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don’t think so. Not again.

“When you run out of bullshit excuses and admit you’ve got a

T E S S S H A R P E

25

problem, then we can talk. The sooner you admit it, babe, the sooner

we’ll get to the root of this. You might as well start talking—you’re not

going anywhere until I’m sure you’re not a danger to yourself.”

“I’m
fi ne
.” I wipe the sweat off my forehead, swallowing against

the constant nausea that’s taken over since yesterday. God, withdrawl

sucks.

Macy gets up and shoves a trash can in my hand. “If you’re going

to throw up, use this.”

Her face soft ens, a ripple in that bad-cop façade she wears so well.

She reaches over, grasping my free hand in hers and holds on tight

enough that I can’t tug away. “I won’t give up on you, Sophie. No mat-

ter what you do, no matter what you say, I’m here. I won’t lose you. Not

to this. I will get you clean. Even if you end up hating me for it.”

“Great,” I say bitterly. “Lucky me.”

5

NOW (JUNE)

Harper’s Bluff is nestled in Northern California’s side of

the Siskiyou mountain range, a tiny town carved out of the

wilderness, sheltered by the piney mountains, surrounded

by thick oak woodland for miles around, with a lake that

stretches out into what you trick yourself into thinking is

infi nity. We’ve got a population just tipping twenty thou-

sand, more churches than grocery stores, American fl ags

fl ying from most of the houses, and REAL MEN LOVE JESUS

bumper stickers on every other truck on the road. It’s not

idyllic, but it’s comfortable.

I thought I was ready to come back, but the second we

pass the WELCOME TO HARPER’S BLUFF sign, I wish I could tell

Macy to hit the brakes. Beg her to take me back to Oregon

with her.

How can I be here without Mina?

I bite my tongue. I have to do this
for
her. It’s the only

thing I can do. I stare out the window as we pass by my

high school. I wonder if they decorated Mina’s locker, if it’d

been festooned with fl owers and candles, notes tucked into

corners, never to be read. I wonder if her grave’s the same,

teddy bears and pictures of her, beaming up at a sky she’ll

T E S S S H A R P E

27

never see again. I hadn’t even gone to her funeral—couldn’t

bear to watch them put her in the ground.

As we’re turning onto my street, Macy gets a call. Maneu-

vering the car into the driveway, she tucks the phone under

her chin. “Where?” She listens for a second. “How long

ago?” She shuts the car off, eyeing me. “Okay, I can be there

in thirty.”

“Someone jump their bail?” I ask after she hangs up.

Macy’s a bounty hunter, though she prefers being called a

bail recovery agent.

“Sex offender in Corning.” She frowns at the empty

driveway. “I’d hoped your mom would be here by now.”

“It’s okay. I am capable of being alone in my own house.”

“No, you shouldn’t be by yourself right now.”

“Go catch the bad guy.” I lean over and kiss her on the

cheek. “I promise I’ll be fi ne. I’ll even call as soon as Mom

gets home, if it’ll make you feel better.”

Macy taps her fi ngers against the steering wheel. She’s

itching to get going, to chase down that guy and put him in

jail where he belongs.

I know that feeling, that drive for justice. All the women

in my family have it. Macy’s is wrapped up in the chase, in

hard and fast and brutal judgment, and Mom’s is wrapped

up in rules and laws and juries, the courtroom her chosen

battlefi eld.

Mine is wrapped up in Mina, magnifi ed by her, defi ned

by her, existing because of her.

“Seriously, Aunt Macy. I’m seventeen, I’m clean, and I

can spend some time by myself.”

28

F A R F R O M Y O U

She shoots me a calculating look. Then she reaches over

and fl ips open the glove compartment. “Take this,” she

says, pressing a container the size of a water bottle into my

hand. There’s a white pulley at the top of it and a label with

big red letters that say BEAR REPELLANT.

“You’re giving me bear spray? Seriously?”

“It’s got way better range and packs more of a punch

than that pepper spray keychain stuff they sell at the drug-

store in the cute pink holders, and it’s even better than a

Taser,” Macy says. “Too many things can go wrong there—

clothes can get in the way, the prongs don’t fully eject, some

big guys don’t go down from the current. Spray them in the

face with this? They’ll go down.” She takes the canister out

of my hands and points to the pulley. “Press the button at

the top, move it right to unlock the mechanism. Aim and

pull the trigger. Don’t ever drop the can—you may need

to use it again. Spray and then
run
. Even if your attacker’s

incapacitated, if he’s got a gun or a knife or any weapon,

even blind, he can do some damage. Spray, run, and don’t

let go of your only weapon. You got that?”

“You’re actually encouraging me to use this?”

“If someone’s coming at you? Absolutely,” Macy says,

and her voice is so serious, it sends prickles down my back.

“Whoever killed Mina is still out there. You are the only

living witness. And I’m pretty sure you’re about to stir up

some serious shit, so
be careful
.”

“You’re not going to stop me?” Until I say it out loud, I

realize that I’ve been waiting for her to.

Macy’s quiet for a moment. She looks me up and down,

T E S S S H A R P E

29

her blue eyes assessing me like she might a perp. “Could

I?” she asks baldly.

My hand tightens around the canister. I shake my head.

“That’s what I thought.” Macy tries not to smile, but

I catch it before she slips back into seriousness. “Do you

remember what I told you the night we decided you were

ready to come back home?”

“You said I was capable of making my own decisions.”

“You’re not a kid anymore, Sophie. You’ve been through

too much. And though you’ve made some pretty bad

choices, you’ve made some decent ones, too. You got clean—

and you stayed clean. I believe that. I believe you. And it

would probably be the smart thing to tell you to move on,

that letting go of Mina is the right thing to do. But I see

it in you, babe, how it’s gonna eat you up if you don’t do

something. If you don’t try. Just—” Her phone rings again.

“Dammit,” she mutters.

I take advantage of her distraction. “I’ll be careful, I

promise. Go to Corning.” I unbuckle my seat belt and grab

my bag. “Kick the perv in the balls for me.”

Macy smiles. “That’s my girl.”

Our house hasn’t changed. I don’t know why I thought it’d

look different. Maybe because everything else is. But the

tasteful leather couches and the cherry wood table between

them are still in the living room, the coffee machine in the

kitchen half-f, my father’s empty mug sitting next to the

sink. Just like any other day.

I go upstairs to my room. My bed’s freshly made, and

30

F A R F R O M Y O U

I run my fi ngers over the red fl annel sheets. They’re crin-

kled at the edges, which means Mom put them on herself

instead of having the once-a-week housekeeper do it.

Thinking about her struggling with them in her heels

and pencil skirt, trying to make it nice for me, makes my

eyes sting. I clear my throat, blinking fast, and dump the

contents of my bag onto the bed before going to take a

shower.

I let the water stream over my head for a long time. I

need to wash the smell of rehab—lemon air freshener and

cheap polyester—off of me.

For three months, I’ve been stuck, stagnant and wait-

ing, behind white walls and therapy sessions while Mina’s

killer walks. It hits me all at once that I’m fi nally free and

I jam the faucets shut. I can’t bear to be inside for another

second. I get dressed, leave a note on the kitchen table, and

lock the door behind me. The canister of bear spray is safe

in my bag.

Macy was right—I’m about to stir up some serious shit. I

have no idea why anyone would kill Mina. Which means I

have to be prepared for anything. For anyone.

It’s getting late. But he’ll still be at the park.

The good thing about growing up in a small town is

that everyone knows everyone. And if you’ve got a routine,

you’re usually easy to fi nd.

I walk to the park and get there as the guys playing soc-

cer are fi nishing up their casual game, shirts versus skins.

The sun’s sinking, that dusky time where dark and light

are balanced almost artifi cially, like an old movie, saturated

T E S S S H A R P E

31

with hazy color. I watch from across the street and wait

until a massive, shaggy-haired blond guy in a dingy white

soccer jersey and baggy shorts breaks away from the group,

heading toward the bathroom, the door swinging shut

behind him.

It’s perfect: isolated, with nowhere for him to run. So I

seize the moment.

I want to slam into the bathroom, scare the shit out of

him, grind his cheek against the dirty tile with my foot

until he admits the truth.

Instead, I slip in quietly and lock the door behind me

once I’m sure it’s just him in here.

The toilet fl ushes, and my stomach leaps, part anger,

part fear.

He doesn’t see me at fi rst, but halfway to the sink he

catches sight of me in the mirror.

“Shit.” He spins around.

“Hi, Kyle.”

“I thought you were in rehab.”

“They let me out.” I step forward, and when he moves

away, a sweet feeling rushes through me. Kyle’s huge,

thick-necked and solid—more suited for football than soc-

cer—and I like that he’s a little scared of me, even if he’s just

afraid that the junkie will do something crazy.

I take another step. This time he manages not to retreat.

But he wants to. I can see the fear in that frat-boy-to-be

face.

Fear means guilt.

I pull the bear spray from my purse, unlocking it and

32

F A R F R O M Y O U

raising it to his eye level as I step forward. “You remem-

ber that time Adam’s brother accidentally got him in the

face with bear spray? We were, what, freshmen? Maybe it

was even eighth grade. . . . Anyway, it’s one of his favorite

drinking stories. Matt To quote Adam: ‘That shit stings like

a fucker.’”

I tap my fi nger on the trigger. Kyle tenses.

“When I was in rehab, I had a lot of time to think,” I

say. “That’s pretty much all you get to do: think about your

mistakes and your problems and how to solve them. But in

all that time, I never came up with the right answers to my

questions.

“Maybe you can help me, Kyle. Why don’t we start with

why you lied to the police about the night Mina died?”

6

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

The day aft er Mina is murdered, my dad drives me home from the

hospital. We’re silent the whole way. I want to rest my forehead against

the window to let the solidity ground me. But when I lean my temple

against the glass, it presses against the arc of stitches. I wince and pull