NC-17

by Larissa Reinhart

  “Except they don’t have sponsors that expect new content every week,” said Laci’s dad.

  “Easy for you to say when you only have one child,” said Mara’s mom.

  OMG. “Okay, I’ve got to go.” I’d talk to Mara, Laci, and Fred myself. And make their safety seem more important than anything else. Including looking for Chandler.

  Good luck with that.

  Thirty-Three

  #ThePriceofThePrices #GamerOn

  Laying my head on the desk, I thought about parents who cared more about their child’s career than what might be good for the child.

  Reminding me I still needed to call Vicki about the deer march down the aisle.

  My spa rejuvenation had worn off. I was still an emotional hot mess. I no longer had a phone, so I couldn’t do a selfie examination. I did a quick emotion check à la my ex-therapist Renata. Confidence and peace ranked low. Frustration was fairly high. As was uneasiness, confusion, fatigue, loneliness, and guilt.

  Guilt. I was kidding myself that Mrs. Price’s “help us” didn’t bother me. Tiffany and Rhonda were right.

  The front office door opened. I slowly raised my head. Lamar moseyed in and collapsed into the La-Z-Boy. “Just came from the hospital,” he said. “Good to have Nash awake even if he’s weak.”

  “Yes, it is.” I drug out the to-do list. Added, “Visit Mrs. Price again.” Then wrote, “Apologize to Tiff and Rhon.” In small letters at the bottom. But added a heart.

  “Did you see Nash?”

  I nodded. The memory still made me feel nauseous.

  “You should head over there before visiting hours end. Now that he’s awake, he could use a distraction. The man hates inactivity.”

  “Did he have a lot of visitors today? Jolene was there earlier. Maybe he needs his rest.”

  I held my breath waiting for Lamar to deny Jolene’s hospital activity. To tell me that after I’d left, Nash had dropped her hands, proclaimed his love for me, and kicked her out of the room. Without getting up from the bed, of course. I didn’t want him to strain himself.

  “I guess that’s true,” said Lamar.

  My small hope crashed like a sugar high.

  Lamar cocked his head. “You look different from this morning.”

  “I had some work done while I was at the Wellspring Center.”

  His eyelids fluttered shut. “That’s…convenient.”

  “It’s a weird place, Lamar. Armed guards, heavy fencing, and an amazing security system. They claim it’s to protect their celebrity clients. Oliver showed me there’s nothing to hide. But it just feels off.”

  “Is it the place or is it this Oliver that feels off?”

  “Both. But you may be right.” I rose from my desk droop. “I’ll work on the flyers when I get back. I need to visit Mrs. Price.”

  The brown eyes popped open and he turned his head sharply to study me. “Leslie Price? Why? I thought you collected her check.”

  “I did. But something’s going on there. Agent Langtry won’t call me back. Neither will Leslie Price.” I didn’t want to worry Lamar. If anyone needed a spa day at Wellspring, it was Lamar.

  “You look like you need some rest, Lamar. You’ve been running yourself ragged, helping us and staying on top of Dixie Kreme. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “No more ragged than you.” He closed his eyes and folded his hands on his stomach. “You’re a good ‘un, Maizie.”

  * * *

  I didn’t feel like a good one. I still resented the Price’s interference in my life. I felt like yesterday’s ATF takedown should have been enough proof that the universe did not want me dealing with Mrs. Price or her crazy son. But somehow my guilt overrode that sensible conclusion.

  In an hour or so, I had a group of teens to convince that they should skip town. I still needed to convince Vicki that deer don’t march down aisles. Or at least to get an animal trainer and stop bothering my father. I hadn’t edited the dang flyers yet. Jolene’s clients needed vetting. I also had a broken heart that needed a serious ice cream fix.

  And not from Wellspring. I was jonesing for some Mayfield’s Butterscotch Fudge. On the couch. In my pj’s.

  But first, Mrs. Price. Teenagers. Missing person investigations. The business. And Vicki.

  I would really need that ice cream after dealing with Vicki.

  Before leaving the office, I tried calling Agent Langtry once again. Left a message that I would be dropping by the Price’s to check on Mrs. Price. By knocking on the front door. Then leaving.

  When I reached the Price’s neighborhood, Lucky and I scooted up and down the street, drawing attention to ourselves. Hoping Agent Langtry would pop out of hiding and tell me to go home.

  No Langtry. Figures.

  In the Price driveway, I sat on Lucky and stared at Roger Price’s torn up car. Willing myself to hyperventilate and pass out, therefore justifying my inability to deal with the Prices.

  Of all the times to get over my panic attacks.

  I trudged from the drive to the house. Rang the doorbell. Waited. Rehearsed my story (I was delivering the good news about Nash). Knocked. Rang again. Told myself, “You can go home now.”

  Instead, I plodded around the house to the patio door. The kitchen blinds were open. No Leslie sitting at the kitchen table. No thug skulking in the background. I knocked on the glass. No one came running out with a gun aimed at me.

  So far, so good.

  I peered through the glass and noticed the pile-up of dishes in the sink. Empty containers on the counter. A pizza box on the stove. My skin prickled. The familiar buzz of anxiety sent an electric jolt through my body.

  In all the times we had visited Leslie Price, I never saw a dirty kitchen. Sure, the tea glasses were old and fading. The entire house was old and fading. But it had always been clean.

  I tried the sliding door. Locked. Circling the house, I knocked on curtained windows. Tried opening them. The house was shuttered and closed.

  The wings of panic beat against my neck and fluttered in my stomach. I returned to the front of the house and looked for a key. No key. Paced the porch, glanced at the drive, then ran to Mrs. Price’s car. Locked. But Roger’s Sentra couldn’t even close properly. I pried open the driver door and found the garage opener clipped to his sun visor. Pressed the button. The engine whined and the door lifted.

  I darted into the garage and hit the button to close it. Inside, I walked past stacked tubs of Christmas decorations and lawn equipment. Spotted the empty space where Roger’s fertilizer once lay. Forced myself to continue to the kitchen door marked by a neat row of pegs for coats. Knocked on the door.

  All was quiet on the Price front.

  I turned the knob slowly, opened the door quietly, and called out feebly, “Hello, anybody home?” Entered a narrow hall. A small laundry room and pantry stood opposite. The kitchen lay open at the end of the hall.

  Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage and a rank whiff of spoiled food.

  Bypassing the messy kitchen, I glanced into the empty living room. A few scattered magazines on the coffee table. An empty beer can rested on a side table next to the TV remote. The echo of cigarette smoke still hung in the air. The beer can had been used as an ashtray.

  I made a wild guess that it was not Leslie’s Old Milwaukee.

  Down the hall, I checked Roger’s bedroom. His computer and gaming equipment had been confiscated. Also, his robots and electronic tinkerings plus the cluttered mess of tools. The guest bedroom and hall bathroom were empty. Leslie’s bedroom was neat. Her bathroom was also clean.

  No Leslie. But her car was still in the drive. And her son was in the local jail.

  Maybe the thug had scared her away. She had run to a neighbor or a friend. A family member had picked her up and taken her to their home.

  Or something bad had happened.

  Leslie Price wouldn’t leave an empty beer can in the living room. She’d told us that she kept Roger’s bedroom closed because she could
n’t stand the mess. If she tried to clean or straighten, Roger would argue with her.

  I checked Leslie’s closet and bathroom again. A suitcase sat in the rear of her walk-in. I had no idea if she had more than one. In the bathroom, I found her toiletries and OTC meds. But it meant nothing, not knowing if she kept travel-sized in her suitcase.

  Returning to Roger’s room, I stood near his bed and gazed around the room. The shelves opposite his bed held models, software, gaming books, and a few action-adventure paperbacks. His high school yearbooks were organized by year.

  Had Roger robbed the bank to get out of his mother’s home? Had he been talked into the robbery by his accomplice? Had they threatened his mother, forcing him to rob the bank?

  We never saw him communicating with anyone other than store clerks and his online gaming buddies. He didn’t even chat on Reddit threads.

  Gaming buddies. Could one of them be the accomplice?

  The ATF had all his tech. And we looked at those chats. A whole lot of cursing for tactical failures. Many riffs on “u suk,” “gonna burn u,” “did u see that,” and “I’m awesome.” All their identities were a combination of numbers, x’s, and either ninja, assassin, dark lord, sniper, or lone wolf. Except for one “xxxIheartunicorns1996xxx.”

  It would take the ATF time to track down the gamers. If that was even possible. Mrs. Price said some came from “foreign parts.” Why would foreigners want him to rob a bank? I didn’t believe Roger had any international political leanings.

  I also didn’t believe Mrs. Price had left on vacation.

  And I couldn’t believe that Nash and I would have missed something as obvious as clandestine meetings with bank robbers. Me, maybe. But not Nash. My heart squeezed at the thought. Nash would be struggling with this very issue now that he was awake.

  I should see him, make sure that he knew that Roger had an accomplice. A young thug had inhabited Mrs. Price’s house. Someone we had not seen in the week we’d been tailing Roger. Whatever had happened, the wheels had been set in motion before Mrs. Price had hired us.

  Poor Nash. He’d still be agonizing over the situation. I could give him comfort.

  Not ex-wife-style comfort, but apprentice-type comfort.

  Maybe I should also talk to Roger. Maybe the girls were right.

  But it was now the ATF’s problem.

  Except Mrs. Price had written “help us” on our check memo.

  Shizzles.

  I stepped into the hall, ready to leave, and heard the creak of an opening door. I froze, listening. The door shut with a muffled click. Afraid to look, but more scared not to peek, I edged down the hall. It had to have been the front door. Unless someone had been in the front hall closet the whole time.

  Which would be so uncool.

  And so scary.

  In Julia Pinkerton’s third season, episode nine, “Sax as a Weapon,” she’d been in a similar situation. Snooping for clues in the house of a rival classmate (and marching band member) whom Julia suspected to be in a black-market weapons ring. Selling weapons to high school students. Also uncool. And super scary.

  Julia had crept down a hallway, too. Poked her head around the corner to spot the star saxophone player and his adult weapons dealer. Both armed, naturally.

  I peeked around the corner of the hall and spotted a young man. The young thug from earlier. But not with an older guy.

  But still armed. Naturally.

  Thirty-Four

  #LittleRunAway #ExExploitation

  Shizzalation. This was why one shouldn’t break and enter.

  I ducked back down the hall and evaluated possible escape routes. All at the other end of the house. Lucky was parked in the driveway. He must know I was in the house.

  I turned a tight circle, evaluating rooms for hiding. Picked Leslie’s. As the master, it seemed to have more options. In Leslie’s room, I spun again like a demented top, trying to guess the most unlikely hiding spots.

  Leslie had a phone next to her bed. But it was attached to the wall by a cord. I was claustrophobic. I didn’t like closets. Or hiding in bathrooms. I’d had a previous under-the-bed fail. This time I wouldn’t be dodging books. What else was there? The drapes?

  The quickest way to lose when playing hide-and-seek. Remi always poked at curtains.

  Focus, Maizie.

  In “Sax as a Weapon,” Julia Pinkerton had wedged herself between the walls near the ceiling while the weapons dealer had strolled unknowingly beneath her. She sprung from above, tackling him below. Disarmed him and used the weapon on the saxophone player.

  However, I no longer had the stunt double or the abs needed for that scene.

  I chose the drapes. Hopefully, it’d been a while since Young Thug had played hide-and-seek. And Mrs. Price had lined, faux-velvet drapes. I opened the curtains so they bunched loosely on either side of the window. Slipped behind the drapes on one side, curling them around me so I hid between folds. Stood on my toes.

  Then realized where one door (or three) was closed, a window could open. Thanking Mrs. Price for living in a ranch, I opened the window, pushed out the screen, and climbed through. Behind me, I heard banging on the bedroom door. The door wouldn’t hold against body blows. I ran to the neighbor’s house. At the side where Agent Langtry had once tackled me, I paused to breathe. Heard the crack of the bedroom door frame breaking.

  I dashed around the side of the neighbor’s house and onto their porch. Hammered on their door. Rang the bell. Remembered the neighborhood was dead in the afternoon. Much like I would be if the man with the gun caught me.

  Think, Maizie.

  I hunted for a key. Not under the mat or above the sill. No plastic rock, garden statue, or flower pot. I dashed off the porch and pelted toward the next house.

  He’d seen me. Surely. I looked over my shoulder.

  Holy hellsbah.

  I had been spotted. By an older man in the Price driveway. Arms folded. Bearded, sunglasses, and cap pulled low. Looking like every other local man from Black Pine.

  Young Thug’s father?

  I turned my head. Kept going. My lungs were burning. My heart felt close to exploding. And my neck ached. By the next house, a new pocket of flames seared my lungs. My arms began to tingle. I told myself it was the adrenaline kicking in. Imagined the ice cream at the end of the rainbow.

  A figure rounded the corner, blocking my path. Young Thug. No gun in sight, but his hand sat on his hip beneath his untucked shirt. He’d headed me off at the pass.

  My heart crawled up my throat. My stomach belly-flopped to my knees. I jerked to a stop.

  “Why you running?” he said.

  “So you don’t shoot me,” I gasped, trotting in place so my legs wouldn’t seize up. And in preparation for a Roadrunner-style takeoff.

  His eyes narrowed. “You need to come with us.”

  “I’ve got stuff to do. Huge to-do list.”

  He raised his shirt so I could see the handgun. Then he looked beyond me and waved at the man in the drive. I half-turned. The man had pushed Lucky off the drive toward a parked truck.

  “Not Lucky,” I cried.

  “That’s right. Your luck’s run out.” Chuckling, he pulled off his ball cap to scratch his head.

  I used his casual scratch for my getaway. Sprinted across the street. One neighbor might be home.

  The kid cursed. “Lady, you ain’t going anywhere. Might as well stop. You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack.”

  Lady? Did I look that old?

  I quickly squelched the thought to focus on the big truck in the driveway one door down. I tripped over the curb, my arms flailing, and forced a sprint across the yard to the jacked-up truck in the drive. I careened toward it and slammed into its side.

  No alarm.

  “You got nowhere to go,” said the kid. “Get in the truck and be quiet. We want to talk to you.”

  Talk, then shoot me. I reached for the tailgate and yanked. The alarm shrieked.

  Jackpot.

>   Panting, I turned to face the kid. “This guy’s home. And he’s armed.”

  Behind us, the garage door rumbled.

  “Shit.” The kid whistled and waved an arm at the truck, then fixed his eyes on me. “We’ll find you. We got your bike. Stay out of that house.”

  * * *

  Understandably, Monster Truck Man did not like me yanking on his tailgate, but he did allow me to use his phone to call the police and report my stolen bike. Particularly after he found me collapsed beneath his tailgate, wailing about men trying to kill me.

  By the time Ian Mowry arrived in his Tahoe, I’d stopped crying. While Ian drove me to the police department, there was a litany of “I told you to go to Boomer’s” and “how do you manage to get into these situations?”

  At the office, I gave him a good description of the thug and a vague description of the other man. The truck was black. I had once again forgotten to get the plates, make, or model.

  “I don’t understand why you went back to the Price’s,” said Ian. “I thought you’d spoken to Agent Langtry. She did not want you there.”

  “I had some unfinished business with Leslie Price. But I left numerous messages with Agent Langtry. I told her I was going to the house.”

  “You’re stepping on toes, Maizie.”

  “I’m not trying to get in the way of her investigation.” I skipped the part where I had illegally entered the Price house. No need to give Ian or Gladys impetus to toss me in the can. “Let's focus on the important part. I was threatened with a gun. They said they would find me, Ian. And they want to ‘talk’ to me.”

  He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I don’t get it. Do they think you know something about the bombing?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe it’s because I’d been sniffing around Mrs. Price’s house.”

  “Sniffing around?”

  “Knocking on doors and windows. Trying to see if Mrs. Price was home. And she was not.”