His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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NOAH
Middlebridge is not a place for tourists. I knew this long before I got back here.
The highway's all sleet. Just sleet. It's so bad my hands are aching from how clenched tight on the steering wheel they've been, knuckles white. The wipers barely keep up with the snow smearing across the windshield.
Cam is beside me, but she's so stiff and silent, staring straight ahead, her eyes wide and unblinking, that it'd be easy to forget.
My girl hasn't said a word since we left. I tried, but she refused. She points turn here, and turn there, but won't speak.
I glance at her, just for a second. Her pretty face is pale, lips pressed into a thin line. I swallow hard, the taste of metal on my tongue, and force myself to keep my eyes on the road.
We pass a third sign for Middlebridge, half-buried in snow, the letters barely visible.
Cam shifts beside me, pulling her knees up to her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
I glance at her again, my heart pounding. "Breathe, Cam. You're okay. I'm with you.""
She's not here, lost somewhere in her head, somewhere I can't reach.
The road curves to the right, and I take it slow, the Bronco skidding slightly on the ice. I steady it, my pulse spiking.
She points to Exit 19. I turn.
She points to Freeway 409. I take it
She points to Hackway Rd.
It's worse than I thought.
We pull up to the curb, and the Bronco's headlights cast a weak, yellow glow over the front yard—a patch of muddy snow, littered with old, broken wood boards and a rusted-out car frame that looks like it hasn't moved in 100 years.
The house itself is a sagging, one-story structure, paint peeling off in long, jagged pale green strips, the windows grimy and cracked. One of the shutters hangs by a hinge, banging back in the wind.
I cut the engine, and the silence that follows is heavy, oppressive. My breath fogs up the windshield as I stare at the house, trying to reconcile this place with the girl sitting next to me.
Cam grew up here. In this...mess.
Her jaw is clenched so hard it's a wonder she hasn't cracked a tooth.
The porch light flickers weakly, casting long, eerie shadows across the snow-covered steps.
Cam takes a deep breath. What happens next is practised. And it breaks my heart.
She sits up straighter, smoothes down her hoodie. She cracks her shaking knuckles, flexes her hands. She murmurs something I don't catch, blinks hard twice.
