Chapter Thirty-Three. Riley, Present Day
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
RILEY, PRESENT DAY
I’m halfway back to Betty’s, ruminating about how men like Josh Woods leave paths of wrecked women in their wakes. They rarely pay for their crimes, let alone atone for them.
I’m certain Josh seduced Alex—anxious, insecure Alex, who probably never receives much attention from guys when her more glamourous sorority sisters are around. And then, when the professor was done with Alex, he didn’t just discard her. He sacrificed her.
The urge rises in me like a fever.
I pull off at an exit and drift to the side of the road. It’s easy to obtain Josh’s phone number. It’s listed. Another way he’s embracing the image of the cool prof, I think. Always accessible to his students, just one of the guys.
I punch in the numbers and listen to it ring.
There’s no way Josh will be able to find out much about me. I haven’t changed my address to Betty’s house, and my car is still registered in my brother’s name. All he’ll have is my name and phone number. And I have a lot more on him.
The phone rings twice, then goes to voicemail.
I deflate. I wanted to make him feel helpless and broken, the way he left Alex feeling. And, okay, if I’m honest—the way Danny left me feeling.
“I know what you did to Alex Finch,” I say in my message. “And I know what you stole from the library. Give it back or I’ll report you.”
This isn’t like me. At least the current me. The old me was impulsive and brave, the kind of woman who’d marry a guy after knowing him for less than a year. It feels good to reclaim a piece of my agency.
I make a U-turn to get back on the highway, passing a car parked a dozen yards behind where I was idling. A moment later, as I turn onto the highway, headlights shine in my rearview mirror.
There are lots of cars on the road at this hour. Still, I feel tension rising in my body, sharpening my senses.
I try to keep an eye on the car, but there are so many flooding the highway that it’s impossible to say whether the same one is trailing me.
I flinch when my phone shrills. It’s Betty.
“I was wondering if you’d be hungry when you got home,” she says. “I thought I’d make grilled cheeses.”
I tell her it sounds perfect, even though now she’s the one who seems to be taking care of me.
I keep an eye on my rearview mirror as I curve around the exit that leads toward Betty’s. No one is behind me. I was probably being paranoid because Sam Trimble’s stories are still ringing in my head. But it’s hard to relax when I’m dreading telling Betty what happened to her friends.
Betty’s street is quiet. Lights glow in a few of the neighbors’ windows, but no one is outside.
I pull up in front of the house, then grab my things and head for the porch, shivering as the chill of the night air hits me.
As I climb the first step, a car roars past. I whip around, but it’s already disappearing into the distance. All I can tell is that it’s a dark-colored sedan.
Probably a neighbor rushing out to pick up a kid or do an errand, I decide as I knock on the front door. It’s cracked open, so I push through it, calling out a hello to Betty.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she answers.
I walk in to see Betty flipping a golden-brown grilled cheese sizzling in a pan. Two glasses containing clear cocktails topped with olives are waiting on the counter.
“What wonderful timing,” Betty says.