I squealed down the street. No way I was going to confront that creep. I drove for two blocks, still seeing his face in front of me. Then I pulled to the curb and raised my phone.
I dialed 911. After one ring, a woman’s voice came on.
“There’s someone stalking me. Someone parked across from my house,” I blurted out. “He—He—”
She spoke softly and smoothly, trying to calm me down enough to give her the information. I finally managed to tell her my address. I described Lucas and told her he was sitting in a small, dark car. She promised to send a patrol car. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Uh . . . driving somewhere,” I said. “To a friend’s house.” I clicked off. I glanced in my rearview mirror. A car was approaching. The headlights swept into my car from the back window.
Lucas? Lucas following me?
I froze. Will he stop his car beside mine? What should I do?
I let out a long whoosh of air as the car drove right past. It was an SUV, not Lucas’s car. Not Lucas.
I sat there a minute or so, getting myself together. Then I lowered my foot to the gas and began to drive toward Keith’s house.
Lucas’s pale face and his crazy dancing eyes stayed with me. I knew he was weird and I knew he could be violent. And I knew he had a thing for me.
So . . . was it possible that Lucas was going after my friends for some sick, twisted reason? I’d nearly run him over in the taxi garage after work. Was he planning to attack me, too? Mom was right. Whoever was doing this would definitely have me on the list.
I could be the next to die.
Was it that sick creep, Lucas?
I shook my head hard, trying to force his face from my mind. Trying to shake him away so maybe the shudders would stop running down my body.
But I was still shaking when I turned onto Fear Street. Overhanging trees made the night even darker.
Keith’s house was in the middle of the block. I eased the car up the gravel driveway. The crunching of the tires on the gravel sounded so loud against the silence outside the car.
The house is a long, low ranch style that stretches at the top of a sloping lawn. It was dark except for a yellow light on the far-right end. The family room, I thought.
A gust of cool wind greeted me as I climbed out of the car. It felt good on my hot cheeks. My legs were shaky as I climbed the front stoop and knocked on the door.
I can’t believe I came here to accuse Keith of murdering Jeremy. This is all so unbelievable.
Unbelievable—but happening just the same.
I knocked a little harder. I didn’t want to ring the bell and wake everyone up.
I heard footsteps inside. And then the door was pulled open, and Mrs. Carter, Keith’s mom, stared out at me with sleepy eyes. She was in a long, loose housedress. She carried a TV remote in one hand.
She squinted at me. “Poppy? So late?”
I nodded. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter. I—I—”
“We haven’t seen you in a while.”
I blinked. Didn’t Keith tell her we broke up?
“I . . . I know.” I peered behind her. The entry hall was dark. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you. I—”
“No, I was up. Watching a movie. For some reason, ever since we moved to Fear Street, it takes me hours to get to sleep.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. Awkward. She always had a million complaints. Keith said she was a total hypochondriac. It drove him crazy because there wasn’t really anything wrong with her.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I repeated. “But I really need to talk to Keith.”
She eyed me suspiciously.
“It’s kind of an emergency,” I said.
She backed away from the door so I could enter. The house was very warm and smelled of roasted chicken. “He’s asleep,” she said, studying me. “But I can wake him. Wait here.”
“Thank you.”
I closed the front door behind me. I stood in the entryway, trying to organize my thoughts. Trying to keep all the fear and suspicion and doubts and anger from swirling around me, capturing me, holding me in this trembling cloud of total confusion.
What am I going to say to Keith? I can’t just say, Did you attack Ivy and Jeremy? But what can I say?
I listened to Mrs. Carter’s echoing footsteps going down the long hall to the bedrooms. I shifted my weight. Crossed and uncrossed my arms. Toyed with my bouncy curls for a bit.
Waiting . . . waiting . . .
It was taking a long time. Was she having trouble waking him up?
Was she keeping him in his bedroom until he explained to her why I was here? That would be like her.
Waiting . . .
And then the scrape of her slippers on the hard floor. And she reappeared in the entryway, her long housedress sweeping around her, her face knotted in confusion.
“I . . . I don’t understand it,” she stammered. She squinted hard at me. “Keith isn’t in his room. He’s gone.”
