They'll Never Catch Us

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by Razorbill,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Jessica Goodman

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 9780593114322 (HARDCOVER)

  ISBN 9780593353455 (INTERNATIONAL EDITION)

  ISBN 9780593114339 (EBOOK)

  sky

  Cover Photography © 2021 Lilia Cretcher

  Cover design by Kristin Boyle

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

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  For Halley—

  We’ll always be the Goodman girls.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1: Stella

  2: Ellie

  3: Stella

  4: Ellie

  5: Stella

  6: Stella

  7: Ellie

  8: Stella

  9: Ellie

  10: Stella

  11: Stella

  12: Ellie

  13: Stella

  14: Stella

  15: Ellie

  16: Stella

  17: Ellie

  18: Stella

  19: Stella

  20: Ellie

  21: Ellie

  22: Stella

  23: Ellie

  24: Stella

  25: Ellie

  26: Stella

  27: Ellie

  28: Stella

  29: Ellie

  30: Stella

  31: Stella

  32: Stella

  33: Ellie

  34: Stella

  35: Ellie

  36: Stella

  37: Ellie

  38: Stella

  39: Ellie

  40: Stella

  41: Raven

  42: Ellie

  43: Stella

  44: Ellie

  45: Stella

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  STELLA

  I hate the way my sister Ellie breathes. She doesn’t huff or puff or pant or wheeze. No, Ellie’s breath is steady and sure and it never changes. Not when she accelerates around a particularly angled turn. Not even when she sprints the final hundred yards. Her breath is as consistent as the time.

  I also hate the way Ellie’s ponytail never falls out of place. And that she can run in silence without wanting to crush her own brain with her hands. How can my little sister have so many thoughts she actually wants to think?

  Me, on the other hand. I just want to shut everything out. That’s why I run. To get away. To be free. I just want to pump my legs faster than anyone else’s. To feel the burn deep within my lungs and all throughout my thighs. To win. It doesn’t matter where I’m going or which course I’m on or anything. What matters is that my brain stops. Completely. And I can only get there if everything’s aligned, if I ascend planes, beat records, and speed, speed, speed.

  Only when I’m running can I forget about the little things—how my dark hair is so unruly it can only be tamed by a thick medical-grade elastic, or that time in the ninth grade Julia Heller found out I didn’t have my period yet and awarded me the nickname Sterile. I can forget that my parents are constantly worried about money and the too-big house. I can forget that Mom is a recovering alcoholic, who is always a few sips away from overthrowing the delicate balance we’ve found—and that Dad is constantly forcing us to avoid things that might set her off. I can forget why I’m here, how guilt and horror fizzled in my brain when I first heard the sound of bone unlatching. I can even forget the worst thing of all: that Ellie is just as fast as I am—sometimes even faster.

  Shit. I’m doing it again. This happens every time I get hooked on this train of thought. I start listing all the things I hate about my sister, and then somewhere along the way the gears in my brain take a sharp turn and I’m reminding myself of everything that’s wrong with me.

  The spiral continues until I remember something Mom once said: Everyone hates themselves a little. If you get over that, you survive. Sure, she said it when she was drunk and I was five. But I think it holds up.

  I repeat that mantra over and over as I push toward the final eight hundred yards around the track. The sun beats down on my head and I wonder if my scalp can get sunburnt through my mess of curls. Ellie’s fine, silky hair wouldn’t protect her against this.

  “Last one, Steckler! You got this!” Coach Reynolds calls from the sidelines. Her voice is faint, but I can still hear it. I love being called Steckler. It never happens back in Edgewater because there are always two of us.

  I lean my body into the inner circle of the track as I glide around the last turn. The finish line beckons. My muscles ache. Makes sense, though. I have been running nearly a hundred miles a week. That was what was promised at Breakbridge Elite Track and Field Center. Well, that and anger management courses. But still, I’ve never slept better. Here, my muscles ache and thrum as I pour myself into bed every night. I don’t stay awake reciting my stats or obsessing over the scholarship I lost or listening for gasps in the stands as bodies collide. I just . . . sleep. Is this how I’m supposed to feel? Well rested and happy?

  With only a hundred yards to go, I can feel every single lap and every single sprint that have turned my muscles into steel. I’ve gotten better since June. In the past eight weeks I’ve seen my times go down like crazy. Sure, I also learned some breathing exercises to help clear my mind and ways to keep me from spiraling with frustration. There’s no way Ellie will be able to keep up on the cross country course. A slow smirk crawls across my face as I imagine the fury in my sister’s icy blue eyes when I beat her.

  This last race isn’t really a race at all. I’m just killing time before my parents come to get me. This is my final reminder of everything I’ve accomplished this summer. My first without Ellie. My first away from Edgewater. I have never felt freer than I do here. Not while running in the woods, or around the lake back home, up by the Ellacoya Mountain Resort. I’m finally, desperately, alone. And I love it.

  Here we go. My eyes narrow as the last few yards sneak up on me. I cross them with ease and without ever breaking my pace. I want to keep running. I would, too. If I didn’t know Mom and Dad were waiting out front, eager to get home to Ellie, the landscapers, and the home office where they sell real estate to gullible yuppies looking for a second home north of Manhattan, at the foot of the idyllic Catskill mountain range. Or at least where they try to.

  They used to have such a
hard time closing deals, back when the cold cases were still fresh and the media called our little town Deadwater. In the span of a year, three female cross country stars went missing. Each one was found on the thorny trail up by Oak Tower. All killed in the same way: blunt force trauma, with no signs of sexual assault. They all fought like hell, and our totally incompetent police department never figured out who did it.

  But that’s in the past now. It’s been a decade since anyone went missing. Well, that’s if you don’t count Shira Tannenbaum, and no one does. Now Edgewater’s a place where tristate tourists come to pick our apples, buy our ceramics, and kayak on our lake. Deadwater’s just a myth. Something we all lived through but try to forget.

  “Steckler, that was your fastest yet.” Coach Reynolds skips up to me and wraps her arm around my shoulder. “You’re going to crush ’em all back home this year.” She flashes a wide, toothy smile, one that I’ve grown fond of, even though I’m usually not fond of much. Her gray-blonde bun flops on top of her head, just above her neon-yellow visor, and her cheeks are flushed and round. She reminds me of Grandma Jane.

  “Thanks,” I say, barely out of breath.

  “Your folks are here.”

  “I figured.”

  “Need help gathering your things?”

  “Nah,” I say. “I’m all packed.”

  We walk together in silence until the wood cabins come into focus. Behind them are mountains. Dozens of gorgeous, pointy peaks that ascend into the clouds. They’re prettier up here, better than the ones back home. Grander. Closer to the heavens. But I’m itching to get going and move on. I want to forget about what happened last year and focus on the cross country season ahead, on winning back my college scholarship. That’s my only way out of Edgewater. It’s not a bad place to live. It’s just not the only place.

  “There’s our Stella!” Mom’s cooing voice rings out over the field, echoing into the trees, and my shoulders immediately tense.

  “Look at you!” Dad calls. “I swear, you’re all muscle these days.”

  Mom’s pretty face turns into a pout and she pushes her dark hair behind her ears. It’s long and silky, just like Ellie’s. “Sad to leave, sweetie? I know, it’s been such a fun summer, such a learning experience.” She’s right, even though I don’t want her to be.

  “With the amount we’re paying, I should hope so.” Dad smiles, but the relaxed feeling in my chest disappears and my face turns a bright shade of crimson as I remember that Coach Reynolds is standing right there.

  “I just have to get my bags, then we can head out,” I say.

  “You don’t want to shower before we get in the car? It’s a long way home.” Mom pinches her perfectly symmetrical nose as if to get the message across loud and clear. You fucking reek.

  “Nope,” I say through clenched teeth. “All good.”

  “Well, okay,” Dad says, nervous. “Shall we, then?”

  Everyone nods and we begin walking to the car. “You know, Stella’s improved quite a bit this summer,” Coach Reynolds says. Mom and Dad look hopeful, like they’d been waiting to hear that I’m still good. Good enough to win State again and get back into Georgetown’s good graces so I can go to college for free. Coach Gary, back in Edgewater, said if I broke my personal record—we call it PR for short—by a full minute, they’d have to pay attention. They couldn’t ignore me. He said it during one of his million-decibel screaming tantrums, spit forming at the corners of his mouth. But still. I just have to crush that time by State in November. Until then, everything is up in the air.

  2

  ELLIE

  Stella’s due home any minute from Crazy Camp. That’s what all our teammates call it in the cross country group chat. Assholes. I told them to shut up earlier in the summer, but it’s hard to have Stella’s back when she goes and does the kind of shit that gets her sent off to a place like Breakbridge.

  I try to push my big sister out of my head and enjoy my last day of freedom before preseason starts. I lean back in the plastic lounge chair and feel the slats dig into my skin. Pop music blares from the speaker next to me and sweat trickles down my stomach.

  I clench my core, grateful that a summer of swimming and lifeguarding at Sweetwater Lake helped me keep my abs tight, my muscles lean. But as my mind drifts toward work, it also drifts toward Noah Brockston. Sweet, kind, strong Noah. Today was our last day working together, which means it was also the last day we could be us until he finally breaks up with Tamara Johnson.

  We talked about it last night, during one of our midnight walks, after he pressed a copy of his favorite book, On the Road, into my hands. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I read it last year and hated it. Not after I saw what he scrawled on the first page: For all we are and what we could be. He signed it N. That’s what made me bring it up again: us.

  “I wish things weren’t so complicated,” I said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. We were walking the trail up by Oak Tower, the one that’s been closed since the murders happened. And by “closed,” I mean “now only used by people who don’t want to be found.” The only thing stopping anyone from getting to the trail is a flimsy chain-link fence that’s easy to fit through. The moon was bright and lit the overgrown path as we made our way to a clearing. There was a big rock in the center, and a deep pit off to one side. Noah sat down on the rock and motioned for me to slide in next to him. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer. The stars danced in the sky above and it felt like we were the only people on earth. There’s no cell reception on that trail, no laughter floating from another group of hikers. Just silence.

  “After everything that happened, I just want to be normal with you,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was going to flinch at those words. Everything that happened. As if what had transpired between us had been a coincidence, a dumb stroke of luck and not a life-altering event. But he didn’t. He just cupped my chin in his hand.

  “I know, Ell,” Noah said softly, his breath warm on my ear. “You’ve been through so much.” He stroked my hair like he was lulling me to sleep and I nuzzled closer to him, pressing my face into his chest. I wanted to do this every day, in broad daylight, on paths we were allowed to traverse without fear of getting caught or ruining each other’s lives. “I have a plan, though,” he said. “As soon as Tamara’s dad makes the call to Princeton, I’ll end it with her. But if I break up with her before, it’ll ruin everything.”

  My skin prickled at his admission. It was no secret—at least to me—that he was using his girlfriend for her connections to his dream school. I almost felt special that he confided in me. It was like he wanted me to know the worst thing about him, that he was capable of using someone. We all are, though. Most of us just don’t admit it. But I didn’t understand why he doubted his ability to get into Princeton on his own or why some fancy school in New Jersey was the only option.

  I let it lie. I didn’t want to push Noah. Not after what happened in August, when everything changed, when things became scary and serious. Since then, I tried to keep him close, cling to him and any sense of normalcy. So instead of picking a fight, I let him change the subject to some William S. Burroughs book he just finished. The boy loves long gibberish-y texts about random white dudes losing their minds. After a while, I stopped listening. My eyelids were heavy and I let my mind drift off toward my own future. Maybe it would exist far away, somewhere in Texas or Florida, Oregon or Ohio, where no one knew there were two Steckler sisters. Where I could just be Steckler, not Baby Steckler. Where “Ellie” wasn’t always preceded by “Stella.”

  Last year, my possibilities seemed endless. But after Stella got herself labeled as violent and unrecruitable, everything changed. Now that I’m a sophomore, the scouts will start looking, and I have to be the one to win a scholarship, to get that full ride Stella had already secured.

  But that’s a future problem. A tomorrow proble
m. A next month problem. Now, here in my backyard, I don’t have to think about it.

  I drape my T-shirt over my face, blocking the bright, hot sun. If Bethany were still here and not off at her new house in Michigan, she would know what to do. She would have understood. I was always able to talk to her about anything. But after she told me I was too needy when I actually needed her the most, I think it’s safe to say I no longer have a best friend.

  Something splashes deep within the pool in front of me and in a split second, I jerk forward, drenched from the blowback.

  “Miss me?” Stella bobs to the surface, smiling and treading water. She’s wearing an EDGEWATER XC cobalt-blue sports bra and white mesh shorts. Her heart-shaped face cocks to one side, and her dark curly hair is piled high into a messy bun, now dripping wet.

  “You asshole,” I say, shielding my eyes with my hand. “How’s your time?” It’s the one thing I know to ask her, the one thing that will cut through the bullshit.

  “You’ll have to find out tomorrow.” Stella grins wickedly and ducks below the surface, spinning around before coming up for air.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stell,” I say. “You’re not going to tell me before preseason?”

  “Let’s just say I improved.”

  I lie back against the chair, suddenly anxious. “I knew I should have trained with you this summer.”

  But we both know I couldn’t have, that Mom and Dad could only afford to send one of us to a track camp that doubled as a mental health facility. Just like how we know they can only afford to send one of us to college. The other has to bank on an athletic scholarship, which we thought Stella had in the bag. Now it’s up to me.

  Stella breaststrokes to the other side of the pool and back again, swimming in time with the pop song on the speaker. “So what’d I miss in Edgewater? Anything of note?”

  I could tell her about Noah, how different I feel now, or the little ball of shame buried deep within my heart. But something holds me back. I know she wouldn’t tell anyone else, but it’s almost like I don’t want to show weakness. Plus, Stella doesn’t really care about what happens here. Stella hates Edgewater in the summer, when it quadruples in size thanks to all the yuppies who finally come to fill their summer houses and pretend like they’re country folk for a few weekends a year. She hates Ellacoya Mountain Resort, the five-star luxury hotel up the road where most of our peers work. But who am I kidding? I hate it, too, now that Noah and I are a thing. Tamara Johnson’s family own the place.