“So what shifts do you normally work?” Arden says, determined to make her focus. “Breakfast?”

“I get the best shifts, since I’ve been there the longest.”

“Which are?”

“What do you care?”

“I’m just trying to make conversation,” Arden says, hoping his smile looks authentic. “You’ve had a rough night and I wanted to get your mind off things.” And I want to fill your position pronto.

This softens her up a bit. “That’s awfully sweet of you, Arden. Isn’t that sweet of him, Deputy Glass?”

Glass casts him an ironic look. “It is, Ms. Walker. Arden here’s a sweet boy when he wants to be.” And by the sound of his tone, Glass doesn’t believe that’s what Arden’s being right now.

“You get a lot of snowbird action at the café?” Arden presses. It’s still hot outside, but school’s already started in most states, and the tourist traffic has died down a lot in Destin. Snowbirds usually keep the place up and running, especially some of the more popular hangouts like Uppity Rooster.

“Oh yeah. I work breakfast shift Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and the weekends. Saturday and Sunday are my bread and butter though. I make more on Saturday morning than I do all week.” Rose is particularly proud of this. Then her countenance falls as if weighted with a concrete block. “I did, anyway. I’m pretty sure May’s going to let me go over this. I already got wrote up last week for taking too many smoke breaks.”

Perfect.

Thirteen

I hear Arden’s truck and feel the rumble on the dirt road. I know it’s Arden because this has become his ritual the past two days: follow me home from school and beg me to speak to him, driving alongside me as I pedal my bike faster and faster before coming to a complete stop when he doesn’t expect it, then dart through the woods while he’s trying to back up.

It’s an exhausting but necessary ritual. And slightly entertaining.

Today shall be no different from the last two. I already have my sights set on which part of the woods I’m going to launch off into. He’ll never see it coming.

Unfortunately I don’t see something else coming: a soft spot in the dirt road. My front wheel pirouettes almost backward, bringing me to a violent, immediate standstill, which nearly sends me flying over the handlebars. As it is, I turn at an unnatural angle, and my right ankle scrapes against the pedal and I’m forced to forfeit the bike into the red clay and my pride along with it. Also, I trip, fail to catch myself, and land squarely on my rear.

My hurt ankle and mutilated ego make it difficult to want to get back up.

Arden’s truck skids to a halt beside me as I begrudgingly pull myself to a standing position, patting a red dust cloud off my butt. I continue to ignore him as I attempt to arrange the handlebars in rideable order. There’s no getting around the fact that he saw everything. If our roles had been reversed, I would find this funny for the rest of my days. The kind of funny that, out of nowhere, cracks you up in the middle of a library or someone’s funeral or an important conversation.

But Arden isn’t laughing. I know this, because I steal a glance at him—his eyes are all determination and his mouth is set in a straight line. Laughing is the furthest thing from his mind. Because for the second time in our brief history, Arden Moss steals my bike again. With superhero ease, he snatches it from my hands and puts it in the back of his truck, sliding it to the middle of the bed.

I can’t decide where I’m going to hide his body after I murder him.

Before I can say that, or anything, his hand is covering my mouth and he’s turning me around in his arms so that my back is to his stomach and it dawns on me that maybe I’m the one being kidnapped and that nobody will find my body and that even if they do he’ll get off scot-free because he’s the sheriff’s son.

A scream wells up inside me.

“For God’s sake, will you just listen to me without opening your mouth?” he says in my ear. His voice is gruff, like he has a cold.

I try to bite the soft part of his hand, but he cups it just in time. He tightens his grip on me and presses his cheek against mine. I stomp on his foot and he grunts, but doesn’t let go.

“I’m sorry, Carly,” he says. “So sorry. I’m a pathetic particle of dust that doesn’t deserve to land on your feet. What I said at lunch was the stupidest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. But I’m trying to make it up to you. Will you just listen to me?”

Trying to make it up to me? By stealing my bike? Holding me hostage?

“I have good news,” he continues, as if I’m not squirming like a hooked worm. Arden is rock solid. It feels like struggling against the inside of a stack of tires. “I got you a job. A better one than the Breeze Mart. You can start this Saturday if you want. It’s good money, less hours.” With this, he turns me loose and shoves me away from him.

He wipes his wet hand on his T-shirt; he didn’t release me in time to avoid me spitting into his palm. It was the least I could do.

I want to push him against the truck and kick his nuts up his throat. But his words are sinking in. And I want to hear more of them. It’s then that I realize I’m about to hyperventilate.

Arden seems to realize it at the same time. “Whoa, you don’t have asthma or anything, do you? Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Put your hands on your head. I hear that helps with asthma attacks.”