The Taking

by Kimberly Derting

  I wanted to swallow, but my tongue felt like baked asphalt. “Stop,” I insisted.

  “Stop what?”

  “Saying things like that.”

  His half smile made him look all wolfish, and completely daring. “Like what? That I’m serious? That I like you?” He moved a quarter of an inch closer, and involuntarily my lips parted.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, scowling because it was easier, and far less obvious than gaping at him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  His thumb skated up to my wrist. I was sure he had to know how he affected me, that the thrumming of my pulse would totally give me away. “Then you stop.”

  I blinked once and then again. “Me? What did I do?”

  He let go of my wrist and lifted his hand to my face. When his thumb feathered over my lower lip, so lightly it could have easily been a figment of my imagination, I shivered.

  I saw a show on Animal Planet once about these fainting goats whose muscles froze up when they were startled, and they passed out. Like, they literally fell over if you scared them.

  That was me, right now.

  I was terrified and exhilarated and frozen all at once.

  If I passed out, too, I would surely die of embarrassment.

  We stood like that for fifty-five straight heartbeats. Our eyes remained locked in a game of chicken. His palm cupped my chin, and his thumb stayed right on my lip while I tried to find my next breath.

  And for fifty-five heartbeats everything inside of me begged him to kiss me.

  “Being stubborn,” he said at last, and I had no idea what he was talking about, or when he’d even been talking at all. He shook his head, breaking the spell, or whatever it was I was under—we were both under. “You’re so damned stubborn. If you’d just admit how you feel, then we could stop pretending there’s nothing between us.”

  I jerked back, away from his thumb on my lip, and my head collided with the fence behind me, which I hadn’t even realized I’d backed myself up against. “I’m not being stubborn,” I stated firmly, while he smirked as if I’d just made his point for him. I wilted against the chain-link, my fingers weaving through it for support. “I never said there was nothing between us.” It was hard for me to admit the truth, and it came out all shaky and timid sounding. I wasn’t timid, though, at least I never had been before.

  “I wouldn’t believe you if you had,” he told me, and this time there was nothing playful or taunting in his voice. Nothing to make me weak-kneed and girlie. But that didn’t stop my lip from tingling where he’d touched it. He picked up the ball, and I led the way back to his car, following the chalk path that led to first base.

  “You ever start that book I lent you?” The sudden change in subject was as jarring as it was welcome.

  I shrugged, spinning to face him and catching the ball when he tossed it to me. “I finished it, actually.”

  “What?” he drawled, flashing me a dubious look. “You’re lying! And here I thought you were all dumb jock and zero substance.”

  Even though I knew he was teasing, I glowered at him and chucked the ball back in his direction.

  Except that what I’d meant as a playful gesture ended up virtually lethal in execution. The ball didn’t just lob from my hand in a good-natured, we’re-just-messing-around kind of throw. It flew toward him at Mach speed, as if I’d just launched a missile at his head. He was quick enough, or lucky enough, to get out of the way in time.

  When it hit the backstop, splinters sprayed outward in an explosion that made even me flinch from where I was standing.

  If Tyler hadn’t ducked in time . . .

  I covered my mouth. “Oh my god,” I breathed incredulously.

  He stared at me and then whipped around to inspect the damage—the crater I’d left in the wooden backstop behind him.

  “I—oh my god,” I repeated. “I’m so sorry.” And I so was. I had no idea what had gotten into me or where the hell that throw had even come from. He had every right to be pissed at me; I’d nearly decapitated him with my runaway pitch.

  “Jesus Christ, Kyra,” he breathed as his fingertips traced around the fragmented wooden edges. “Have you ever done that before?”

  I’d seen plenty of scuffs and dents in the backstop, mostly from foul balls or from the bats themselves, but never anything like what he was looking at.

  I shook my head even though he wasn’t looking my way.

  “That’s like . . .” He turned to face me, and I could barely meet his eyes. “ . . . Damn.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. And then my throat closed when my eyes shifted, focusing on the street beyond him and the backstop and fencing.

  We were no longer alone.

  Parked at the far end of the street, almost, but not quite, too far to see from where we were, was Agent Truman, watching us. Watching me.

  He leaned against a polished, black sedan, his ankles crossed in front of him. The only thing missing were his government-issued shades.

  He didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed us and looked completely out of place loitering on the fringes of a baseball diamond.

  But I knew what he was doing there, and I could feel his eyes on me. Everything about him made me intensely, insanely, inscrutably uncomfortable. He’d seen what I’d just done, and for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, it mattered.

  I had no idea what was happening to me. According to my dad, and Dr. Dunn, and the mother I could barely stand to be around, I’d lost five years of my life but I was still sixteen. And now I find out my fastball is lethal?

  All I knew for certain was that I didn’t want Agent Truman knowing any of it. This was my life. I’d just gotten it back and I was just figuring it out. I didn’t want him—or anyone else—knowing about it, or me.

  “Let’s get outta here,” I told Tyler, waiting for him to catch up to me.

  He didn’t argue, and he didn’t notice Agent Truman, who I couldn’t take my eyes off of and who never, for a single second, stopped staring at me.

  I was so consumed by the NSA agent’s daunting presence that I almost didn’t notice when the back of Tyler’s hand grazed mine. Except it was all I noticed, because my breath caught, and I glanced sideways to see if Tyler had noticed it too.

  He caught me looking at him, and my face flushed when he grinned back at me. And then his fingers captured mine, this time for real, not an accidental brush of skin against skin.

  We were holding hands, and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might splinter the way the backstop had, and suddenly we were all alone then, just the two of us.

  Just like when I’d picked up the ball, the feel of his skin was so achingly, beautifully, disarmingly right. Righter than I could remember it ever being with Austin, which felt like a betrayal just to think.

  It was almost painful that the moment only lasted a few short seconds, which was how long it took us to skirt the edge of the fencing and reach his car. When we stopped, I untangled my hand from his, not wanting him to be the one to end it first.

  “There you go again, being all stubborn.”

  I ignored the jab as I slid inside the car while Tyler held my door for me. I ignored the slamming inside my chest, and the fact that I could barely contain my smile no matter how hard I tried to bite it back.

  By 10:36 Tyler had texted me no less than eight times, saying nothing in particular but revealing so much with his absurd messages.

  Planning to sleep tonight, or should I be worried that you’re some sort of creature of the night, like a vampire or bat?

  I meant bat like the animal. Not of the baseball variety.

  Did you get my last text? Am I bothering you?

  I can bring you another book if you need one.

  And my favorite, but mostly because it was so lame: I’ll be dreaming of you.

  I’d responded with a lot of yeses, got its, nos, and thanks but no thankses. But I’d learned three very interesting things from his attempt to text the pants off me.


  He’d been keeping track of my sleeping habits, which could either be viewed as disturbing or sweet.

  His flirting skills sucked.

  He’d definitely gotten under my skin.

  When half an hour had passed since his last message and I was sure we were done for the night, I set the phone aside and left my room in search of leftovers. As usual, the house was quiet at this hour; and just like every night since I’d been back, my mom had left a plate for me, another of my old faves: meat loaf.

  And just like each night it tasted . . . not quite right. I picked at it for a few minutes, choked down a few bites, and ultimately tossed the rest. I threw it down the garbage disposal so my mom wouldn’t notice that I couldn’t seem to stomach her cooking anymore.

  As I stood in front of the sink, I peeled the curtains apart and peered outside. I didn’t really expect to see Agent Truman and his cop-mobile out there, but I couldn’t rule it out either. Not after he’d shown up at the baseball field the way he had.

  He had definitely gotten under my skin, and not in a good way.

  On my way back to my room, I paused in the hallway. The faint glow of a nightlight spilled out from the open door to “my brother’s” room. I took a wary step forward, curious about this kid who was supposed to mean something to me.

  His room was the exact opposite of what it had been the last time I’d been in there, when it had been filled with IKEA office furniture, and filing cabinets stuffed with my mom’s work files, and bookshelves jam-packed with my trophies and team pictures. I wasn’t sure where any of those things were now, but it seemed likely they’d been banished to the same place my personal belongings had gone. That, or thrown away. Remnants from another life.

  Now it was a nursery, complete with crib and rocking chair and colorful letters on the wall that spelled out LOGAN. Even the smell was different, somewhere between sweet and too-sweet, like a noxious combination of floral air fresheners and baby powder. Since I’d seen the kid wearing diapers—something that made me further question his development, because shouldn’t a two-year-old be using the toilet by now?—I guessed that the air fresheners were meant to cover up the gross stink that went along with pooping in your pants.

  I approached the crib as quietly as I could manage, not wanting to wake the kid.

  As much as I hated to admit it, he was cuter, or rather less annoying, asleep than he was awake. He sucked his thumb, I noted, unable to stop myself from judging him even when no one was around.

  But since no one could hear my inner thoughts, I supposed it was safe to confess there were good things about him too. That his skin was so smooth and unblemished, and his lashes so thick, that any girl in her right mind would envy him. And his expression was so peaceful and relaxed, and he slept so soundly, that I envied him. He had soft curls that peeked around from behind his neck, and my first thought was that I wanted to pet him. To run my fingers through those downy, feather-like curls and to pinch his plump cheeks.

  I was such a cliché. I couldn’t afford to watch him for another minute or pretty soon I’d be carrying snapshots of him in my wallet and asking total strangers if I could see pictures of their kids. That’s what grown-ups did. They pretended to be interested in the photos of other people’s kids just so they’d have an excuse to show off their own.

  I knew, because my dad had been a master at that game. He once even had giant buttons of my fourth-grade picture made, and he wore his everywhere he went. I found my mom’s in her glove box the day she explained that she didn’t have to wear my face on display to have me in her heart everywhere she went.

  I wondered if Logan had taken up my share of that heart.

  “We’re all trying, you know?” The hushed voice startled me, and I spun around to find The Husband—Grant—leaning casually against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He had on a plain white tee and flannel pajama bottoms. “Your mom most of all.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to have this conversation. Not here, not with him. Maybe not ever.

  I tried to brush past him, but his hand caught my arm. He wasn’t rough, just firm. “Kyra. We all get how hard this must be for you. Everything’s different now, but it wasn’t like we did it on purpose. Things just . . . changed. We want you to be part of our family.”

  I closed my eyes. I knew he was trying to help, but his words—the way he said we and our, like I was just supposed to accept him and his son because that was the way things were now—made me want to puke.

  “I’m trying too,” I said, and jerked my arm out of his grip.

  When I reached my room, I closed my door and leaned against it to bar myself inside.

  When was this going to get easier? When would I feel like I belonged somewhere, that I was part of a home or a family, or that someone really understood the person I was now?

  I searched my nightstand for my clock, desperate to know how much time had passed, and when I found it, my eyes drifted to the beat-up copy of Fahrenheit 451 sitting beside it. My heart fluttered.

  Someone did understand me. Someone who didn’t question where I’d been or how old I was now that I was back.

  I eased away from my door so I could text him, knowing full well he was sleeping and wouldn’t get my message till morning. But there was already a message waiting for me.

  Not from Tyler but from Agent Truman.

  A message had been delivered at 12:01 a.m.: Were there fireflies the day you disappeared?

  I dropped onto the edge of my bed, my breath coming in short gasps.

  Fireflies. Why on earth would he ask me about fireflies?

  My dad had mentioned fireflies to me too. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and searched my memory for that night, because suddenly it seemed a zillion times more important than it had before.

  We’d been driving on Chuckanut Drive, and I was purposely avoiding my dad, stubbornly staring out the window. There were blurs of light every now and then, flickers in the distance. I suppose they could’ve been fireflies, but I couldn’t say for sure since I’d never really seen one in real life before.

  Then I’d yelled at my dad to stop the car, and when he did I fled, and there was a flash. . . .

  I pounded my fists against my thighs. Why couldn’t I remember more?

  And why was Agent Truman so interested in whether there were stupid glowing bugs out that night?

  What if my dad wasn’t as crazy as I thought he was?

  A weight settled over my chest as I made a decision. I had to figure out what happened that night, but I couldn’t do it on my own, and I wasn’t about to go to my dad until I knew for sure how this was gonna play out.

  There was only one person I could count on right now.

  I picked up my phone and punched in a message: Any chance I can talk you into ditching school tomorrow?

  I started to hit send and stopped myself. Adding another line to the text: I need an accomplice.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Day Six

  I STAYED IN MY ROOM UNTIL MY MOM AND Grant had taken Logan and left for the day. I was proud of myself for giving The Husband and “my brother” their names back. It was a big gesture on my part, even if they had no clue I’d taken them away in the first place.

  By the time they were gone, I’d already changed my outfit three times. I chewed the side of my nail as I triple- and quadruple-checked the time. It was only 7:43.

  I don’t know why I was so nervous all of a sudden. I’d made Tyler a generous offer, hadn’t I? Giving him the chance to risk truancy, and possibly restriction, just to hang out with me for the day. Clearly, my selflessness knew no bounds.

  The drumming at my window made me realize I’d been wrong to doubt whether he’d show, and I rushed to meet him.

  “Hey,” I exhaled, soun
ding way more relieved than seemed warranted.

  “Hey yourself. So what do you have planned for us? Bank heist? Jailbreak?” The way he looked at me, with that grin and that glint in his eyes, made me smile. But it was his touch, when I let him help me out the window again that made me beam from the inside out. He deliberately pulled me into him, practically yanking me to make it seem as if I’d lost my balance. My cheek smashed into his chest, not that I was complaining exactly. It wasn’t the worst place to be. “Or maybe you have something more . . . interesting in mind,” he suggested, his voice all gravelly sounding as it rumbled against the side of my face.

  Grudgingly, I shoved away from him. “Jeez! Don’t you ever get tired of trying to seduce me with your sorry pickup lines?”

  Undiscouraged, he smiled down at me. “Trust me, if I was trying to seduce you, there wouldn’t be anything sorry about it.” He reached for my hand, and his fingers linked through mine the way they had the night before as we started walking.

  There was something so endearing about the way he held my hand, the way it felt like something we’d been doing forever while at the same time it felt shiny and new. My stomach quivered, and I liked it.

  When we were in his car, he raised an eyebrow at me, and I realized I’d never told him where we were going. I loved that he was willing to go along with whatever I had in mind, no questions asked.

  “Oh, uh . . . to Cedar Lake High School.” I paused when an expression I didn’t recognize passed over his face. “Do you know where that is?”

  “Uh, yeah. In Bellingham. It’s the school you were playing the night you vanished.” He frowned. “Are you sure you want to go back there?”

  I nodded, more sure than I’d ever been. “I need to retrace my steps. I want to see if I can remember anything.”

  “Why? What good’ll it do? The past is the past. You’re here now. Shouldn’t you be moving forward now? Forget about what happened all those years ago?”