His own jealousy caught Josh by surprise.
She must have noticed he was too quiet, because she stopped packing her bag and squinted at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What, Josh? What?” She slung her bag over her shoulder. Grabbing her camera from him, she looped the strap around her neck, then gestured at it. “I have to be down in the west pod for club pictures in five minutes, so please. Just . . . whatever it is, say it.”
It was scary, how she’d gone from distracted to pissed that fast. Holding up his hands, Josh said, “Nothing. I’m just hearing this stuff . . .”
Dara closed her locker. “Since you couldn’t keep him, I took him to Sofia’s. Sometime after midnight, he decided to walk home. Which, by the way, is Daniel Boone. He does live out there, yeah. Only, we’re sixty miles away, I don’t even think he knows what a mile is. He definitely doesn’t get the concept of Nikes, because he was barefoot and got all cut up at Clayton Park.”
“Look, never—”
She ignored him. Her hands waving, she stepped away from her locker. “Rather than dump him in the countryside like a puppy nobody wants, my dad brought him to our house. He’s probably talking to the social worker now. Anything else?”
Josh hesitated. “Is he okay?”
Temper dissolving, Dara sighed. “I think so. I’m sorry. I barely got any sleep, and this reporter from the Courier keeps showing up. He was outside the school this morning.”
“Slow news month or something,” Josh said. He smoothed a hand over her shoulder, pulling her closer. The big bad reporter, that was something he could help with. He could watch out for anybody with a notepad and a gleam in his eye, and run them off. It felt good to have a purpose. “You mad?”
Shaking her head, Dara said, “No.”
“You sure?” Josh coaxed her, tipping her chin up so he could kiss her. Her soft lips tightened, and she broke away a little too fast. “Dare?”
“Totally sure. I have to run, I’m going to be late.”
Before he could catch her, Dara had slipped his grip and was already bolting for the stairs. He raised a hand, calling after her. “I’ll drive you home!”
She answered with a half wave, code for I heard you, but I’m not saying yes.
It didn’t make Josh feel better.
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TWENTY-TWO
Running off forty pictures in a row, the jittery click of the shutter—that was soothing. Even though Dara was only taking school club snaps, it felt substantial. It felt real. And lately, everything felt like somebody else’s dream. She was just running through it.
“Say cheese,” she told the Forensics Team.
Ten rictus smiles filled her viewfinder, and she took that picture. She always did; parents liked those for some reason. Those were the pictures she handed off to the yearbook staff.
But she kept snapping, because that’s when people relaxed. When their real selves appeared. Those were the ones she slipped into her digital portfolio. Photography wasn’t about capturing people in poses. It was about stopping time. Saving it. Keeping a moment fresh and alive, to savor again later.
Once she’d run off enough shots, she lowered the camera. “You guys are painfully sexy, thank you.”
A couple of the girls laughed, and one of the guys rolled his eyes. But they wore real smiles as they filed out, making room for 4-H and Future Farmers of America. There was so much overlap, Dara insisted on shooting them at the same time.
Dropping a new memory card into the camera, Dara waited for everybody to gather. These pictures would have a second life on the pages of the high school yearbook. People would scribble names, love notes, secrets on them. Mustaches. Devil horns. They were meant to be touched.
Unlike the photos from Dara’s camping trip. She had a folder on her computer desktop full of them. No idea if they were any good, Dara hadn’t looked at them yet. She’d plugged the camera in, saved them with a nice, neat time stamp, then closed the file.
Their trip away, just the two of them. The pictures should have been special. Except, Dara was pretty sure they weren’t in any of them.
Fog clutched by the trees, the horseshoe waterfall, yes. Rainbows reflected off the mist in the air, definitely. But not them. Not even the obligatory shot, holding a camera at arm’s length and trying to cram into the frame.
It was like she knew. Not out loud; she hadn’t been ready to admit it. But maybe she knew.
Josh had a partial scholarship in New Orleans. Dara had student loans lined up to take her to New York City. Except for the new, their colleges had nothing in common. They didn’t either, and they hadn’t since freshman year when they started “going together.”
A bleat dragged Dara’s attention back to the present. Izzie Wells hefted a bundle of squirming legs, and smiled.
“Tristan won first place at the fair. Principal Tran signed off on it.”
“Okay,” Dara said. Nobody had prepared her for a pygmy goat, but she could deal. In fact, it was nice to focus on something solvable. Something easy. Like getting the goat to look at the camera when all the people did.
Everything else in her life was suddenly complicated, and completely unfixable at the moment. So Dara crinkled a bag of Sun Chips to get Tristan’s attention. Then she lost herself in the rhythm and tick of her camera.
When Sheriff Porter appeared with a greasy bag, Cade watched him, wary.
“Here,” Sheriff Porter said, digging into the bag. He pulled out a paper-wrapped package, and tossed it in Cade’s direction. “You want fries?”
Turning the package over, Cade sniffed it. Meat of some kind, cooked. Since he didn’t know what fries were, he shook his head. What he wanted to do was take the food to his perch on the back of the couch. But instead, he unwrapped it where he sat, on the floor by the bookcases.
“Thank you,” he said, which surprised Sheriff Porter.
He actually stopped unpeeling his package to look over at him. Now distracted, the sheriff kept unwrapping, and kept staring.
Animals smelled fear; Cade wished he could. His nose was only so sensitive. He had to watch instead, trying to read raised eyebrows and sharp hand motions. It made him uncomfortable to have Sheriff Porter so close, and watching him. They weren’t family. He didn’t know what he might do next.
“You’ll be glad to know we found a place for you,” Sheriff Porter said. “Right here in town.”
Though his stomach growled, Cade put the food down and retreated to the couch. “I’m not interested.”
Sheriff Porter seemed distracted by the food on the floor. His attention kept drifting toward it. “That’s too bad. Because that’s the way things work. Until you start being honest with us . . .”
“I am.”
“. . . I can’t do a thing to help you,” Sheriff Porter finished. It was like Cade hadn’t said a word at all. “But don’t worry. I’ll find out who you really are.”
Slowly, Cade unfurled. He pulled his feet into the couch, then crept up to sit on the back of it again. He didn’t need a better sense of smell or more experience with people to recognize that. It was a threat. Rather than reply, Cade turned his attention to the window.
“What if I told you I thought you were out there in those woods cooking meth?” Sheriff Porter asked.
Through slim windows at ground level, Cade watched the sidewalk, the people walking by. There were so many of them. A woman dressed all in blue stopped at the front walk.
Opening a bag at her hip, she took something from a black box, then shoved her own bundle in. A delivery of some kind, but Cade would have to get into the box to find out what.
“Or something worse.” Sheriff Porter’s cup rattled when he shook it. “Biological weapons?”
The woman in the blue uniform moved down to the next house, and Cade kept his silence. He knew a lot
about biological weapons, actually. Anthrax had to be inhaled; it wouldn’t spread person to person.
Bacteria were delicate—living creatures, prone to dying themselves—no good on the battlefield. Viruses were tricky. Almost perfect, as long as they bound with the right strand of DNA. A global disaster if they collaborated with the wrong one.
Cade remembered his mother’s face. The way it would go hard when she talked about things like this. When she explained vectors and vaccines, diminished herd immunity, useless antibiotics. She’d stroke Cade’s brow, murmuring sadly, “The end of the world, contained on the head of a pin.”
Irritated, Sheriff Porter nudged the couch with his boot. “How about you sit the right way when I’m talking to you?”
Lifting his head, Cade replied, “There’s a man in your yard.”
Sheriff Porter didn’t wait for an explanation. He bounded up the basement stairs two at a time. A door opened, and Cade felt the slightest breeze coming in. It carried the sheriff’s voice smoothly. The stranger’s, too.
“You mind telling me what you’re doing on my property?”
“Good to see you again, Tony. Been a while since I covered your election,” the stranger said. “Jim Albee, ringing any bells?”
Shifting, Cade pushed the curtains out of the way. All he saw was feet and pants legs. They shuffled, shifting weight. Dancing uneasily. Just by the way Sheriff Porter set his heel, it was obvious he wasn’t happy. Their conversation spilled out, water over stones. They interrupted and flowed together.
Most of it made no sense, until the stranger said, “Just let me talk to the boy. Five minutes.”
“Jim,” Sheriff Porter said. His feet moved. They overlapped the stranger’s gait—he was leading him away from the house. “I’ve got no comment. He’s a minor, you’re well aware.”
The stranger stopped. “Is he, though?”
“You have a nice day,” Sheriff Porter said.
It was the second time Sheriff Porter had confused him. First with the food, now protecting him again. Cade couldn’t read him. He wasn’t easy and open like his own father. Or even layered and complicated like his mom. Most confusing of all, he had Dara’s eyes—the shape, the color. But not the softness.
When he was with Dara, it felt like she saw him. Maybe even knew him a little. Sheriff Porter didn’t. His gaze cut through him, trying to take him apart by pieces.
And since he was coming back, Cade slid from the back of the couch and reclaimed his food from the floor.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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TWENTY-THREE
When Dara rolled off the bus, she stopped short. An unfamiliar car sat in her driveway, and the front door stood open. Lia blasted past her. Either she didn’t notice anything amiss, or she didn’t care. Typical Lia, caught up in her own world.
Before Dara could head inside, her dad stepped onto the porch. A woman followed him, and then Cade. He wore new clothes and new shoes. Clutching a bundle to his chest, he slunk behind them. Eyes darting furtively, they rested on Dara for a moment, then slid away.
“What’s going on?” Dara asked. She tried to sound chill, but her heart was already racing. Stupidly, she’d believed that the hard part was talking Dad into keeping Cade one night. That the next, and the next after that would be easier.
Sheriff Porter closed the door, then clapped a hand against Cade’s back. “Good news. Your mom had a chat with Ms. Fourakis here this morning. She’s willing to take Cade in for the time being.”
Plastering on a smile, Dara shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. “I thought he was staying here.”
“He’ll be more comfortable with me,” Ms. Fourakis said. Charm and warmth surrounded her like a halo. She had bright brown eyes, and they crinkled at the corners when she smiled. Genuine. Looking to Cade, she went on. “His own room, some privacy. I think we’ll get along, don’t you?”
Stiff, Cade cut a look at Sheriff Porter, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Protests ran wild in Dara’s head. There were so many, and they came so fast, it was hard to figure out where to start. Stammering, she groaned inwardly when she picked the least important one. “How far away do you live, though? I’m really the only person Cade knows.”
Ms. Fourakis touched her chest, as if she found Dara absolutely adorable. “Your father has my address. It’s just a few blocks from here. Close enough to walk or bike . . .”
Poor Cade’s face was a mask. A little pale, incredibly stiff. Coming closer, Dara ignored the way her father loomed over them.
“Are you okay with this?”
Resentful, Cade nodded anyway. “For now.”
“We don’t want to keep Ms. Fourakis waiting,” Sheriff Porter said. That not-so-friendly hand on Cade’s bag nudged him down the step.
“Can I ride over with you?” Dara asked. She shucked off her bag and dropped it by the door. Pressing herself between Cade and Sheriff Porter, she offered a sugared smile. “That way I know where it is.”
Sheriff Porter started to shake his head. “Dara . . .”
“Why don’t we let Cade get settled in?” Ms. Fourakis said. She fished her keys from her pocket and nodded toward the car. “You can come by tomorrow. It’s on Google Maps, you won’t have any trouble finding it.”
Stonewalled, Dara slipped her hand into Cade’s. Fingers lacing, she squeezed, trying to reassure him. And she moved slowly. New sneakers covered the bandage on his foot. She didn’t have to see it to shudder at the memory of glass buried deep in his flesh. His palm was hot and dry, and when she glanced over at him, she noticed his lips were pressed almost white.
“Are you okay?” Dara murmured.
Rubbing his thumb against hers, Cade kept his eyes forward. He marched like he was going to jail. Stiff steps, shoulders blocked. His jaw was hard and set, but he answered her gently. “I’ll be close to you.”
Strange currents threaded between them. Something electric and liquid at the same time. They teased a sting across Dara’s skin, tingling on the back of her neck. Before they reached the car, she squeezed his hand again. It frightened her a little. When he squeezed back, her heart pounded.
With a subtle pull, she made him stop. Made him look at her. “I’ll come right after school, tomorrow. I’ll be there first thing.”
At that, Cade did nod. Then he leaned down. His cheek grazed hers as he whispered in her ear, “You were right. They think I’m a liar.”
The misery in his voice made Dara ache. She didn’t know what the truth was, exactly. Except that he obviously believed that he grew up in a forest, had never seen an escalator or a light switch. That he was utterly alien and lost in a world that seemed completely normal to her. It was so clear to her that he was afraid and hurting. Why didn’t anyone else see it?
Covering his hand with hers, she turned to look at him. Their noses almost brushed. It was too close. Too intimate. But she didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand what they want.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Dara told him. She reluctantly let her hand slip from his, then leaned past him to open the car door.
Cade loosely hooked his fingers in her collar. There was no pressure. He didn’t pull. Plaintive, it felt like a gesture. A way to hold on to her a little longer.
When Dara swallowed at the knot in her throat, she felt his knuckles graze her skin. Heat trailed there. It bloomed and blossomed through her, making her bolder. Raising her head, she told him with a lot more certainty than she felt, “I mean it. We’ll figure it out.”
In reply, Cade brushed his finger against her pulse. His touch settled there. It lingered on her throat, alive, insisting. For one, impossibly brief moment, she felt his pulse, an answer to her own. Dara’s breath thinned. She felt his on her cheek, the world a distant roar.
Then, without another word, Cade pulled away and cl
imbed into the car.
The house phone rang for the fourth time in an hour.
Mrs. Porter fumbled with an ancient answering machine, plugging it in just in time to catch the latest call. She stood over the machine, listening to ten-year-old Dara and eight-year-old Lia giggling and inviting people to leave a message. The machine clicked, and an unfamiliar voice spilled through the speaker.
“Hi, this is Lucy Faul. I’m a researcher from WTHR in Indianapolis. We’re interested in running a piece about the Primitive Boy. We’d like to get a quote from you or a family representative.”
Sheriff Porter stepped into the hall. Walking up behind his wife, he wrapped his arms around her waist. The reporter left her name and number, then hung up abruptly. With a frown, Sheriff Porter pressed a kiss to his wife’s shoulder. “Indiana?”
“And Ohio, and Missouri, and Illinois.” Distracted, Mrs. Porter untangled herself. She turned the answering machine down, then looked back at her husband. “I don’t understand this. As many at-risk kids as I work with, this one’s the one that gets all the attention?”
Sheriff Porter leaned against the wall, and sighed. “I don’t know. If it was just the bear, it probably would have blown away. But now you’ve got the bear, and the missing identity, and the idea that he’s some caveman . . . Jim Albee’s story in the paper sure didn’t help.”
Mrs. Porter frowned. “No. No it didn’t.”
Sheriff Porter leaned against the wall. “We’ll figure out who he is, and they’ll get bored. He’s probably just some runaway trying to hide from going home. The paper’s only interested because it’s weird, and there’s nothing else going on right now.”
Mrs. Porter replaced the answering machine. “I don’t know why they have to bother us.”
“Like I said—” Sheriff Porter started. Another call interrupted him. The phone’s clang exploded the quiet in the house. It was an unnatural sound, now that they all had custom ringtones. It was like an invasion, people walking into their house uninvited.
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