Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

JUSTICE

13 years old

" M iles!" I shouted as he opened his car door and stepped out.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, ruffling my hair. "How was school?"

I shrugged as I hefted my backpack over my shoulder, stumbling as I did.

Miles took it from my hand and threw the book laden backpack into the back seat of his car.

Being born premature, I had always been small for my age, and just a week into year seven, I was already being bullied by a few classmates for struggling to carry my own, huge, heavy schoolbag. With Miles around, no one ever said a word, but once he finished year twelve, he'd be leaving the school and I'd be alone.

It was the end of my first week at high school, and Miles' last year at the same school. Now eighteen, he had his own car, and being close friends with my sister, we often got a lift home from school with him.

While we waited for my sister, Miles' attention was snagged by a small group of boys standing with an older boy who was straddling a black motorcycle. The visor of his helmet was up, and when his dark eyes met mine, I couldn't look away. There was something familiar about him.

"What the fuck?" Miles said as he stormed towards the group of boys.

Worried, I trailed along behind him until he was face to face with the boy on the bike. They stared at each other for a long minute. "Salvatore?" Miles asked, his voice was low, and confusion caused his brows to crease.

The boy on the bike shook his head. "No, I'm Salem," he said. "You must have me confused with someone else." He turned his attention to me, those dark brown eyes staring into mine. I blinked a few times as a flickering memory came back to me of a boy tracing the scars on my arm.

I tilted my head, taking in the boy's features, but I couldn't figure out why I felt like I knew him. Like I always did when I was nervous, I curled my fingers around my opposite wrist and stroked the scarred flesh of my forearm.

"Miles!" my sister called from the car, waving. "Come on, I've got work at four."

Miles turned and headed back to his car, but I couldn't move. I was stuck in place, staring at the boy on the motorbike, until he spoke, and a shiver crawled down my spine.

"Go on, Justice, you need to get home."

A few days after that incident, two boys spread a rumour around school that Salvatore Forrestor was alive and well and back in our small town. They both died in a car accident a week later. Miles didn't tell me until I was fifteen that that boy was the same boy I'd cried over when I was five years old. Salem was Salvatore Forrestor. My friend, and the boy who protected me through my first year of primary school.

Miles made me promise never to mention it to anyone, and I obeyed.

It wasn't until my parents and siblings died when our house burned down, that I admitted to Miles that Salem had been watching me since that day at school when I was just thirteen.

"Justice…" Miles trails off.

"No one can help me, Miles, you know that. It doesn't matter where I go, he always finds me. And if you get involved, he'll kill you."

"I have an idea," he says. "My gran's got that holiday house on the coast, we could go there for a few weeks."

"And what if he finds us there? Everyone else is dead, Miles, I can't have your death on my conscience too."

"I'll be fine," he says. "You in or not?"