Spirit

You made your bed, kid. Now you lie in it.

Maybe he had started this. His breathing was too fast.

His grandfather was struggling to his feet. There was blood and a murderous expression on his face.

Hunter had no idea how to fix this. And all he could think about was his father’s final lesson, how he’d had the opportunity to employ lethal force, and he’d failed.

Just like he’d failed with Calla.

His thoughts were spinning in a dangerous direction, and he couldn’t rein them in. He needed to get out of here, before he did something he couldn’t undo.

You already did something you can’t undo.

Then his grandfather was coming after him again.

Hunter ran. He was through the front door before registering that he’d grabbed one of the bags by the door, and then his jeep tires were spinning gravel from the driveway. Casper was in the back, his head hanging between the seats, his tongue rasping against Hunter’s cheek.

Hunter brushed him away and yanked the wheel to pull onto the main roadway. His heartbeat was a roar in his ears, his lungs grabbing for breath. He needed to slow down. He needed to get hold of himself.

He drove to Quiet Waters, the only county park he knew. He’d come here once before, with Becca. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Kids were attacking the playground equipment, so he drove to the other side of the grounds, stopping his jeep by the pond. The sunlight was dying in the west, but there was still enough to warm his face.

His cheek felt hot and sore where his grandfather had hit him.

Hunter killed the engine and focused on breathing.

In. Out.

His mother had let him go. She’d let her father throw Hunter out of the house.

She’d let his grandfather hit him. He and his own father had scuffled, sure. But his dad had never hauled off and decked him.

But his mother thought he’d hit Calla. She thought he was involved in illegal activities. She hadn’t even asked for his side of things, hadn’t waited for an explanation.

He’d barely been able to get eye contact out of her in months, and now she thought he was—

Stop.

More breaths. He could do this. He could figure it out.

He picked up his cell phone. No messages. His mother hadn’t tried to call. Should he call her?

She’d stood there and watched his grandfather belt him, then told Hunter to stop.

More breaths. He needed to slow down. He rubbed at his eyes.

Finally, he opened the door to let Casper out of the car. He pulled the duffel bag onto the front seat and unzipped it. Clothes, all clothes. Not a lot, but enough for a few days. The only shoes he had were the ones on his feet. It had been windy today so he was still wearing a hoodie under a denim jacket, along with the jeans he’d worn to school. No soap, no razor, but it wasn’t like he had access to anywhere to use those things. He could go to school early and shower there. Maybe things would look different in the morning.

He checked his wallet. Seventeen dollars. He had half a tank of gas in the jeep. He hadn’t eaten dinner, but the rest of his money was in an envelope in the top drawer of his dresser—if his grandfather hadn’t already confiscated it during the “search.” Seventeen dollars wouldn’t last very long, especially if he burned through the rest of his fuel.

All he had to feed Casper was a baggie of milk bones in the glove box.

Suddenly it seemed cruel to have brought the dog.

Hunter swallowed. Wind whipped across the pond to lace through his hair and make him shiver.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said.

He looked at his phone again, wanting to call . . . someone. He just couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t hang up on him. Explaining what had just happened—he couldn’t take it. He already felt guilty enough. He didn’t need someone else to add to it. No way he could ring up Becca or the Merricks and say he’d been thrown out of his house.

Gabriel would probably laugh in his face.

It would be dark soon. He could go one night without eating. Hunter fished the milk bones out of the glove box, divided them in half, and tossed them in the grass for Casper.

Then he lay back in the grass and stared at the darkening sky, attempting nothing more challenging than filling his lungs with air, until a park ranger came around and told him to leave.

After writing him a citation for his dog being loose.

Hunter shoved the citation in the glove box and started the ignition. His fingers felt like icicles, and his empty stomach was starting to protest this whole not eating thing.

The headache was back, clawing at his temples.

Hunter didn’t want to drive far, because he didn’t know how long he’d need to make his fuel last. He settled on the parking lot behind the twenty-four-hour Target on Ritchie Highway, parking in a row of other cars that probably belonged to employees. He blasted the heat as high as he could tolerate, until his breath fogged the windshield and even Casper was panting. Then he pulled an extra pair of sweatpants over his jeans and climbed into the backseat, cramming his legs into the small space and resting his head on the duffel bag.

Casper crammed himself onto the bench seat, too, pressing his back against Hunter’s chest and his nose into the space under Hunter’s chin.

He’d be covered in dog hair in the morning, but Hunter didn’t care. Casper would keep him warm.

He checked his phone again. Nothing.

His throat felt tight.

He told himself to knock it off.

He wished he knew how to fix this. All of it.

His breath was catching. Casper lifted his head and licked Hunter’s cheek.

There was no one here to see, but he’d know, and he wouldn’t let himself lose it. Not when he’d been the one to cause this.

But his breath wouldn’t stop hitching, and he buried his face in the scruff of Casper’s neck.

He missed his father so much.

He thought of where he was right now, and how he’d gotten here, and knew exactly how disappointed his father would be.

He’d fix it. Somehow. He’d fix this.

His phone chimed, and Hunter swiped at his eyes. His heart flew with hope. Maybe his mother had reconsidered? Maybe she’d give him a chance to explain?

But it wasn’t his mother’s number on the face of the phone.

What do you stare at when you’re not in school?

Kate.

Hunter lifted his head. For an instant, he thought about turning the phone off and burying it in his pocket—but really, what else did he have to do?

Obviously I stare at text messages from girls with theories.

Her response was lightning quick.

Slow night, huh?

He smiled.

Long night would be more accurate.

A long pause, then:

What’s with you and the girl from the caf?

Hunter frowned. She meant Calla. He remembered the look on Kate’s face when she’d watched, standing there with her hand on Nick’s arm.

Wasn’t it obvious?

No. And don’t get all >:O at me.

How did you know I was >:O?

Please. Your text style screams >:O.

Hunter smiled again, but only briefly.

It’s complicated.

I have a theory about complicated boys.

He smiled. Before he could type anything else, another message appeared.

BTW that was a pretty sweet spinning backfist you used on the guy who flipped your tray. Where did you learn to fight like that?

His smile vanished altogether.

Another sentence appeared before he could say anything.

Though you’re out of practice. You were lucky that teacher stopped him. Your timing needs work.

He stared at the phone, wondering if he should be impressed or insulted. Then he typed.

This is me right now. :-O

I prefer you like this: :-)

He smiled. Another message from Kate appeared.

Seriously. Where’d you learn to fight like that?

Ninja school.

Funny. Why are you having a long night?

He paused, studying the phone. He didn’t know her at all. But somehow this was easier, sending text messages into the ether.

Family stuff.

Mom or dad?

Grandfather and mom. My dad died at the beginning of the summer.

After he hit SEND, he stared at the words. It wasn’t the first time he’d said them, but it was the first time he’d typed them into a text message, and now they were burning themselves into his brain, like they held more power in writing.

He typed something else quickly, just to make the screen scroll.

We live with my grandparents now.

Her message appeared almost instantly.

I’m sorry about your dad.

A long pause, and then another message from Kate.

My mom is dead, too.

Her words held weight, too, as if the screen knew their power. He typed automatically.

I’m sorry.

Then he added,

Don’t you hate when people say that?

Yes. I’m sorry I said it.

Me, too.

This time the pause was really long, as he fought for something to say after that. He wondered if she’d given up on the texting, when a new one appeared.

How did your dad die?

Normally the question would piss him off. But it was different in a text message, from someone else who’d lost a parent.

In a car accident. I was with him. My uncle died, too.

My mom drowned last year.

Hunter flinched. Somehow it seemed worse—but what was the difference?

Another message popped up on the screen.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

It should have seemed like a weird statement—but he got it.

I know exactly what you mean.

Were you and your dad close?

The words hit him like a bullet. Close.

He and his father hadn’t always gotten along, but Hunter had always felt like his father understood him.

He slid his fingers across the screen.

Yeah. Sort of. Sometimes not at all. Bizarre, right?

We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.

He smiled.

Was that a quote from The Breakfast Club?

O_O Most people don’t get that one.

My uncle loved eighties movies. I’ve seen them all.

Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

Wax on, wax off.

I can’t believe I gave my panties to a geek.

He froze. That one sent his thoughts in a dangerous direction. His phone buzzed.

STOP THINKING ABOUT MY PANTIES.

He grinned.

Can’t help it now.

Stare at me tomorrow?

Sure. I’ll be in the caf early.

And that was it. She didn’t respond.

But that was okay. For five minutes, he didn’t feel so alone.

Hunter put his head down against the duffel bag, closed his eyes, and smiled.

CHAPTER 7

Kate sat in the cafeteria and sucked on the end of a Twizzler. She should have been looking for the Merrick brothers.

Instead, she was waiting for Hunter. Her heart was buzzing, and she told it to knock it off. She was here on assignment. She had a task.

And she remembered the way he had gone from total control to utter disaster with the flip of a switch, like watching an intricate glass sculpture shatter into a thousand pieces—only to pull together again until you could barely see the seams. Something about that was intriguing, like the guileless way he responded to her text messages.

Silver didn’t know anything about that.

She had no intention of telling him.

Her cell phone chimed.

I can’t come sit with you.

She didn’t bother looking around. She just texted back.

Why not?

Complicated.

Kate shoved the bag of Twizzlers into the front of her backpack.

I’ll come to you. Where are you?

He didn’t respond, so she sent another text.

Don’t tell me. You’re sitting by the pool on the roof.

That got a response.

Please tell me you didn’t fall for that one.

Kate smiled. Like she’d fall for a freshman prank.