by Jus Accardo
His was denial.
“I’ll be gone a few days.” He gripped my shoulders and turned me toward the truck with a nudge. “When I get back, we’ll deal with this.”
I cringed. This wasn’t going to be pretty, but at least I had a few days to prepare.
...
Dad was gone more than he was home. I used to hate it, but since Mom died, I found myself thankful. Not because I wanted him gone. I loved him. He loved me, too. I knew that—even if we’d never fully understood each other. But we didn’t know how to deal with each other anymore. We didn’t know how to talk. He’d lost a part of himself when we lost her, and what was left belonged to Uncle Sam. He’d made a choice to live each day entrenched in service to our country rather than face life without her. Never mind that I was still here… Never mind that I missed our Sunday horror movie marathons complete with caramel-covered popcorn, and the yearly trip he and I took to the Great Lakes.
But there were moments he believed himself alone—moments he thought the rest of the world wasn’t looking—that little bits of the old him bled through. Like right before he traveled. It had become a weird tradition between us. I crept down the stairs, tucked myself around the corner, and watched him go.
Suitcase packed, he would gather his keys and papers and head for the door. Halfway across the room he would pause, like it was something spur of the moment, then lean in and plant the softest kiss on the picture of Mom and me that hung above the end table. He pretended not to notice me there, but you don’t get to be a general by coasting along, unobservant. I liked to think he did it to let me know he still cared. To prove that he was still in there even if he couldn’t find the right ways to communicate with me. I wanted to believe it was his way of saying I love you.
Following that same routine, Dad pushed off just after four in the morning, and I’d crawled back into bed for a few hours to catch up on my z’s. By the time ten a.m. rolled around, it was obvious that he’d made good on his promise to Officer Henley. I was spending this trip under strict supervision. My babysitter was on the front steps, pounding on the door.
I squared my shoulders and pulled open the door, hoping for Bentley, one of Dad’s more clueless subordinates. He’d watched me before and tended to distract easily. All it took was a little cable TV and some powdered doughnuts. At least with him, I’d have a chance to sneak out and get a picture of the mural before they painted over the thing. The mayor wouldn’t waste any time, and I refused to let all that work go without some kind of reminder. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Private Bentley on my doorstep. It was someone else.
Two someone elses.
“General Anderson sent us,” the one in the front said. He was tall, with what looked like dark hair. It was hard to tell. He was wearing a black skullcap and had the collar of his leather jacket flipped up, assumedly to shield him from the chilly breeze.
“Really?” I cracked open the door and wedged one of my sneakers behind it. This babysitting thing wasn’t something new. Dad had done it before. My penchant for trouble was near legendary around town—though, as rumors went, it was greatly exaggerated. I had a reputation of not playing well with others—my own personal middle finger to society for moving Dad’s post all over creation more than twelve times in my life alone. That led to stories of inflated debauchery and rebellious behavior, only a quarter of which I was actually guilty of. My biggest crime to date was hardcore tagging. Not the cheesy write your handle all over the wall kind, but quickie works of art that, in my opinion, improved the scenery. Splashes of color that breathed new life into dead things.
All the other times Dad arranged babysitting detail, he’d sent uniformed soldiers complete with the formal stick shoved up their asses and the expressions wiped from their faces. I couldn’t see the other guy, he was standing behind hat-boy, but this one oozed attitude. I might have actually liked him on sight—in a might be cool to hang with kind of way—if he hadn’t been a greenie. “You’re telling me that you’re soldiers?”
“Is that something people lie about around here?” His blue jeans were worn, pulled over battered black combat boots. The sole of the left one was peeling away from the shoe. Did he think he could slack because Dad wasn’t here? That no one would see him and report back? Even if they had permission to be in civies, there were strict standards. While off duty, a soldier had to maintain a neat, well-groomed appearance. This was more an outfit worthy of a high school rebel, which, honestly, this guy didn’t look much older than.
The one in the back pushed him aside and came forward. Black hair fell just below his ears and had a slight wave to it. It was fuller than normally allowed, not even close to regulation. On some of our previous bases, hair standards weren’t strictly enforced. But at Hannity, they were sticklers. High and tight. Those were the rules.
Like the other guy, he had on a leather jacket with black fatigue pants tucked into slightly worn combat boots. Unlike the first, though, this one had seen some trouble in his day. There was a thin scar on the left side of his face. It went from just above his eyebrow, down across his eye and to the tip of his chin.
My pulse spiked a little as his gaze raked over me. Down and up, then up and down, lips parting slightly. I didn’t go for greenies, but this one sent the butterflies in my stomach tripping crazy. It was the scar. It added character to his angular face, suggesting that maybe there was more than meets the eye. Or possibly it was the way he was looking at me. With a spark of hunger and something close to wonder in his expression. I’d never had anyone look at me that way. Like I was something mythical and rare. A creature that shouldn’t exist. I twisted, shifting so that the door obscured just a little more of me from his view.
He hesitated, focus still trained on me, and for a moment I thought he might poke me to be sure I was real. Clearing his throat, he finally said, “I’m Private First Class Cade Granger, and this is…” He paused to glance over his shoulder. “Recruit Noah Emeal.”
“A private and a fuzzy? Really?” I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased or insulted. I mean, why bother sending supervision at all if you were going to scrape the bottom of the barrel?
“I promise you’ll be safe with us, Miss Anderson.”
Miss Anderson. Huh. Maybe there wasn’t more to this guy. He sounded just like the rest of them. Formal and uptight. “That right? So you’re here to save me from myself?” Because, really, that was the problem, right? I couldn’t be trusted to keep myself out of trouble.
“I’m not sure I understand.” He tilted his head to the left, confused, but didn’t take his eyes off me. In fact, if anything, his gaze grew more intense. It was like he and I were the only ones in the room. In the world…
“I’d really appreciate it if you could stop staring.” I snapped. “I can’t tell if you’re mentally trying to strip me, or contemplating which way to cook my skin for Sunday dinner. Either way, it’s creeping me the hell out.”
His mouth fell open, but he recovered quickly, squaring his shoulders. A dark gray T-shirt peeked out from beneath his leather jacket. There was a logo on the front—something that looked kind of like a man with a wand—but I couldn’t see the words.
I sighed. Really, what was the point? Maybe Dad sent chaperones he thought I’d be able to identify with. Maybe this was his weird way of extending an olive branch. “Identification?”
“Of course.” Cade nodded and dug into his back pocket, producing a small badge. Obediently, he held it out to me.
“Private First Class Cade Granger,” I read aloud. In the picture, his hair was short and tapered to contour his head as per regulation. It looked much better grown out. Then again, I was a sucker for long hair. I sighed and stepped aside. “Suppose I should let you in.”
“Thank you.” He stepped inside, followed by Noah.
I led them down the hall and into the living room, and pointed to the long couch against the wall. “That one pulls out into a bed.” Then, to the one on the other side of the room. “And the other i
s strictly a what you see is what you get deal. Fight it out between yourselves.”
“Thank you,” Cade said again. He gestured to the couch. “May I?”
“Go for it.” I sank into the chair across from him. Noah was still standing in the doorway like at any moment he might make a run for it. Where Cade stared, he was doing his best to avoid looking. He scanned the room, gaze bouncing off everything except me. I wasn’t sure which I preferred. Cade’s scrutiny was on the unnerving side, but his partner’s complete lack of interest kind of freaked me out, too. “So what’s the deal here? Lay it out for me.”
“Deal?”
I rolled my eyes. “The rules. Guessing the general gave you a list of do’s and don’ts? That’s his usual play. Just wanna know what I’m in for.”
“Oh,” Cade said. “We’re here—”
“Go about your daily routine,” Noah interrupted. “Do whatever it is you normally do on a Saturday.”
Joking. He was joking. I hitched a thumb toward the door. “So…I can leave?”
“No,” Cade said vehemently, while at the same time Noah supplied a semi-cheerful, “Sure.” They glared at each other, a silent argument flaring to life.
“Well, which is it?”
“No,” Cade answered with an air of authority. His expression softened. “I’d rather you stayed here.”
“Rather?” I challenged. “So, then I can leave.”
He shook his head and pinned his partner with a stern expression. Noah looked ready to explode. “I suppose it would be all right.”
Victory!
I couldn’t help grinning, and immediately started for the door to claim my prize.
“Of course, we’d have to go with you,” he added, and I froze. Just one foot from freedom! “I’m sorry.”
Sorry? He didn’t sound very sorry. In fact, he seemed kind of smug. But that was okay. Because apparently he’d never gotten the memo on teenage girls. Telling us not to do something was the fastest way to nudge us toward doing it.
Chapter Three
I killed the day in my room, venturing downstairs only to use the bathroom, or when the munchies struck—which wasn’t often. Dad was a health food nut. It almost made me happy when he went away. I took advantage of the opportunity to eat junk food and load up on carbs, and ordered a pizza for dinner. When it arrived, I snagged a slice, then retreated back to my hole to pass my sentence in peace, away from prying eyes.
Because it was unsettling. Each time I went downstairs, there was more staring. This must be how zoo animals felt. No wonder so many were ornery. Either they were taking Dad’s watch her orders just a little too seriously, or I’d grown a set of horns and a third boob I wasn’t aware of.
At about two in the morning, I pushed off the covers and threw my legs over the edge of the bed, frustrated and unable to sleep. I couldn’t get the mural out of my mind. It was silly, but I felt close to Mom in the countless hours I’d spent painting. Like she had been there with me for each brush stroke. Had supervised every spritz of color. I imagined her standing over my shoulder, wild chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze, and humming softly.
I sighed and kicked at the air. The moment I’d gotten caught, the town of Wells had gotten a little bit smaller. My long leash of semi-freedom tightened. This time when they painted over it, there would be no starting again. Anywhere. They’d know it was me.
I had to see it one last time. I had to say good-bye.
As quietly as I could, I dressed and slipped both feet into my sneakers, then crept across the room. The boards creaked and I cringed, freezing. I held my breath and listened for a moment, convinced I’d hear at least someone stirring. But there was nothing.
So far so good.
I took it as a sign and kept moving. One foot in front of the other, I ventured into the hallway and paused again to listen for movement. It was dark and the lights were all off downstairs except for one. It looked like the lamp on the coffee table in the living room.
“What did the general say?” Cade asked in a hushed voice.
Noah sighed. “He checked into the names we gave him. Only one is a soldier on base. Miles Hann. Penny Bloom runs an animal hospital in town, and Odette Ferguson works at some advertising firm. All three are unaccounted for already.”
“Dylan’s moving fast this time for some reason,” Cade growled. “He’s been here only twenty-four hours and they’re all gone.”
Unaccounted for?
People were missing? I could see the interest in the Miles guy. Military took that kind of thing seriously. But what about the two civilians they’d mentioned? Why involve the Hannity boys? Wouldn’t that have been a local police issue?
“He’s worried about her.” Noah continued. The venom in his voice when he said her made me twitch. I assumed he meant me. Apparently he wasn’t a fan—which made no sense. Usually people needed more than five minutes to decide if they loved or hated me.
“Jesus, man. You can’t even say her name, can you?”
Noah mumbled something too low for me to hear—which drove me nuts—then added, “In the meantime, we’re not supposed to let her out of our sight.”
“Hadn’t planned on it. We’re her shadows until the general does what he needs to.”
“This isn’t what we’re here for,” Noah complained. The springs on the couch squeaked.
“This is exactly what we’re here for! How the hell can you even say that? The entire plan—”
“The plan,” Noah said with a snort. More squeaking from the couch. “Is a roundabout way for you to—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Noah.”
“Whatever, man. You know I’m right. And on some level I don’t blame you. This whole thing has you messed up.”
“And you’re not, right? This is all so easy for you?”
“You know that it’s not.”
They continued to argue, but the heat kicked on, making the rest of the conversation impossible to hear. Bad for snooping—all that plan talk had me crazy curious—but good for escaping. I gave up on it and eased down the stairs, one at a time, then pressed myself close to the wall. Slow, but steady. Twenty steps and I made it through the hallway and around the corner of the kitchen.
The conversation had died, but they’d turned on the television. The faint sound of sitcom laughter was just what I needed to cover the slight squeak of the backdoor hinge and the click of the lock as it closed behind me.
One last look. That’s all I wanted. I would be there and back before they even knew I was gone. I’d snuck out to the wall a thousand times. What could go wrong?
...
It took me forty minutes to get into town. It would have taken less time if I’d been able to cut through the Harper farm like I’d planned, but the lights were on up at the barn, and the faint sounds of chatter drifted through the field. I’d been forced to go the long way.
I hit the main drag and pulled out my cell. Almost three a.m. and I was still four blocks from the park. I stuffed both hands into my pockets and picked up the pace. I was about a half block away when someone called out.
“Hey again.”
I froze, terrified to turn around. They couldn’t nail me for doing anything wrong. Technically. There was no curfew in Wells, and I had nothing on me that would be considered vandal friendly. I was just a girl out for a stroll. In the middle of the night.
Nope. Nothing suspicious about that.
“Kori Anderson, right?”
This time, I turned, expecting to see a police officer, or possibly someone familiar from the base. Instead, I saw the ass from earlier. “You!” I jabbed a finger in his general direction. “You ratted me out. And how do you even know my name?”
He took a single step forward, but didn’t answer. Great. So we were back to the mute thing again?
It was more than that, though. Something stirred in my belly. An unfamiliar feeling that made goose bumps spring to life across my skin and spawned an itching sensation in my legs. It
took me a minute to place it, but I realized it was fear. I wanted to back away. It was the way he was looking at me. If I had to put his expression to words, the only ones that would come to mind were sizing me up. Debating how easily I’d go down. I held my ground, but my heart thumped triple time.
Show no fear…
He gave a dark laugh, sending a nervous shiver up my spine. He hitched a thumb over his shoulder and tilted his head to the left. “I gotta thank you. You made this really easy.”
“Plan on tattling again? Because, technically I wasn’t doing anything wrong…”
He laughed again. For some reason, he found this whole thing funny? Odd, but I could probably work with it. Funny was better than crazy. “You’re not in trouble, Kori.”
I let out a breath.
“With the base, anyway,” he finished, taking another step forward. This one was different. Menacing. It matched the viperous gleam in his eyes and, as he moved closer, I was reminded of a documentary I’d seen on the Discovery Channel last week. How tigers stalked their prey.
Because that’s how I felt in that moment. Like prey. I backed away and surveyed the area without being too obvious. I could scream, but there was no one around at three in the morning to hear me. Why? Because normal people—smart people—were tucked away in bed and not wandering the streets.
“Going somewhere?” He tilted his head to the left, shadows consuming half his face and giving it an eerie quality. His grin was wide, loaded with a wicked confidence that made the hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention.
“Home,” I answered as calmly as possible.
Show no fear. Show no fear.
I turned and started moving, in no particular hurry, hoping it conveyed that I wasn’t afraid—which, honestly? I wasn’t.