Hunt and I exchange looks. Judging by his expression, he wants to knock me onto the floor right next to Shane. Lucky for me, I’m not a prisoner at Raker Penitentiary.
“We’ll take care of it,” he grunts.
“Good.”
I help Shane sit up, and Hunt gets the key out to unlock the shackles on his wrists and ankles. Hunt hesitates for a split second before doing it, casting a glance back in my direction. I watch him fit the key into the lock, and my fingers fly to my neck. The last time I was alone with Shane, he tried to strangle me. All of a sudden, I’m not so excited for his hands to be free.
But nothing happens. When the cuffs are off, all Shane does is rub his wrists, looking relieved to finally be free. He doesn’t try to choke me. He doesn’t even try to get off the floor right away. He looks like he’s barely hanging on to consciousness.
“Can you walk?” I ask him.
He rubs his head. “I think so. I’m just dizzy.”
Hunt helps me walk Shane down the hallway to the infirmary, and we get him settled in a bed. The bump on his head is swelling up, and he has to stop twice on the way to the infirmary because he’s too dizzy to go on. It makes me think about the night someone tried to kill me. That night, Shane got a knock on the head the same as he did today—the EMTs on the scene found the lump on his skull to prove it. He claims he was knocked unconscious before anything even happened to me.
And for the first time in ten years, part of me wonders if he might have been telling the truth.
But he can’t be telling the truth. Because if he is, the man who tried to strangle me all those years ago is still out there.
Chapter 17
ELEVEN YEARS EARLIER
After a few more rounds of Never Have I Ever, the six of us are sufficiently trashed. Tim’s date with the murdered girl has been forgotten, and Kayla is all over him again. At first, he was gently pushing her away, but now he’s letting it happen. As for Brandon and Chelsea, they are all but having sex on the couch.
“Hey.” Shane punches his buddy on the shoulder. “Take it upstairs. Not on my sofa.”
Brandon snickers. “Better in your mom’s bedroom?”
Shane shrugs, but I’m just relieved the two of us won’t be in Mrs. Nelson’s bedroom. Even though her bed is nicer, I don’t think I would enjoy it knowing that I was in Shane’s mother’s bed.
Shane turns to me, his eyelids slightly droopy. “Want to head upstairs?”
My stomach churns, which might be from the vodka in my belly, but not entirely. After all, I didn’t even finish one entire screwdriver. （Brandon managed to put away six of them.） I suddenly wish I had a little more to drink, because maybe then I wouldn’t be so damn nervous.
“Sure,” I say.
Shane reaches out to take my hand. His palm is warm and dry and comforting. I let him lead me out of the living room, to the flight of stairs to get to the second floor. The wood of the stairs warps slightly as my feet make contact—one of these days I’ll be climbing the stairs and the whole damn thing will collapse. But not today, apparently.
As I climb the stairs, I get that sensation again like somebody’s watching me. That creeping in the back of my neck. I turn my head, expecting to see Tim staring up at me. But instead, he’s on the sofa making out with Kayla. Well, good for him.
When we get into Shane’s bedroom and he closes the door behind us, my anxiety ramps up another notch. His bedroom is a typical teenage guy's bedroom. He’s got a twin-sized bed with a splintered wooden bed frame, and a striped black and white blanket is strewn across the mattress with no attempt made to make the bed. There’s a pile of dirty clothing pushed into one corner of the room, which I suspect was his attempt to “clean” for me. A couple of posters of bands are tacked up on the peeling paint of his walls, and the top of his dresser is lined with a bunch of gold trophies that briefly glow when lightning fills the room.