The Unfinished: Chapters 11–15

I was back in the meadow, the rank odor of stagnant water enveloping me.

I’d taken a self-defense class once, mandatory for all the runners at school.

Even the proximity of the town square didn’t faze me.

Even the proximity of the town square didn’t faze me.

Key’s understanding of my running came through that comparison because he loved books, too, although our tastes differed; unlike his photography, which was usually quotidian, in books he tended toward the fantastical and heroic, whereas I was drawn to the gritty darkness of twisty thrillers.

“I’ve seen the posters,” he said dully, looking out onto the street, his mood suddenly changed—gone was the kindly old man, switched out for a resigned, dimmed version.

“Mm” was Stella’s emphatic comment on her own culinary skills.

“Mm” was Stella’s emphatic comment on her own culinary skills.

“You have to optimize your search terms, Ave.”

At the thought of his name, he sat up, looked at me for a moment, stretched languidly, and then pointedly turned to look toward the kitchen.

For a moment, my reflection was superimposed on the glass, and I was both here and there.

She held the fridge door open and mulled the possibilities.

“Uh...” He squinted at me and jettisoned his stir stick, missing the trash can and not batting an eye.

If I turned around, I knew he’d be watching, probably already rehearsing how he’d tell the others that it was no wonder the Rogers kid fought with the girlfriend, bolstering the theory they were taking as fact.

It was definitely me—my ponytail hanging to one side of my neck, the silver turtle dangling like bait, the sun in the sky and the wide-eyed look of apprehension on my face.