t used since my dad’s death. I think of the blogger, sideswiped by an Escalade, and I inch away from the bike like it’s a dark omen. I can’t move far; there’s barely enough room for Ryan and me to stand across from each other without touching.

He tucks his hands into the pockets of a zip-up hooded sweatshirt. “Where were you going?”