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When I don’t respond, the smile she’s been wearing like a pageant sash begins to crack.

“You know, it’s pretty rude to just stand there staring at someone.” Her voice sharpens, her pretty face morphing into the grotesque image I remember from my past. “I’m trying to be nice here.”

My shoulders tense.

There she is. The real Jordan. Pretending to be sweet until someone refuses to play along.

Still, I remain silent and just stare, letting my cold expression say everything I’m unwilling to. Whether she’s too oblivious or too self-absorbed to understand it isn’t my problem.

“Well…” She flips her hair over one shoulder. “Think about it.” She nods toward the room beside mine. “And if you need me, you know where to find me.” She wiggles her fingers in an all-too-familiar, childish little wave. “Toodles.” Just as she brushes past me, she mutters something under her breath, probably thinking I’m too out of it to hear. “Freak.”

Even as the word slices through me like broken glass, my lips curve up at the sides.

She has no idea that, after everything I’ve survived, that’s still the nicest thing anyone from Fairhope has ever called me.

Chapter 4

Fairhope, 31st of October 2012

My lips twitch at the corners as my pencil races across the page, struggling to keep up with my imagination. Though I have no love for Halloween, I’ve somehow found an outlet in writing the craziest, spookiest stories. It’s become the only thing I like about this season. Not that Halloween has anything to do with it. The stories in my head pop up whatever the season. They’re just there, always there. Just waiting for me to bring them to life.

Sometimes the characters in my mind feel more real to me than anything outside these pages. That little ball of truth would be depressing if I didn’t take so much joy in it. It’s really the only thing I got going for me, and I’m not mad at it.

The only downside of finding something I’m this excited about is that I haven’t been able to save enough for a laptop, which is essential for writing my stories. So far, I’ve had to make do with my immense collection of dollar-store notebooks. It’s going to be a bitch transferring all these stories from hard copy into a Word document when I finally manage to get a computer.

No matter. Maybe it will be a good exercise for me. Perhaps I can make my stories even better on my second try. Though calling my short stories good feels like a brag. I have no idea if they are, seeing as I haven’t let anyone read them.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Mrs. Anderson, my English teacher, has read a couple of them. Apparently, she thinks I have a real knack for it and wants me to harness that gift by giving me extra homework. She’s under the delusion that if I work hard enough and keep improving my skills, I might have a real shot at a creative writing scholarship come senior year.

Me? A scholarship?

Yeah, right. I’d never let myself hope that big.

Like everyone else in this town, my chances of getting out are slim to none.

Still, a girl can dream.

“No, no she can’t,” I scold myself when my thoughts of the future become just as wild and fantastic as Mrs. Anderson’s hopes for me.

Unwilling to get lost in daydreaming about alternate realities—where a girl like me actually makes it out of Fairhope—I pull my hoodie over my head and concentrate on my current ghost story.

I’m mid-scene, my vengeful wraith dragging its claws down my main character’s back, when I hear a door slam from across the street. I lift my head from my notebook for a split second to find Milo with a large trash bag clutched in one hand, yanking down all the Halloween decorations from his porch and front yard.

Seeing him walk around in his yard wouldn’t usually be enough to pull my attention away from my story, but the deep-rooted scowl on his face makes me pause. He’s angry.

Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Milo angry. He’s usually so… chipper. It’s almost annoying how well-adjusted and happy he is. Still, something has set him off because he looks like he’s about to napalm his front lawn.

“Mom! Stop him!” A familiar whiny voice shouts from the porch.

My focus moves away from Milo to land on the three girls huddled together, staring at him in utter shock and disbelief—Jordan Richfield, Amber Cyr, and Peyton Crawford, Milo’s new stepsister. Of course it’s Peyton doing most of the shouting, calling for her mom, while the other two girls stand dutifully in her shadow.

“He’s going to ruin Halloween! Stop him!” She stamps her foot like a spoiled five-year-old.

A few seconds later, Jennine Crawford, Milo’s stepmother, opens the screen door and steps onto the porch to see what all the fuss is about. The sag of her shoulders echoes the dip on her lips when she finds her stepson spiraling on their front lawn. She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, arms wrapped loosely around herself, watching him with a quiet sadness that refuses to budge, no matter how close her only daughter looks to being on the brink of a meltdown.

It’s only when Paul Fletcher, Milo’s father, comes rushing out of the house that Jennine finally straightens up and erases the forlorn look on her face.

“Goddamn it, Milo!” Paul shouts, storming towards his son.