Chapter Forty-four

THE DODGE’S SEATS WERE cold as I clicked my buckle in place and the engine roared to life. My head was spinning and I felt like there were cotton balls in my ears. The walk to the parking lot and the crisp air and night silence had brought a welcome feeling when compared to the hot dance floor.

It had been Rick who had called Kate’s phone, explaining to Dean that we needed to come home immediately. Why was that? What did Rick know about Dad and his escape? Did Dean have more information than what he had told me?

I asked him that very question.

“No, he just said we needed to come home now.”

We had left Kate and Celia at the dance, even after Kate just about tore my head off pleading for us to take her with us. This didn’t involve her, and I didn’t need her wearing her reporter hat and turning this whole thing around in some twisted way.

I apologized to her and told her I’d tell her everything later. Noticeably upset, she’d given me a kiss on the cheek and said to be careful, and then Dean and I were off.

My mind was a freshly opened jigsaw puzzle of thoughts and emotions that ranged from pitch-dark motel rooms, a bully blacking out in a fight, my high-school crush dancing with me and giving me a farewell kiss, head-pounding music, and the rush of adrenaline that surged in my veins now at the notion that my dad was out there somewhere. Free.

I heard Dean say my name.

“What?” I answered a little too sharply.

He looked back at me with worry written on his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

My thoughts lunged back to the dance and how I’d heard my name there too, and then back further when I’d heard it inside other people’s heads. What was going on?

Dean blew through a stop sign just before Hampton Street.

“Whoa, you missed something back there.”

“Who cares? It doesn’t matter.” Dean just about bit my head off with his response. He was obviously tense at the situation and wanted nothing more than to get home as soon as possible.

Gravel spit up as we rounded the turn down our street. Approaching the house, Dean slowed the car. It seemed darker, and for that matter, the whole street was black. Not one lamppost was lit. Had there been a power outage?

Dean extinguished his headlights and slid the gearshift into park a few houses down from our own. I could sense his uneasiness and anxiety; I felt it too. Reaching over, he unlocked the glove compartment in front of me. He rummaged around for a minute, tossing out papers and wrappers. At first I thought he was going for a gun or something—heck yeah, some firepower—but then he gripped a flashlight and flicked it on. Like the school president kept a gun in the glove box.

“Let’s go,” he whispered, and we exited the car. Our breath piped out in steam above our heads in the night air.

The Mitchells’ two-story house was very modern, but here now, in the gleaming moonlight, it looked abandoned and old.

We crept up the driveway and to the front door. It was ajar about half a foot. Not a good sign. I started to shake and couldn’t tell if it was because I was cold or nervous—probably both.

“Dean!” I said under my breath.

He nodded his head, acknowledging the gap that led inside.

Dean tried looking in through an outside window. Nothing. Maybe Rick and Tracy weren’t home. Maybe they were at the police station waiting for us. Although, why would Rick have told Dean and me to come home?

I stepped up to the front door, cautiously widening it with my fingertips for us to enter. Dean followed behind me and stepped inside.