by Lisa Nowak
Chapter 8
Piper
Despite Bailey’s determination to help, her efforts to find my family go nowhere. I spend the next ten days hiding out in the White Eagle, lost in a daze while she tries to come up with a plan. Even though I can’t blame her for running smack into the same brick walls I did, I feel cheated. She seemed so sure of herself in the beginning—so confident she could fix things.
The first few days, I’m anxious about missing school, hoping there might still be some way out of this mess and not wanting to get behind. But eventually I stop caring. I fritter away my time reading Bailey’s books, watching surgery videos, and trying to shut out the construction noise from the condo going up across the street. I’m not any more successful at that than I am at shutting out the memories of my family. Crazy little snippets hit with no warning: Nick leaving buckets on the lawn in summer because Grandpa’s got him convinced the Groundwater Fairy will fill them up. Dad telling gruesome stories at the dinner table about his last shift while Mom shushes him, worried it’ll scare Nick and me. As if I’d be anything but fascinated by something like that.
The memories are as much a curse as a blessing. I’m desperate for every detail I can dredge out of the swirling chaos of my brain, but each one makes me feel worse. Deep down, I know I’m never going to see my family again.
Being socked away in this crypt doesn’t help. Bailey nags me to go out for some fresh air, but whenever I get close to either of the doors, my heart starts to race. The constant darkness has screwed up the calendar in my head, and I have to use the one on her tablet to keep track of how long I’ve been here. Not that it makes any difference. By Memorial Day, I’m spending most of my time lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Bailey sneaks in that evening, the way she has every night, bringing me food and coffee. This time, she also brings news.
“I went by your house,” she says. “Somebody’s moved in. There’s an SUV in the driveway and a bunch of broken-down boxes on the porch.”
Anger and loss ricochet through me, doing major damage to everything they hit. But it’s not like her news is any surprise. If people are buying their way into Cascadia, it only makes sense someone would take over our house. I want to ask for details, but I can’t. It’s easier to lie back and listen as Bailey recounts the two soccer games she played today, wrapping up a successful tournament weekend. My life has been reduced to living vicariously through a jock, and I don’t even like sports.
Tuesday morning marks the beginning of my eleventh day in captivity. I spend it picking through the teen romances on Bailey’s tablet, trying to find something I haven’t already read. I’m getting sick of books where the love interest’s only redeeming quality is being scorching, but it’s not like I’ve got room to be picky.
It’s noon before I realize I haven’t eaten anything. I drag myself into the kitchen to make lunch. A simple box of macaroni and cheese—Grandpa’s favorite—makes my eyes load up with tears. I blink them back, too exhausted to flog myself for being such a wuss. Why does every stupid little thing have to rip me into a million pieces? As I put water on to boil, I think of how he liked to mix peas and faux-tuna in with the noodles. And then I remember—his notebooks!
Out of nowhere, Grandpa’s voice fills my head. “When I kick off, I want you to have my journals. There’s a loose board in the hardwood floor under my bedroom window. Pry it up, and you’ll find a cubbyhole. That’s where I stash them.”
Hope flares hot across my skin for the first time in over a week. Maybe they’re still in the house. All the rest of our belongings have no doubt been hauled away, but how would the kidnappers find something like that?
An all-consuming need swells in me. I’ve got to have those journals. They’re the only thing left of my family. A pulse of fear threatens to snuff out my excitement, but I squash it flat. Nothing is going to stop me from finding this one last link.
I think up a plan as I eat my lunch. It’s a weekday, so the new people are probably at work or school. The windows in that house were replaced decades ago with the cheap vinyl kind, the ones with the little flip latches nobody in our family ever bothered to secure. It’s easy to pry them up from outside. I should know, since Bailey snuck in that way often enough. That’ll give me a direct route to Grandpa’s room, and if I come and go through the backyard, anyone who might be watching the place won’t see me.
It’s a wonder I haven’t thought of the journals sooner since I still have the notebook I bought Grandpa the night of the kidnapping. But it’s been stashed in my backpack, along with my laptop, MedEval, and scrub shirt, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to touch any of that stuff since the first morning I was here.
I unload the pack now and cram everything into the space between the bed and the wall. Sucking up my courage, I tuck my hair under the blond wig and sling my empty backpack over my shoulder. As I reach for the door, my fingers freeze on the handle. A flutter of palpitations takes over my heart. What if I get on the MAX and someone recognizes me? What if the kidnappers are waiting outside? What if someone thought to flip that stupid little latch on Grandpa’s window?
For almost an hour I waver, changing my mind, sitting down to mess with Bailey’s tablet, and then getting up and wandering back to the door. The indecisiveness makes my brain ache. I want those journals so bad I can practically feel them in my hands. But what if I get caught?
Damn it, Piper, stop being so paranoid! It’s Bailey’s voice I hear as much as my own. And it’s right. I can’t hole up in here forever. At some point, I’ll have to do something. It might as well be now.
Before I can stop myself again, I take a deep breath and dart through the door into the cool, damp afternoon. The construction noise amps up my heart rate. I peer through the break in the shrubbery, step out into the parking lot, and slink along the overgrown vegetation until I’m near the sidewalk. A peek across the street tells me none of the workers are out in the open.
Act like you belong here, I tell myself. And then I do it. Ignoring my fear, and the wig’s incessant itching, I walk to the MAX station. When the train comes, I use some cash Bailey gave me, rather than my transit card, to pay the fare. It feels like I’m wearing a giant neon “WANTED” sign, but no one looks twice at me the whole ride.
To get to the house, I cut down Woodward and sneak in the same way I got out the other night—through the yard that backs up to ours. Panic needles me the entire time, but I keep telling myself not to psych. I slink along the bushes that edge the yard and duck low to dash across the wet grass. Finally, I’m under Grandpa’s window. A glance tells me no one’s inside.
Without giving myself time to think, I pry off the screen, place my hands against the pane, and lift. My sweaty palms squeak uselessly against the glass. Crap. It must be locked. Now what? I give another desperate shove, and this time the window slides upward. Yes!
I boost myself onto the sill and drop down to a bed that’s been pushed to within a foot of the wall. Glancing around, I step to the floor. The room is done up in purple, the walls plastered with posters of Jefferson Cooper’s band and that anime character, Jyunsui, who’s so popular with tween girls. A guitar rests on a stand in one corner. Stuffed animals—mostly frogs—line the shelves and desk, with one even snuggled up against an oxygen tank that sits on the side table.
That snags my curiosity, but there’s no time to speculate. I move the end of the bed away from the wall, lifting so the feet won’t screech against the hardwood. My pulse pounds as I crouch in the narrow space, feeling along the floorboards for a crack. With shaking hands, I pull out the pocket knife Bailey left me and use the screwdriver blade to pry up the board. Hair from the wig falls in my eyes. When I shove it back, I still can’t see into the dim cubbyhole. Damn. I reach inside, scooping out everything my hand falls on. Eight notebooks, each about seven by nine inches, and a wad of cash wrapped in a fat rubber band. I stuff everything into my backpack and run my hand through the space one more time. Nothing left but the dusty
wooden sides and bottom of the compartment.
I can’t believe how easy this has been. Maybe Bailey’s right, and I’m being paranoid. I fold up the knife and slip it into my pocket. As I’m replacing the board, the floor creaks outside the door. Crap! My heart slams into freak-out mode.
There’s no time to scramble through the open window. All I can do is drop to the floor behind the bed and hope whoever’s out there will go away.
No such luck. The door swings open. Someone steps into the room.
“What the hell?”
I lie on my stomach, holding my breath, willing myself to be invisible. Go away, go away, go away.
The silent prayer doesn’t work. Footsteps cross the floor and stop at the end of the bed.
“What are you doing in here?”
The wig twists off my head as I roll over and glance up. A pale, skinny blond girl, who looks maybe eight or nine, stands at my feet.
“Please don’t scream,” I say, my voice low.
The girl rolls her eyes. “Do I look like a screamer?” She pauses to take a breath, and I realize she’s wearing a PVAD vest. Well, that explains the oxygen.
“You’re that girl from the news … aren’t you?” she asks. “Piper Hall?”
She knows that and she’s not scared? “Yeah,” I say. “But I’m not armed and dangerous, and I didn’t steal those drugs.” I lift my hands so she can see them, using my elbow to leverage myself against the bed as I get to my feet.
She stares at me—a challenging look without an ounce of fear in it. “Well, I guess that means I can’t … count on you to put me out of my misery.”
“Magnusson-Bell?” I ask, nodding at her vest. The syndrome has a cyclical nature, so a portable ventricular assist device was designed specifically for kids who have it. Their hearts go through periods of recovery where they don’t need the boost of a regular VAD.
“Yeah.” The girl scowls, flipping long hair out of her face.
“That’s rough.”
“It’s none of your … business.” Willpower alone seems to be keeping her upright. She’s trembling—her body rigid with the effort to hide it—her breath quick and shallow and her lips slightly blue.
“Shouldn’t you be using that oxygen?”
The girl glowers at me. “I’ve been a medically fragile child … most of my life. I think I … know what I can … get away with. And if you’re going to nag me … I will scream.” She has to stop to catch her breath. “What are you doing in my house?”
I’d like to sweep this kid into bed before she collapses, but she’d definitely make me regret it. “It used to be my house. I’m on my way out. I just needed to get something my grandpa left here.”
“Why didn’t he … take it with him?”
“He didn’t have time. Someone—” my voice catches a little, but I go on, “kidnapped him, along with the rest of my family.”
“Really?” It’s the only word the girl gets out before a fit of coughing chokes her. She grabs at the wall for support, her already-pale face blanching.
I step forward, hooking my arm around her shoulders to steer her into bed.
“Zoey, are you okay?” a guy’s voice calls.
“You’ve gotta … get out of here!” the girl gasps. She tries to wiggle free to push the bed into place, but I don’t let her. Shoving it back with one arm, I scoop her down on top of it with the other. I snatch up my wig and backpack, but before I can get to the window, the door squeaks open.
“What’s going on in here?”
The only cover available is a chair in the corner. I make a dive but only wedge half my body behind it before a guy my age comes into the room. From his tousled blond hair and blue eyes, I can tell he’s the girl’s brother, even though he’s got the firmly muscled body of an athlete, while she’s a skinny twig.
Fortunately, it’s her he focuses on. “Zoey—oxygen,” he orders, shooting her a stern look that barely covers up the worry in his eyes. She scowls and reaches for the tubing on the table beside her bed.
I hold my breath, fists clenched, hoping he’ll slip right back out that door. Instead, his gaze flicks toward the open window. When it comes to rest on me, he jumps but quickly gets a grip, hiding his surprise behind a perfect poker face.
“Who are you?” he demands, edging toward his sister.
Now that he’s looking my way, it’s obvious he’s scorching. That messy blond hair, the smoldering, protective look on his face. Hell, I’m as bad as Bailey. My life is at stake, and my hormones decide to kick in?
“Nobody,” I say. “I was just leaving.” I slink out from behind the chair.
“Wait! You’re that girl from the emergency alert.” He sweeps across the room in one swift, fluid motion, grabbing my wrist. “What are you doing here? I’m calling the cops.”
“Logan, no!” Zoey sits up, eyes big. “We have to help ….. Someone took her family.”
He turns toward his sister, his fingers solid as a handcuff around my wrist. “Are you crazy? She’s a fugitive. They say she’s armed and dangerous.”
If I hear that line one more time, I swear I’m going to punch someone. “I just came for my grandpa’s journals,” I say, holding up my backpack. “They’re all I have left of my family.”
Logan swings to face me, his grip relaxing. “Okay, fine. Climb out that window right now, and I won’t say anything. But I don’t want to see you around here again.”
“You’ve got it.” I back away.
“Wait!” Zoey scrambles up to dig through the drawer in her bedside table.
“Damn it, Zoey,” Logan says, going after her.
“She needs our help.” The girl pulls something out of the drawer, pushes past her brother, and presses it into my hand. “Plug that into your computer and fire up … Carrier Pigeon. It’ll ask for a … transport passphrase. Type in ‘Frequent Deadly Lightning rocks.’ I’ll be in touch.”
Logan scoops her off her feet. “No, you won’t,” he says as he puts her back in bed. He turns to me. “Get out of here.”
“No,” Zoey says. “I want to know … what happened to her family.”
I hesitate only a second before telling them what I came home to eleven days ago—the empty house, the guy chasing me. “We didn’t do anything wrong, I swear. Not any of us.”
For the first time, Logan’s expression melts into something kind. “I’m sorry. But you need to go. Coming here was crazy. It’s the first place they’ll look.”
He’s right. I hitch my backpack over my shoulder and crawl out the window. I got what I came for, and that’s all I care about.