Chapter 62

“My last ten miles, I managed 55:42. This one’s 55:50,” he mutters, half-distracted by whatever stats he’s flipping through on the watch. “And my heart rate spent more time in zone three than zone two.” 

“Well…that’s only eight seconds.” I blink at him, then realization hits: “You ran ten miles to get us coffee?” 

He ignores that last part. “It’s eight seconds behind.” 

Knowing Adrian, those eight seconds might as well be eight minutes, and there’s little I can say to convince him otherwise. 

So, instead, I redirect. “I have to stop by the house today. Some school paper came, and I need to make sure it’s not important.” 

He’s still looking at his watch. “I’ll call the driver. Once I shower, we can –” 

“No.” It slips out before I mean it to, earning me a raised eyebrow. “I mean…no, it’s probably better if I go by myself. One less person to ambush.” 

And I don’t have to worry about Mom repeating any of her half-baked conclusions to Adrian. 

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “I’ll be back within the hour.” 

To my surprise, he agrees, and though I’m less than excited to spend any part of my day in Mom or Rick’s proximity, at least I know I’m not sentencing Adrian to the same fate. 

***

It’s with great reluctance that I abandon the safety of Adrian’s driver for whatever unknown lurks in the trailer – but relief trickles through me when I realize Mom’s Saturn Ion is nowhere to be seen.

Neither is Rick’s pickup. 

There’s no way I’m this lucky. 

I use the extra key Mom keeps under the potted plant on the porch to let myself in. I can’t hear a sports game blasting from the living room or Mom tinkering in the kitchen, which means I really am alone. 

Thank God. 

I cross the threshold into the kitchen, the vinyl squeaking under my sneakers, and stop short. 

There’s nothing on the kitchen table. 

Well, nothing for me. 

A couple of old bills for Mom, something from social security for Rick, but nothing addressed to me, and certainly nothing bearing Lionswood’s stamp. 

Frustration burns a hole in my stomach as I search the counters next , and again, find nothing. 

Then the coffee table – nothing. 

My bedroom – nothing. 

Even the master bedroom yields nothing, though I’m pretty sure I won’t be getting rid of the image of my mother’s leopard print bra slung over the headboard anytime soon. 

It’s not on the kitchen table, I text Rick. I try to telepathically channel as much of my frustration in his direction as possible. 

I even consider calling, but I can’t imagine he’ll be any more helpful in real time. 

His response comes shortly. 

????

I exhale sharply. He’s confused? 

For a brief moment, I wonder if this is one of my mother’s new war tactics: feeding me false information that’ll lead nowhere but a wild goose chase. 

Maybe it’s amusing for her, knowing I’m going to tear through the trailer for a letter that doesn’t exist. 

Or maybe she’s just waiting for me to cave and text her about it. 

Not happening. 

As a last resort, I head for the garage. 

I doubt it’s here, in Rick’s sanctuary, but if nothing else, I can see if his cigarette stash’s been replenished and employ a war tactic of my own. 

There’s nothing but darkness to greet me as I step inside the shed, and even though it’s broad daylight, even though I’m not afraid of the dark, something like trepidation winds its way down my spine. 

Like Rick’s very aura is trying to push me out. 

Just one quick look. 

I flip on the single overhead bulb, which does little to fill the space with light, but reveals the same cluttered mess of tools and half-baked projects that I remember from last time. 

But no letter. 

Maybe he stashed it in the same drawer as his cigarettes. 

It’s craftier than I’d expect from Rick, but if I’m already here…

I’m rifling through the adjustable wrenches when the garage door suddenly slams shut. 

Fuck.

I whirl around, ready to spew excuses at Rick – and feel my heart jump straight into my throat. 

“Ian,” I breathe, not sure whether to be more relieved or panicked. 

Framed in the shadowy corner of the garage, I can’t quite make out more than his silhouette, but it’s just him. Alone. No Rick. 

“Are you here to work on the bike?” I ask. “Rick’s not here. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. I was just looking for something, but it doesn’t seem to be out here, so I should probably go. Get out of your hair.” 

Three things happen at once. 

I realize there’s no bike in the garage anymore, Ian steps into the light and I notice, for the first time, that hair-raising, cold fury has engulfed in his green eyes. 

And he’s clutching a pocket knife in his left hand.