When No One was Listening Read online

  Table of Contents

  When No One Was Listening

  Copyright

  Thank You

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Cover by: Cover Me Darling

  Interior design by: Cover Me Darling

  Formatting: Athena Interior Book Design

  Edited by: Melissa Ringsted of There for You Editing

  Any errors found are entirely my fault as I can’t stop rewriting things up to the second I hit publish.

  Thank You

  This book has been years in the making. I started When No One was Listening before Losing Connor. In the beginning it was a stand-alone story that ended on the last page with no remorse or regrets. Overtime though my love for Sloane, Eric and Barrett grew, as did their stories. Before I knew it, I was typing up scenes from book two before I’d finished book one. The beginning of book three wasn’t far behind.

  I want to thank everyone who stuck with me over the years, who’ve cheered me on and supported me when all I wanted to do was set my computer on fire and forget about writing forever.

  I will leave someone out …I’ve fretted, stressed, and panicked about listing names because most days I forget my own. If I leave you out know that I am so sorry and that the very idea of missing even one person plagues me endlessly.

  Ebony McMillan-for being there from the beginning, your love and support drive me.

  Ashley Ubinger-for being amazing, and strong, and believing in my books when I wanted to give up.

  Teresa Whaley-for always supporting me, for loving Losing Connor and making me believe in my writing.

  Roseann LaPointe Nuccio-for all your love and support. For our shared love of all things Breakfast Club and bad boys.

  Julie Titus-for always telling me I could, for never letting me give up, for being the amazing woman that you are.

  Michael Burhans-for loving Sloane as much as I do, even in the very first roughest draft.

  Melissa Ringsted-for your patience, your support, and your amazing editing.

  Megan Stietz-for pushing me, for believing in me, for loving this book before it saw the light of day.

  Amber Streed-for your infectious kindness, your artistic beauty, and your total support, Always.

  Viridiana Villarreal- for begging me to read to you at work, for loving my writing even when it sucks, and for not abandoning me when shit gets weird at work.

  The person I owe more than anyone in the world is my wonderful husband who lets me bounce ideas off him even though I won’t let him read the books. Thank you for doing chores, cooking dinner, and entertaining the kids so I can type in peace. Thank you for loving me even when I don’t like myself. Thank you for putting up with me and all my wild ideas, impulse control problems and love of stupid knacks. You’ve made so many of my dreams come true just by loving me. I can never thank you enough.

  TRIGGER WARNING

  The No One trilogy contains scenes of abuse: emotional, physical, and sexual which could be upsetting.

  SLOANE

  The chaos around me is second only to the sound of Sarah’s voice.

  “Hit her. Do it! Punch that bitch right in the face.”

  Blinded by rage, and guided by Sarah, everything else disappears. A spectator to my own actions, I watch my fist slam into Bitsy Ramone’s perfect face, pushing five-grand worth of a nose job sickeningly to the left.

  Oh shit. I just punched the prom queen.

  “Hell yeah you did!”

  The most popular girl in school stumbles, holding her hands over the wreck I’ve made of her face. Glaring from between splayed fingers, her eyes a cold mix of shock and pure hatred. She can’t possibly be more shocked than I am. I’m not sure what she expected me to do, but I’m positive this wasn’t it.

  A crowd forms around us … around Bitsy, honestly. Their questions echo off the slick, tiled walls. Everyone wants to know if Bitsy is alright, if she needs anything. More than that, they want to know why. No one asks me. It doesn’t matter that I’m the only person who knows. I don’t care, I wouldn’t answer them even if they did. They would never believe it’s my dead sister’s fault.

  I have these kinds of moments far too often. Tiny whispers, urges, uncontrollable twitches, all small signs she’s still with me. She is my courage, my self-confidence, my inner strength. She is my impulsivity, my bad attitude, my inability to sit still in class. Her voice echoes inside of my head, filling me with advice, criticism, and an opinion that is almost always the opposite of mine.

  She is my best friend, my only friend.

  Dear God, I think I’m crazy.

  I know, without a doubt, I am broken. I’m on my own, and worst of all I’m a murderer. I don’t need a therapist to tell me hearing my dead’s sister’s voice after all this time is a manifestation of my guilt. I’ve known that for years. Some things can be pushed down deep inside, but if you can still hear your dead twin’s voice in your head, they aren’t deep enough.

  I look back up at Bitsy. Thin drops of blood stain her porcelain skin as it rolls, splatters, and pools at her feet. The grout greedily sucks it up. The janitor will have to spend hours with a gallon of bleach and a scrub brush to clean it.

  The sounds of the room are deafening, pounding in my head—Bitsy’s gasps and sobs, the jeering of onlookers, the sound of feet slapping against wet cement, and the thundering of my own erratic heart.

  Taking a slow breath, the smell of chlorine, wet clothes, and iron swim up my nose.

  “Your perfect, unbroken nose.”

  Shit! I mean seriously, holy shit … what did I do?

  “Exactly what you should have. That oxygen-wasting bitch doesn’t deserve to breathe.”

  The ache in my hand throbs in time with my thundering heart. I stand staring blankly, feeling more like a confused onlooker than the culprit. Which isn’t all that different than I normally feel. I’ve spent most my life on the outside looking in. I’m not a people person … or maybe people aren’t me kind of people. It’s been me and Sarah all my life. Twins on the outside, complete opposites on the inside. I guess we’re different on the outside now, too, since she’s dead. I was the odd one even before she died. Too quiet, reclusively shy, and book obsessed, nothing our mother wanted in a daughter. Sarah thrived on attention, commanded the room, wanted nothing more than to be the star, all I ever wanted was to be normal.

  The thick air of the pool house clings to my skin as water drips from the ends of my hair. I’d been underwater for a moment, mere seconds most likely, but I still feel like I’m drowning.

  “Tiny, deep breaths,” Sarah reminds me.

  I suck the moist air between my teeth, trying in vain to fill my lungs enough to slow the rampage in my chest.

  “My nosth sthee brothke my nosth,” Bitsy moans.

  Everyone looks toward me. Wet, shaking arms are a weak barricade, crossed tightly over my heaving chest, separating me from them, as I stare self-consciously at the floor.

  “You’re gonna pay for thith, Thloane!”

  Ignoring her, I focus on the pealing laughter in my ear—Sarah’s laughter. The first time I heard Sarah in my head, all I wanted to do was hear her again, and again. Even now, when part of me wishes I could magically shut her up, I’d be lost without her.

  The crowd separates, and Principal Hawthorn gapes in utter disbelief. Hand on his hips, he radios for back-up, seemingly unsure who to deal with first, me or th
e still-bleeding Bitsy. He turns and crooks a finger in my direction. I go quietly without protest, as Mr. Hawthorn leads me toward his office. Draped in a towel, dripping down the linoleum hall, I follow his scuffed brown shoes, never looking up. The resounding slam of his door brings forth images of jail cells clanging closed. I need a cell—a padded cell—to hide in, one where it can be just me and Sarah. Somewhere no one can find us; where reality can’t find me and taunt me with the truth of what I truly am.

  “Sloane Christianson, cheerleader slayer.”

  Stop, you got me in trouble.

  “You got me dead.”

  Principal Hawthorn sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose taking a deep breath before looking back up at me.

  “Sloane, it’s been a hard year for you.”

  “Genius.”

  Shh!

  His chair creaks as he leans forward, looking at me intensely. His unwavering eye contact makes me shift in my seat. He’s undoubtedly trying to grasp how he missed the hidden psycho lurking beneath my generally calm exterior. Far from the perfect student, I’ve never caused the type of trouble I have today. My knees slide up to my chest, putting a wall between us. Even though I know he can’t see the disembodied voice floating in my head, I hide my eyes behind my hair just in case.

  “With the sudden death of your grandparents and the unexpected family trouble, we have tried to be lenient with you. You’re frequently tardy, you skip classes, teachers have complained that you refuse to participate, or join group activities, and now this.” He spreads his hands in front of him as if motioning to all of me.

  “Do it, stand up on his desk and, scream until the entire school hears you.” Sarah urges.

  “Tell them how he rolled up after Dad bailed, how he packed you off to the movies alone so he could stay at the house and be Sharon’s special friend.”

  It’s stupid that’s what she calls it. Like I’m twelve.

  “Sloane, this is my ‘special friend’ Donnie, Tommy, Randy, Joe …” Pick a name. She’s friends with them all.

  “Can you tell us what happened today, Sloane?” The listless voice of the counselor slithers over me.

  Cloaked in shadows in the corner, I didn’t notice her when we came in. The slant of light hides her face. Her pencil hovers ready to attack the notepad with her analysis of me and my ‘odd’ behavior.

  I hate the way she gawks like a child stares at a bug in a jar. She wants to pin me down and cut me open because she can’t figure me out and I frustrate her.

  Get in line, I frustrate a lot of people. Hell, I frustrate myself.

  Most of the school counselors in elementary and junior high gave up after a meeting or two. Not her … I am her golden ticket, her bestselling novel. If only I’d answer her probing questions, invite her into my darkness.

  I sit and wait for her to pluck my wings off.

  She’s nothing more than a psycho stalker and she wants me to admit I’m crazy?

  “You’re not crazy.”

  I think you’re proof that I am. But that doesn’t give her the right to get in my head.

  “Don’t worry, there’s no room for her in here.”

  It’s hard enough to be normal with the dead nesting in your ear. Throw in a nagging guidance counselor, shadowing my every move, and I never stood a chance. I wonder what she would do if I unloaded on her, if I opened up the way she thinks I should. What would she write, if I threw this chair screaming, “Make the voices stop!” or crumpled to the floor sobbing about murder and deep water? Would her years as a school counselor help either one of us? I bite my lip, fighting the smirk crawling into the corners of my mouth.

  They lean in unison, waiting for me to answer. Urgency hangs in the air around us. They need to know why desperately hoping they aren’t responsible. They’re growing impatient because people three hallways away can hear Bitsy Ramone’s mother’s high heels banging down the corridor toward the office—each clack a demand for answers, every stomp a sign of unstoppable anger and blame, all clear promises that someone will pay. She’s a one-woman wrecking ball storming straight for us. The sound of my mother is nowhere to be found.

  BARRETT

  I speed down the dirt road watching the wreck of a trailer I live in getting smaller in the rearview. It looks abandoned, as it sags in the god-awful Texas heat. Rust’s eating away the sides, and the grass is knee-high around it.

  I spent the morning waiting on Ma to pass out so I could get out the door without a fight and now I’m running late. She’s got this thing sometimes about being alone and wanting to keep me in the trailer. She’s got a thing about drinking, too. Hell, Ma’s got a lot of things nobody wants to deal with, but I’m stuck with her ’til graduation. I don’t know why she wants to keep me in there with her. When’s she’s not passed out or too high to move, she’s screaming about how I ruined her life. Her perfect, drug-addicted, man-abused, booze-filled life. Yeah, I make that worse.

  Caught up in mentally cursing Ma, I don’t see the cop car ’til he pulls out behind me lights and siren going full force. Slamming my palm against the steering wheel, I pull warily to the right.

  Lord, please don’t let it be Sheriff Rainer. I think about the pros and cons of taking off again but sigh a breath of relief when a thin trooper with a 70’s ’stache steps out of the car. I can’t remember his name, but he ain’t Sheriff Rainer and that’s all that matters.

  “Mr. Clark, skipping school again I see.” He makes a tsking noise with his tongue that forces my fists to clench. I learned a long time ago if you ain’t got the answer they want, just shut up, so that’s what I’m doin’ … shutting up. There’s a whopping one week left at Mt. Cavalry High School, and no matter what I do there I’ll still be me and they’ll all still hate me.

  “Where you headed, boy?” he asks, leaning against the truck door.

  “I’m running late to school, is there a problem?” I attempt to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, trying to play the respectful kid, but we both know what the problem is. He’s one of Rainer’s lackeys, and I’m the town’s black sheep.

  “License and proof of insurance, Barrett.” He glares at me over the rim of his silver sunglasses.

  Putting my back to him, I turn and pull an insurance card from the glove box, hoping he won’t look at it too closely. It’s a shitty photocopy of one of Ma’s many boyfriends’ cards. I rubbed out his name and put mine, which isn’t that noticeable in the photocopy. As long as he doesn’t run the VIN which will come back to a ’99 Dodge Neon.

  “You really should be waiting for summer break, don’t ’cha think?” he asks, handing me the fake insurance card. He steps back toward his car, my license in his hand like he needs to run it. He knows me. Hell, the whole sheriff’s department keeps tabs on me. Where I am, when I’m there, how long it’s been since my last stint on juvie. I’m sure they’re all just biding their time ’til they can send my ass off to county prison. There’s no reason for him to be making such a big damn deal about me missing school. Yeah, I’m failing, but the teachers will push me through. Nobody will miss me today, and nobody wants me there tomorrow, so why should I go? The way I see it, I’m doing everyone a favor.

  One more year. That’s all I have to make it through. One more miserable year and then I’m heading out to wherever the road and my old truck will take me. The only reason I go to school at all is to get outta that trailer, get away from the stale beer and the smoke, to feel like a normal person, eat actual food, and forget for one second that my pa is gone for good and I’m a murderer. Another person’s death on your hands is a hell of a thing to deal with. Toss in an alcoholic Ma, and her string of abusive, drug-pusher boyfriends, and I’m a walking statistic for teenagers that end up in prison. So yeah, school, not a high priority. This godforsaken town will be the death of me if I don’t get out. I’m their scapegoat, their doormat, their example. There goes Barrett Clark. Don’t want to be like him, do ya, little Billy? Better go to school and eat your veggies or you’ll end up
just like that.

  I’m their barbershop whispers, their back of the diner gossip.

  “I heard his dad killed a man.”

  “I hear he’s a drug dealer, and his momma’s a whore.”

  I’m a lot of things to this town. Some of them are true, most are bullshit. All I am is me, but to most of them that’s enough … too much really.

  “I said, do you hear me, boy?” Officer Asshole raps his flashlight against the door, no doubt scratching the already ruined paint.

  “Yeah, I hear you. Get to school or you’ll run me in, or some crap like that.” For a second, I think he’s going to pull me through the window and bust my mouth for talking back—Sheriff Rainer would have—but he just shakes his head and waltzes back to his patrol car.

  I wait for him to pull off, so he doesn’t notice me heading in the opposite direction of the high school.

  The sun beats down through my cracked windshield as I drive toward the county prison. By the time I get there, it’ll be visiting hours, and Pa doesn’t mind if I skip out on school occasionally.

  SLOANE

  “Honestly Sloane, do you think I need this crap?”

  “She said crap because shit would be un-ladylike.”

  Whoring around, though, completely acceptable.

  I glance across the car at her. The trees whirl past the window behind her at break-neck speed, making a collage of swirling green and blue. Squinting against the sun, I strain to see her through unbiased eyes, fight to see her the way I did when I was a child, but she didn’t like me then either. Sharon wanted little girls with perfect smiles, who curtsied when they were introduced … like Sarah. Screw-ups like me—who shied away from attention, who hid inside of their head or a book, who ruined everything—well, I don’t think she knew what to do with me. She still doesn’t. I lean harder against the car door.

  Her perfectly polished thumbnail clicks, as she nervously flicks it against her top, front teeth. The sound is a jackhammer in my brain.