“He’s not going to find out.” I stop at the light and flick on my left turn signal. “He doesn’t have to know. But what about your mom? Does she know you went?”
Devanie laughs through her nose. “Yeah. Right. She’s still at work, and I probably won't hear her come in until after the bars close. Take a right up here. I’m on the corner. The white ranch with the porch light on.”
I pull into a single stall driveway a moment later and she gathers her things.
“Thank you so much for picking me up,” she says before she gets out.
“Of course, sweets,” I say. “Anytime.”
She quietly shuts the door and I watch her walk up the front sidewalk, fishing around in her bag for her keys. I intend to stay here until I see to it she gets inside.
A minute passes and she’s still searching for her keys.
Dropping to the steps in front of the door, she empties the contents, spreading them out on the concrete in a frenzy.
I roll the window down. “Lost your keys?”
She shoves everything back into her bag, her mouth half agape as she walks back to my car. “They must have fallen out at the party.”
A moment ago she said her mom doesn’t get home until after the bars close—which is about three hours from now. She can’t call her brother because then she’ll have to tell him what happened.
“Get in,” I say. “You’re staying at my house tonight.”
The ride to Park Terrace is quiet, save for the music I let Devanie choose. It’s some pop band I’ve never heard of, but it seems to put her in good spirits because a few times I catch her tapping her finger along to the beat.
Stopping outside the iron gates, I punch in my security code and wait for the doors to open.
“This … is your house?” Devanie asks, eyes wide and bright in the dark of my car.
“My parents’ house,” I say. “Technically.”
“Holy sh....” Devanie unbuckles her seatbelt, perching on the edge of her seat as she scans the expansive property, the perfectly placed mature trees, the trickling fountain in the circle drive, and the strategically arranged lighting that makes the house equal parts terrifying and majestic this late at night.
I drive around back, parking in front of my designated garage stall, and we head inside the house.
It’s dark. Quieter than before. I assume everyone’s in bed by now, given the fact that it’s almost midnight. I stopped on the drive home to get her a cheeseburger and fries after I heard her stomach rumbling.
“Follow me,” I say, leading her through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the foyer, where we stop at the base of the curved staircase. “You’re staying in the guest room tonight. Last room on the right. Next to me.”
She follows me up, the stairs creaking softly beneath each step, and I stop when I get to my door.
“Hang on. I’m going to grab you some pajamas.” I head in, emerging a minute later with a gray t-shirt and drawstring sweatpants that she can tie tight so they don't fall off. When I come out, I find her staring at the collage of framed and matted family photos that clutter the walls of our upstairs hall. “This way.”
I take her to the guest suite next to my room and flick on the lamp on the bedside table. The bed is king-sized but comfortable, a Duxiana pillowtop, and I point her toward the en suite.
“There’s your bathroom. I’ll be next door if you need anything,” I say, yawning. “And these are for you.”
I hand her the pajamas, realizing she’s yet to say a single word since we walked in.
“You going to be okay?” I ask.
She nods.
“I’ll take you home in the morning,” I say. “In the meantime, you should probably text your mom and let her know where you are. Give her my number too, will you? Just in case.”
“Okay,” she speaks. Finally.
“Goodnight, Devanie.” I close the door behind me, attempting to make as little noise as possible. In the morning, I’ll explain everything to my parents and then I’ll have Eloise, our weekend chef, make her a proper breakfast before I take her home.
I meant what I said when I told her I wouldn’t breathe a word of this to her brother. I’m beginning to get the impression that he’s more of a parent to her than her own mother, but their family dynamics seem a bit complicated and I don’t want to get involved in any of that. The Boys and Girls Club handbook explicitly stated we’re only allowed to communicate with the child’s legal guardian(s).
I wash up for bed and climb under my covers, trying my hardest to relax after an eventful couple of hours, but every time I close my eyes, I see him.
Madden.
And while I hardly know him, I find myself wondering what he’s up to tonight, on this ordinary Friday evening. I picture him surrounded by friends, maybe a brown bottle of beer in one hand. Music blasting. People laughing. The smell of cigarettes lingering in the air. Not a designer accessory, nose job, or European luxury car in sight.
Just regular people.
Nice, unassuming, genuine people having a good time.
People unafraid to be themselves.
Unencumbered by societal expectations placed on them, dictating anything from how they’re to behave at all times to what topics of conversation are appropriate in that setting.
Must be nice …
Rolling to my side, I squeeze my eyes tight and force myself to think of something else, anything else, but ultimately it drifts back to him every time.
The sound of water rushing through pipes in the guest room travels between the walls. She must be getting ready for bed. Part of me feels bad for keeping a secret from him. He obviously cares about her more than anything in the world.
But a promise is a promise.
And I’ve yet to break a single one.
Sixteen
Madden
* * *
I pull into Mom’s driveway shortly after eight Saturday morning, parking behind her dented Taurus. I’m not usually up this early, especially on the weekends, but I couldn’t sleep last night. It was one of those nights when I tossed and turned and my mind wouldn’t shut off. I’m lucky if I got maybe four hours total, but whatever. I’ll survive.
Grabbing the McDonalds bag, I head inside to wake Dev.
The house is still, quiet. Pitch dark save for some dimmed sconces along the hall walls. Mom’s door is shut. Dev’s is wide open. I pop my head in.
“Hey, you up?” I ask before spotting a crumpled pile of covers and no Dev.
Heading to the bathroom, I find that door open too, the light off. I check the rest of the house—even going so far as to check the fucking coat closet.
But Devanie’s not here.
Running my hand through my hair, I settle in the middle of the living room, dragging in lungfuls of air as my blood boils beneath the surface of my skin.
I knew this was going to happen if I got her a phone. I knew she’d get a taste of freedom and autonomy and try to pull some sneaking out shit.
Collapsing in the worn leather recliner, I pull out my phone and tap on the tracking app so I can see where the hell she’s been and where the hell she is.
First I’m going to find her. Then I’m going to bring her home. And after that, I’m going to rip my mom a new one for coming home and not realizing that her goddamned daughter was gone.