The rest of the trip is uneventful. Hayden disappears soon after our conversation is over and thankfully I don't see him after that.

The rest of my shopping trip, however, is full of me freaking out over the fact that I have to somehow end up at the party after Friday's football game. I don't even know if the game is at home or whom we're playing. But there's no way I can't not be there. No excuse or family emergency can cut it. And I refuse to let Hayden have a circus with my absence.

Tonight is another one of those times where I wish our grandparents had gone through with their threat of forcing my mother into an alcohol rehabilitation center. She convinced them she was fine. She's always trying to convince everyone she's fine. And sometimes, she is. It's just when six o'clock traffic hits, everything goes south, and Corry is on a mission to find her.

Again.

Pulling into Del-Mart, I'm surprised to see the parking lot packed. Mr. Aplin's deli meats are good, but they've never attracted this much traffic on a Wednesday night before.

"Please tell me you brought the debit card..."

Finding dinner is my job tonight. And as I fish through the pockets of my bag, my fingers come in contact with a cool, plastic square. The flash drive I was supposed to return the device to Mr. Aplin a week ago.

The headlights of an approaching car are blinding and I stumble out of my car and across the parking lot as quickly as possible. Three men dressed in blue technician gear stand outside of the deli, blowing wispy rings of white smoke into the humid air, eyes trailing casually from me to the surrounding landscape. I look from the men to the black van parked six feet away, instinct making my muscles coil and stomach churn. Whether it's that I've gained the ability to tap into their thoughts and know of their interest in a young girl walking alone, or my hyperactive paranoia, I don't like the way they're looking at me.

The doors open to warm air smelling of fresh bread and smoked deli meats, and I'm certain this is what heaven smells like.

There are a few more men in the same uniform as the ones I'd seen outside. A woman wearing a reflective vest sits a few feet away with a CSI hat resting on the table beside her. I guess it makes sense. There had been an announcement about adding more security cameras around shopping complexes and public streets as a precaution to what had happened. The shop was still wrecked and under investigation—what they're looking for after a week is beside me.

Mr. Aplin and his wife rush from one end of the counter to the other, shouting order numbers and instructions to the employees who look just as worn as the owners must be feeling. As I step into line, my eyes linger on a man in a grey suit speaking into his phone about a court case in Madison this weekend. I feel bad for whoever is on the other end of the line.

"I don't care what happened, Keith! I want you to find that damn thing and get it to me by the end of Friday!" A pause. "Or it'll be your ass!" The dark-haired man unceremoniously ends the call and sits down to take a chunk out of his sub, reminding me of a toddler sulking post-temper tantrum.

"I've been waiting a good twenty-five minutes for my food," a redheaded woman whines from the front of the deli counter. "How long does it take to make a chicken salad sandwich?"

"Wait like the rest of us, sweetheart!" someone shouts.

When she turns around, my stomach does an uncomfortable dip, half from complete surprise and half from the murderous look in her eyes. Aside from the employees and the Aplins, she's the only other person I recognize in the store. Abigail Williams. My mentor from freshman year —someone who saved me from so much trouble, nothing I could ever do would be able to repay her kindness.

She looks at me with no recognition or care registering in her expression, and turns away.

Ouch.

"That guy seriously needs to get laid," someone says from beside me.

The familiar, husky voice grabs my attention away from Abigail. We used to be close and then she decided that I was not worth her time post-graduation.

His eyes are darker than I remember them to be. And not because the color has suddenly changed—he's now sporting two black eyes since our last meeting.

"Oh, yeah, I guess." I respond awkwardly and try my hardest to find the right spot to focus on without being creepy and staring at his injuries. I clear my throat. "Derek, right? Hayden's friend?"

A quirky half-smile stretches across his lips and he nods. "I wasn't sure if you remembered me. You're Ember."

I nod. It's hard to forget a face like his even if it is bruised and scratched. I have no intention of finding out how it happened. Derek knows Hayden. It's obvious they have some sort of history at Westwood. And if Hayden is known for destruction during his free time, who knows where Derek lurks? What he does. Nothing good can come out of it.

"Funny how we keep running into each other here."

"Small town." I laugh nervously. "It happens."

Derek murmurs something I don't catch when the loud ding of Mr. Aplin's serving bell cuts him off and the old man calls for the next customer.

Me.

I don't have to tell him my order. He knows. He always knows.

"Back so soon?" he asks, diligently wrapping some ham and cheese in white paper. "How's everything at home?"

"It's fine. It's... the usual." I place my bag on the counter and blindly fumble through the mess. "I've been meaning to come here sooner." I hold up the flash drive. "I found this last week. Has anyone come looking for it?"

Pushing his glasses up, Mr. Aplin peers at it intently. "No, sorry. All anyone asked about was a CD case. It must not be very important if there hasn't been anyone looking for it."

I shrug and hand him money, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end when I realize how close Derek is behind me. He doesn't say a word and I don't dare to glance over my shoulder and look at him. The tension radiates from his shoulders to send a skin crawling wave of dread and fear across my body.

Creep.

I've got to get out of here. Tossing the flash drive into my bag, I grab the brown paper bag the deli owner hands me and rush out of the store without looking back.

I feel something is wrong the second I step outside. A thin crowd inside means that the parking lot is relatively empty, and aside from that suspicious black van, I don't see anyone. Just mist illuminated in golden streetlight, long shadows stretching across the pavement, and the eerie, dangerous sensation of impending disaster. I glance down at my phone, and then to my car on the far side of the parking lot. I have to get home.

Walk quickly and you'll be fine.

Holding my breath, I grip the contents of my bag tight to my chest and make a b-line for the car. Out of the corner of my eye, shadows and darkness dance to taunt me with things that aren't even there. The blare of a car horn in the distance makes me jump. I grit my teeth.

Calm down.

But just as I make the thousand-mile journey to my car and my fingers brush the door, I feel it. The distinct, horrifying sensation of metal pressed against the side of my neck. Despair and terror freeze my veins and all I can do is stare into the reflection of a hooded man in the glass of the driver side door of my car.

"Don't scream," he instructs slowly. I recognize the tag beneath his shirt as a blue jumpsuit worn by the smokers from before.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. I'm going to die. I'm going to die and no one will find me.

I can barely hear him over the erratic pounding of blood in my ears. I knew it. They're going to kidnap me and rape me and murder me.

A second man approaches. "You have something we want."

My mind races a million miles an hour. Distract them. Give them what they want. Hurt them. Run for dear life. "My credit card is in the outside pocket of my bag," I respond in a breathless whisper. "Please, just take it and let me go."

"Ha," the second man snorts. "Do you hear that James—"

"Shut up!" James roars.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I have cash, too. A phone. There's a MacBook in the back seat."

"Is that what you think we want?" James hisses. My stomach twists painfully. The pressure of the knife increases into a harsh jab threatening to pierce through my throat. Pain. All I can think about is the pain. "Oh, you're so sweet." He gropes the side of my waist and I bite back a whimper. Disgusting. Horrible. I want to turn around and tear his throat out, but I can't. The blade is right on my trachea, one wrong move and I'm done for.

The man pats my pockets. His groping does not have sexual intentions (though the disgusting man does take his time), and is more questionable and hesitant, like he's looking for something. "Where is it? Where did you put it?"

"If you told me what it was, I could help you!" I grunt with both anger and apprehension, shifting my weight to lean against the side of the car, and stare at him through the reflection. "What! What are you looking for?"

"The memory—"

He doesn't get the chance to finish. In the blink of an eye, the world explodes into chaos. One moment, the knife is against my throat, and in the next it's gone, and I'm thrown against the car in front of me with a loud smack.

I'm quick to turn around and press my back into the wet metal for protection, watching in horror as the one named James is knocked to the ground. A man in a red hoodie stands over him, throwing punches mercilessly into his face and the distinct crunch of a nose being cracked echoes across the parking lot.

Oh God.

Shaking away his disbelief, James' accomplice jumps into action, throwing his leg out and getting the man in the hoodie right in the ribs. My own body jolts at the harsh blow. He rolls off, quickly recovering, and jumps to his feet, laughing. Only full lips parted in a devilish smirk of someone completely out of their mind peaks from beneath the hood.

Run! Get out there or you're next!

The goons charge the other man, but he is swift, stepping to the side, ducking, and spinning on his heel to send one over his back and into a nearby lamppost. He grabs the second by the collar and brings him down onto his knee. The goon lays crumpled on the floor, gasping for air. I mimic him, fear and panic refusing to let my lungs expand.

"Ahhh!" Hungry for more, the other man charges the stranger for a second time.

Throwing his arms out, the man in the red hood presses his feet into the ground and launches a roundhouse kick into the second man's chest. "Stay the fuck away!"

A strong gust of wind carries his cries of agony into the darkness, and the two men scramble to their feet to disappear into the shadows.

Holding my breath, I stare at the man in the red hoodie as he watches the assailants go, not speaking or turning around well after they're gone. Gratitude and relief swell in my chest, and I can breathe again, each breath sweeter than the previous. For a second, I'm not sure if I should move or not. Just because those other two are gone, doesn't mean I'm safe.

"Thank you so much," I gasp, climbing to my feet and taking my chances. The savior doesn't turn around and I take a step forward. "Excuse me." No response. He moves to leave. "Hey wait a second!" I follow after him and reach out to grab his arm. "At least say something before you—"

Tires screech from somewhere on the other side of the plaza. He brushes my arm away and gets ready to run, but not before his hood falls and I catch a glance of his face. My stomach slithers into my throat.

"What?"

He is no mysterious stranger.

The man who saved me is Hayden Cross.

* * *