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Tess Sharpe

Copyright © 2014 by Tess Sharpe

All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book

Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without

written permission from the publisher. For information address

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Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data [TK]

ISBN 978-1-4231-8462-1

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For Gramz,

who gave me all my great loves.

And for Mom,

who believed this would happen, even when I didn’t.

It doesn’t start here.

You’d think it would: two terrifi ed girls in the middle of

nowhere, cowering together, eyes bulging at the gun in his

hand.

But it doesn’t start here.

It starts the fi rst time I almost die.

The fi rst time, I’m fourteen and Trev’s driving us home

from swim practice. Mina has the windows rolled down,

her hands dancing to the music, rings glinting in the late

afternoon sunlight as we speed past barbed wire fences

and scrabbly ranches, the mountains stretching out behind

them. We sing along to the radio in the backseat and Trev

laughs at my off-key voice.

It happens fast: the screech of metal on metal, glass

everywhere. I’m not wearing my seat belt, and I pitch for-

ward as Mina’s scream drowns out the music.

Then everything’s black.

The second time, I’m seventeen and annoyed with Mina.

We’re already late, and now she’s turning off the highway,

onto Burnt Oak Road.

2

F A R F R O M Y O U

“Just one little detour. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Fine,” I say, giving in easy, like always.

This is a mistake.

The fi rst time, I wake up in a hospital room, hooked to an

IV and beeping machines.

There’s a tubes everywhere. I claw at the one down my

throat, panic climbing inside me, and someone grabs my

hand away. It takes me a second to realize it’s Mina beside

me, to meet her gray eyes and focus enough to let her words

sink in.

“You’re going to be fi ne,” she promises.

I stop fi ghting and trust her.

It’s only later that I learn she’s lying.

The second time, I remember everything. The beam of the

car’s brights. The shooter’s eyes shining at us through his

mask. How steady his fi nger is on that trigger. Mina’s hand

clutching mine, our nails digging into each other’s fl esh.

After, I’ll trace my fi ngers over those bloody half-moon

marks and realize they’re all I have left of her.

The fi rst time, I spend weeks in the hospital. The doctors

put me back together piece by piece. Surgical scars snake

their way up my leg, around my knee, down my chest.

Battle scars, Mina calls them. “They’re fi erce.”

Her hands shake when she helps me button my sweater.

The second time, there is no hospital. There are no scars.

There is only blood.

T E S S S H A R P E

3

It’s everywhere. I press hard against Mina’s chest, but

my jacket’s already soaked through.

“It’s okay,” I keep saying. Over and over. She stares up at

me with shocked, wet eyes and takes gulping breaths. Her

body shivers beneath my hands.

“Sophie . . .” My name wheezes out of her. She lifts her

hand, drags it toward mine. “Soph—”

It’s the last thing she ever says.

1

NOW (JUNE)

“So, today’s the big day,” Dr. Charles says.

I look across the desk. From her shiny pumps to her

tasteful, “natural” makeup, there’s not a hair out of place

on her. When I met Dr. Charles, all I wanted to do was mess

her up. Slip the glasses down her nose, crush one of those

perfectly pressed French cuffs. Tear into that neat, orderly

mask and get down to the grit, the chaos.

Chaos has no place in recovery, Dr. Charles would say.

But I crave it. Sometimes even more than the Oxy.

That’s what happens when you’re trapped by clean

white walls, endless therapy sessions, and piped-in new-

age music for three months. The order and rules get to you,

make you want to screw up just for the messiness of it.

But I can’t afford that. Not now. Freedom is so close, I

can almost taste it.

“I guess,” I say, when I realize that Dr. Charles is wait-

ing for an answer. She’s big on getting answers to her

nonquestions.

“Are you nervous?” she asks.

“No.” It’s the truth. I can count on one hand how many

times I’ve been honest with her. Including this one.

T E S S S H A R P E

5

Three months of lying is exhausting, even when it’s

necessary.

“There’s no shame in being nervous,” Dr. Charles says.

“It’s a natural feeling, given the ____.”

Of course, when I fi nally do tell her the truth, she doesn’t

believe me.

Story of my life.

“It is a little scary . . .” I let my voice go reluctant, and Dr.

Charles’s neutral therapist mask almost slips at the prospect

of a confession. Getting me to open up has been like pulling

teeth. I can tell it bugs her. One time she asked me to walk

her through the night of Mina’s murder, and I knocked over

the coffee table, glass shattering all over as I tried to get

away from her—just another thing I’ve destroyed in Mina’s

name.

Dr. Charles stares like she’s trying to see through me. I

stare back. She may have her therapist mask, but I have my

“I’m a drug addict” face. She can’t ignore that, because deep

down, buried underneath all the other things I am (crippled,

broken, scarred, and grieving), I
am
a drug addict—always

will be. Dr. Charles understands that I know this about

myself. That I’ve accepted it.

She thinks she’s the one responsible for my change from

raging to recovering, but she’s not. She doesn’t get to take

the credit for that.

So I stare her down. And fi nally she breaks the eye con-

tact and looks at her leather portfolio, writing a few notes.

“You’ve made tremendous progress in the time you’ve

spent at Seaside Wellness, Sophie. There will be challenges

6

F A R F R O M Y O U

as you adjust to living a drug-free life, but I feel confi dent

that with the therapist your parents have arranged for you

and your commitment to recovery, you’ll succeed.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She shuffl es some papers, and just when I think I’m free

and clear, she drops the bomb: “Before we go downstairs,

I’d like to talk with you a little more. About Mina.”

She looks up at me then, carefully monitoring my

response. Waiting to see if I’ll break her new coffee table.

(It’s wood this time—I guess she fi gured she needed some-

thing sturdier.)

I can’t stop it: the way my lips tighten up and my heart-

beat thuds in my ears. I force myself to breathe, in and out

through my nose like in yoga, relaxing my mouth.

I can’t slip up. Not now. Not when I’m this close to get-

ting out.

“What about Mina?” My voice is so steady, I want to pat

myself on the back.

“We haven’t talked about her in a while.” She’s still

watching me. Waiting for me to freak, like I have every

time she’s forced this. “Going home is a big adjustment. A

lot of memories will come up. I need to make sure you’re in

the right frame of mind to deal with them without . . .” She

tugs at her left cuff.

This is another of her tactics. Dr. Charles likes to make

me fi nish her sentences. Own up to my mistakes and faults.

“Without going on an Oxy binge?” I supply.

She nods. “Mina and her murder are triggers. It’s impor-

tant you’re aware of that. That you’re prepared for the

T E S S S H A R P E

7

challenges her memory may bring up—and the guilt.”

I have to stifl e my knee-jerk response. The one that

screams,
“Her murder wasn’t about drugs!”

It’s no use. No one will believe the truth. No one will

believe
me
. Not with the evidence in front of them. That

fucker in the mask had covered his bases—he knew I’d

never notice the drugs he planted on me, not after he’d shot

Mina and knocked me out. My mom called in every favor

imaginable to get me into Seaside to deal with my supposed

relapse instead of being booked for possession.

Dr. Charles smiles at me. It’s both bland and encourag-

ing, a warring twist of pink lipstick.

This is my fi nal test, I have to be careful with my words.

They’re my ticket out of here. But it’s hard, almost impos-

sible, to keep my voice from shaking, to stop the memories

from creeping back. Of Mina, laughing with me that morn-

ing, both of us unaware that she’d end with the day.

“I loved Mina,” I say. I’ve practiced it a hundred times,

but this can’t sound rehearsed. “And her murder is some-

thing I have to deal with for the rest of my life. But Mina

would want me to move on. She’d want me to be happy.

And she’d want me to stay clean. So I’m going to do that.”

“And what about her killer?” Dr. Charles asks. “Do you

feel ready to talk to the police about what you might know?”

“I loved Mina,” I say again, and this time my voice does

shake. This time it’s the truth, and nothing but. “And if I

knew who killed her, I would be screaming his name at the

top of my lungs. But he was wearing a mask. I don’t know

who it was.”

8

F A R F R O M Y O U

Dr. Charles leans back and examines me like I’m a fi sh

in a bowl. I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop it from

trembling. I keep my breathing steady, like I’m holding a

diffi cult yoga pose and have to power through.

“She was my best friend,” I say. “Don’t you think I know

how I screwed up? I barely sleep sometimes, thinking about

what I could’ve done differently that night. How I could’ve

stopped it. How it’s my fault. I know all of that. I just have

to learn to live with it.”

This is the truth.

The guilt—it’s real. It just doesn’t come from the place

that Dr. Charles thinks it does.

It
is
my fault. For not stopping Mina. For not asking

more questions. For letting her act like a newspaper story

was something to keep top secret. For following her lead,

like always. For not being faster. For being crippled, unable

to run or fi ght or do anything to protect her.

“I’d be happy to talk to Detective James again,” I say.

“But he doesn’t think I’m the most reliable witness.”

“Do you blame him?” Dr. Charles asks.

“He’s just doing his job.” The words feels like glass

against my gums, the words grinding through my skin.

Hating Detective James is second nature at this point. If

only he’d listened to me . . .

But I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to focus. Mina’s

killer is out there. And Detective James isn’t going to fi nd

him.

“I know going home will be hard. But I feel like you’ve

given me the tools to handle everything way better than I

used to.”

T E S S S H A R P E

9

Dr. Charles smiles, and relief hits me like a two-by-four.

She’s fi nally buying it.

“I’m delighted to hear you say that. I know we had a

rocky start, Sophie. But our last few sessions, you’ve had

a much more positive outlook. And that’s very important,

with everything that’s ahead of you. Recovery is not easy

and the work never stops.” She checks her watch. “Your

parents should be here soon. Why don’t I take you to the

waiting area?”

“Okay.”

We walk in silence down the corridor, past the group

session going on in the rec room. That circle of chairs has

been my own personal hell for the last three months. To