Make Them Hurt (Pretty Deadly Things #4)

Prologue

Salem

The skatepark in Saint Pierce always smells like hot asphalt mixed with that fake strawberry vape cloud kids pretend is cool.

Concrete bowls chipped and scarred, rails tagged over so many times the colors bleed together into gray mush.

Sirens wail somewhere far off, same as always.

It’s like the city’s got one finger permanently on the panic button.

I’m parked on the lip of the biggest ramp, orange board balanced across my legs. It’s so loud it might as well be a traffic cone with attitude. My thumb keeps flicking through TikTok, scroll-scroll-scroll, like if I go fast enough the feed will swallow the knot in my chest.

It doesn’t.

Some kid drops in hard; wheels scream. A cheer goes up, then a wipeout, followed by that fake-ha-ha-I’m-totally-fine laugh. Yeah. Been there.

My phone buzzes.

Mom.

Missed call. No voicemail. No “hey are you alive?” Just her thumb brushing the screen and bailing halfway through the impulse. Probably a butt dial if I’m being honest. I hate her for that.

Heat crawls up my neck. My pulse thuds behind my eyes. I jam the phone deep into my hoodie pocket before I can be dumb enough to call her back and hope for once she picks up like she means it.

The board’s warm under my palms. The grip tape is rough and familiar. It’s the only thing that feels solid right now. And right now, that’s huge.

Another board rattles up, and stops inches from my knee.

“Yo. Orange board.”

I glance up.

A guy in a backwards cap with a grin too big for his face, smiles at me. His eyes slide over me—not the board, me.

“You skate?” he asks.

“Enough to know where they keep the good painkillers at the ER,” I say.

He laughs like I just told the joke of the year as he steps closer. He’s testing.

My lungs squeeze as my shoulders lock. I don’t budge an inch. I’ve been hit on by guys before. I also know an asshole when I see one.

“You here alone?” His voice drops, like we’re in on something dirty.

“Not even close.” Sweet smile. “I’m with my boyfriend.”

His dark eyes narrow. “Where’s he at?”

I tilt my head. “Probably figuring out how to yank teeth with pliers without getting blood on his shoes.”

The grin falters. He mutters something under his breath and rolls off.

My hands stay steady. However, my heart doesn’t.

Because it’s not him. It’s the thing already waiting at home. Carl. Mom’s boyfriend. The one who says “kiddo” like it’s cute while his stare lingers too long, too low. The one who thinks because Mom’s checked out, the house is his playground.

Last week he leaned in close enough I could smell his cheap body spray and whispered, If I was your age…

My stomach twists just remembering it. My skin feels too tight, like someone took a Brillo pad to the inside.

My phone buzzes again.

Unknown number.

My fingertips go numb as my pulse slams so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I open it anyway. Because apparently fear and nosiness cancel each other out.

UNKNOWN: u at the park?

UNKNOWN: u got the orange board right?

Ice slips down my spine. I scan the crowd. Kids grinding rails. Two dudes filming tricks. A couple on the bleachers sharing a slushie like nothing’s wrong with the world.

Normal. Normal. Normal.

Except the woods behind the park look blacker than they should. Trees packed tight, staring back.

ME: who is this?

Three dots.

UNKNOWN: friend of a friend. don’t freak out.

A laugh punches out of me. My ribs feel strapped tight. I’m the epitome of silently freaking out each and every day.

“Don’t freak out,” I mutter. “Yeah, great advice, dude.”

I flip to the chat with Jules. New girl. Pit bull in a flower crown for a profile pic. She’d slid into my comments after I posted about finally finding this park. Said she skates. Said she needed someone who could handle dark humor without flinching.

Soulmate material, maybe.

ME: here. ramp by the bowl. orange board.

Sun’s still up but dropping fast, throwing long shadows across the ramps like fingers reaching.

My phone buzzes nearly startling me. I almost drop the board, but I glance around the park and nobody notices me. No one ever does.

UNKNOWN: look behind u

Everything locks. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turn slowly. Controlled. Refusing to let panic win the sprint. Fuck.

Nothing. Just concrete and noise and people who belong here.

I glance back to the screen.

UNKNOWN: not there. woods.

My throat clicks when I swallow. Every true-crime podcast I’ve ever binged is screaming don’t. Logic screams don’t. But something else—something tired and pissed—stands up inside me.

Tired of Carl’s hand “accidentally” grazing my waist. Tired of Mom’s glassy eyes when I say his name. Tired of scraping together grocery money when I should be stressing about algebra and who likes who.

With the board under my arm, and my phone clenched in my fist, I walk. One foot in front of the other. I walk straight toward the tree line. My heart pounds in my ears, but I ignore it.

Behind me someone yells “Salem!” like they know me. But I ignore that too.

One step past the boundary and the park sound cuts off like a door slammed shut. The air turns cool, damp. The asphalt smell is gone. Just pine needles and that coppery bite—like blood on your tongue.

I stop and listen.

A leaf rustles. This is the part of the movie where I should return to the safety of the skate park. I should head home. I’m twenty-two and not a kid anymore. What am I doing?

But I keep walking. I keep moving. Something shifts between the trunks. Low. Quick.

My pulse hammers in my throat. My face burns, then drains cold.

“Jules?” My voice cracks smaller than I want.

Silence.

I lift my phone—screen glowing like it’s gonna help—and type.

ME: where are you?

No answer.

A twig snaps behind me, making my shoulders jerk. Before I can turn, a hand slams over my mouth. Hard. My lips mash into my teeth as copper floods my tongue.

My phone flies into the brush with a resounding thud. The board drops. Orange flashes once, swallowed by shadow.

I thrash. I kick. I try to bite his flesh, but my mouth is squeezed shut. My eyes widen. Is this the end?

A man pulls me against his chest. My back to his front. He’s strong. Calm. Like he’s done this a million times before.

His voice is low against my ear. It’s almost gentle. “Easy. You don’t wanna make noise.”

My stomach lurches. I taste bile coming up my throat. Tears threaten to spill. I try once more, and bite.

He hisses. His grip tightens as his forearm crushes across my collarbone. It hurts, but I won’t cry. Not now.

“Feisty,” he breathes. “That’s good.”

Good for who?

He hauls me up and my feet lift off the ground. My world tilts. I keep fighting, but it’s useless at this point. He drags me deeper into the trees.

My lungs burn. I twist, clawing for air, for anything—

There’s another shape ahead. Taller. Still. Waiting like this was on the calendar. The sight steals what little breath I have left.

I fight harder. Because I refuse to be another face on a poster. I refuse to go down like this. This mother fucker won’t be the last of me.

His hand slips—just a fraction.

I suck in air. A scream rips out. It’s raw and ugly, but I don’t care. I can almost taste freedom.

Until something jabs my side. A needle. The prick hurts for a split second and then heat blooms. Fast. Like spilled ink. And then it feels like I’m falling.

My arms go heavy. The fight in me dies. My fingers slip off his sleeve, and my knees buckle. Panic flares bright—then fades, like someone’s unplugging me.

“No,” I try, but it’s empty. Barely audible. No, my mind screams.

The trees blur into dark streaks. Somewhere close, a car door opens. Soft. Final. Too normal.

His mouth is near my ear again. Warm breath on my skin. “Told you,” he whispers. “No noise.”

Then arms lift me, and slide me into the dark.

And everything fades to black.