Part 2 (1/2)

And why do I care? He's a stranger, and I don't care where his car is. Except that he's not a stranger. And I obviously care a lot.

A touch to my arm brings my attention back to Blake. He's also mostly a stranger, but not the kind I need to be afraid of. He's the poster boy of nice. Good citizen. Cla.s.s president. He probably does commercials for the Boy Scouts when he's not helping little old ladies cross the street.

He's the one I should feel safe with.

”Chloe, are you okay?” he asks me, his hand resting just above my elbow.

”No. Not really,” I admit.

”Is your head all right? Why are you muddy?”

As soon as he says it, I reach for a spot just above the nape of my neck. My fingers graze a swollen lump, and I wince in pain. What the h.e.l.l? When did that happen?

”Easy,” Blake says, and I step back from him, wary. He ignores me, reaching forward to take my hand. ”You b.u.mped it pretty hard. I can't believe you didn't go straight home. Maybe I should get you to the hospital.”

”I didn't b.u.mp my head,” I say, even though it's clear I did.

And it's equally clear he saw me do it.

He looks really concerned now. Like daytime TV worried, his brow all puckered and eyes sad. He doesn't know me well enough to worry about me like that. Or to hug me.

The world starts a precarious tilt, so I rest my palm on the roof of my car and try not to pa.s.s out.

”Chloe, I think I should take you to the hospital,” Blake says slowly. ”Do you even know why you're here? And why are you so filthy?”

I prod the tender b.u.mp, hoping that the pain will jar my memory.

”I don't know. I remember...” I trail off because what am I going to say? I remember falling asleep in study hall. On the last Tuesday in May.

”Do you remember the walk we took at my house tonight?” he asks.

A walk with Blake Tanner? Not possible. If Blake pa.s.sed me a napkin in the cafeteria line, I'd dissect it with Maggie for three days. I wouldn't forget a walk.

”Do you?” he repeats softly, and I feel his fingers lacing through mine.

His hand is warm and large and everything that a boy's hand is supposed to be.

”Do you remember slipping on the porch? That's when you hit your head. I don't know how you got so dirty though.”

I touch my head again, this time conscious of the cold, black stains on the knees of my jeans. Is that what this is? A stupid head injury or whatever?

I want it to be true. I need it to be true.

”I...I slipped. By the sidewalk,” I say, the lie spilling out of me automatically as I brush at my filthy jeans. ”I'm really tired. My brain is just fuzzy.”

”Let me take you home,” he says. ”At least there your mom could take a look.”

I glance back at my half-sc.r.a.ped car and then over to his snowless, clearly garage-stored Mustang. The dark interior is probably toasty. Maybe if I just sit for a moment, I'll figure this out.

”Okay,” I agree. ”If you're sure it's not too much trouble.”

He laughs at that, like it's ridiculous for me to even think it. ”No, Chloe. It's not too much trouble to take my girlfriend home.”

Girl-what?

Girlfriend. He said girlfriend.

It's a joke. This whole stupid thing is an enormous prank but why? Because I have a crush on him? Who doesn't?

No, that can't be it. Blake isn't into that kind of juvenile c.r.a.p. He's on the Bully Patrol, for G.o.d's sake.

But it can't be anything else.

Blake doesn't seem to notice me standing there gaping like a goldfish. He takes the sc.r.a.per from my hand and turns off my car, locking the doors when he's done. And since he doesn't fumble with the locks or my ignition, which tends to stick, I'm guessing he's done this before. He hands me my purse with a frown.

”This was on the floor.”

”Thanks.”

He smiles and guides me over to the Mustang. I fidget and watch him open the pa.s.senger door, and then he helps me into the seat like this is all routine. Like I wouldn't normally be stumbling over myself in rapture at the chance of setting foot in his vehicle.

When I sink into the leather seat, I don't feel rapture. If anything, I feel a little uneasy. Maybe even nauseous. I s.h.i.+ft my feet, painfully aware of the mud on my boots and his pristine carpets.

It's deliciously warm though, like sitting by a fire. I smell new car and Blake, and I don't know why, but I don't like the mix. Blake slides behind the wheel, and we both fasten our seat belts in silence. Then he tugs something out of the backseat.

”You left your coat when you ran out tonight,” he says, and then he hands it to me. ”You must have been freezing.”

I run my hands down the rough red wool. It's my coat, all right. I spent a small fortune on it at the beginning of my soph.o.m.ore year, so it's not something I leave lying around.

”Oh, thanks. I really must have hit my head harder than I thought,” I say, baring my teeth in something that I hope pa.s.ses for a smile.

Blake turns up the heater and rolls out of the parking lot without another word. He turns right on Main before I can direct him and makes the immediate left onto Birchwood, proving that he knows where he's going.

When he slides his hand to my knee, my whole body goes cold and tense. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, but he doesn't look like someone playing a prank. His body language is relaxed. Touching me is comfortable for him.

For some insane reason, I'm pretty sure Blake believes this. He thinks I'm his girlfriend.

I ignore my swimming head and Blake's squeezing hand, and stare out the winds.h.i.+eld. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me.

”What a crazy night,” I say, figuring I can't just sit here in silence forever.

He doesn't react at first, but I see a muscle in his jaw jump when I turn to him.

”Yeah,” he finally says. ”What all do you remember?”

It's a weird question. And a short list. Darkness. Snow. Terror. Adam.