Page 275 of Faking the Goal

The guys have been asking questions ever since. Who sent the box? Why would someone leave a dead animal for Taylor? How long has this been going on? I gave them the only answer I had time for—that she has a stalker—and left it at that. They deserve an explanation, especially now that whoever is doing this knows where she's staying, but I can't give them one while Taylor is upstairs falling apart.

She is my priority.

She always is.

I push the bedroom door open quietly, expecting to find her asleep where I left her, but the bed is empty.

My stomach drops.

I set the thermos down so fast it nearly tips over and scan the room, but there's no sign of her. Then I hear the shower running and notice the bathroom door sitting slightly ajar.

"Taylor?"

There's no answer.

I cross the room quickly and stop outside the bathroom. "Trouble, are you okay?"

Still nothing.

The silence beneath the sound of the water tightens every muscle in my body. I push the door open farther and step inside, already bracing myself for whatever I might find.

Taylor is sitting in the bathtub under the shower, fully clothed, with her knees pulled tightly against her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Water pours over her hair and runs down her face, but she doesn't seem to notice. She's staring at the wall with a hollow, distant look in her eyes, as though she isn't really here.

"Trouble?"

I move toward her slowly, careful not to startle her, but she doesn't react. Her body is trembling beneath the stream of water, and at first I think she's cold. Then I get closer and realize the water running down her cheeks isn't the only reason her face is wet.

She's crying.

"Taylor."

I step into the tub without thinking, soaking my shoes and the bottom of my jeans as I crouch beside her. The water hits my shoulder and runs down my back, but I barely register it. All I can see is the way she's shaking and how tightly she's holding herself together, as if letting go of her knees might cause the rest of her to come apart too.

"What's wrong?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Talk to me."

For a long moment, she doesn't move. Then her head lifts slowly, and when her eyes finally meet mine, something inside me twists. They're wide and terrified, but the fear isn't focused on me or even on the room around us. She looks like she's staring at something only she can see.

"I remember," she whispers.

Her voice is so broken I almost don't understand her.

"What?"

"I remember everything."

The words collapse into a sob, and then she says them again, more desperately this time, as though she needs me to believe her.

"I remember everything. I remember it now."

I reach for her carefully, placing one hand against her arm. "What do you remember?"

Her breathing turns uneven. Her eyes move past me, widening as though a shadow has appeared over my shoulder.

"Him," she whispers. "I remember him now."

A chill slides down my spine.

"Who, Trouble?"