“We didn’t mean anything by—” Sylvia starts.
“I don’t care.” Veronica’s blue eyes are so cold that I’m surprised we don’t see our breaths in the air.
I’ve got to admit, there aren’t many people who can make me feel like crap, but she just did and it’s an odd sensation to have in regards to a complete stranger.
“Where did you get that?” She jerks her chin toward the papers in my hand. From her tone, it’s clear she’s pissed.
The already strangling light is dimmed further when another shadow appears in the opening beside her. Nazareth Kravitz leans his back along the frame, watching us like he’s bored. A sixth sense tells me he’s actually sizing me up, which is bizarre because last I heard he’s one of those peace-at-all-costs people.
“Leo texted,” Kravitz says. “He was on the third floor and said we’re going to have guests.”
She glances at him, in a way that tells me something in his words bothers her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“Where did you get those papers?” she asks me again.
“I found them.”
“Where?” she pushes.
“Is there a problem?” Kravitz’s voice pitches low.
Before she can answer they both whip their heads toward the parking lot and main road.
“The police are here!” someone yells, and sweet blood pumps wildly in my veins.
Footsteps pound against the tile floor as people rush for the exits. Miguel and Sylvia immediately jump out the nearest opening. Kravitz unhurriedly drops from his platform, and I look at Veronica again. She still stands there, watching me with that frozen glare, completely unaffected by everyone else running for their lives.
“Sawyer!” Sylvia calls. “Let’s go! They arrest people who are caught here.”
They do, but there’s an unspoken dare with how Veronica stays in her spot. As if she’s challenging me. As if she’s letting me know that in a contest of nerves, she’d win. Truth? The longer she stays there, the more my skin vibrates with that sweet rush. I want to accept her dare, her adrenaline-induced challenge.
“Sawyer!” Miguel shouts. “Let’s go!”
“Our parents will be pissed if we’re caught!” Sylvia is pulling on Miguel’s arm and her stare is yanking at me.
Mom
Lucy
I’m the responsible one.
Sylvia
Miguel
I’m supposed to do what is expected.
But I don’t want to turn away.
Damn.
Veronica tilts her head at me with a knowing smirk that I envy. One that crosses my face whenever I stand on the edge of a cliff, the one I wear when my heart is pumping so fast it feels like it might burst out of my chest. My high.
Her smirk is an affirmation that she won this round and that causes my respect for her to grow. I didn’t know this about her—I didn’t know she had balls of steel.
I break off the connection with Veronica and bolt through the window. A single siren wails, the cops’ only warning they’re on their way. I’m running now, and I’m fast. Faster than Sylvia, faster than Miguel. So fast that I catch them and then become the leader on the way down.
When we’re far enough away, safe in the thick foliage, I turn and look up at the looming gray building and watch in awe. Two police officers scale the steps of the entrance of the building and then three figures lazily drop from the brick porch on the opposite side. One of them has blond curls. It’s Veronica, Kravitz and Wheeling. All of them walking as if taking a stroll through the park instead of being chased by police. Veronica seeming to be the least concerned.
No worries.
No fear.
Just courage.
Now that is impressive.
VERONICA
“Have the new people moved in?” Dad asks over my cell.
It’s late and my eyesight is blurry from exhaustion. After one of Sawyer Sutherland’s merry band of mean friends was stupid enough to trigger an alarm and bring the police, Nazareth, Leo and I drove around town with the windows down and the music blaring. Of course, Nazareth being Nazareth, he saw a stray puppy with a collar and we had to find the owners, but it’s fun to be the hero for a few minutes.
After that, they dropped me off at the Save Mart where I’m an assistant manager so I could help close for the evening since one of the other employees left early with the stomach flu. Dad and I are always hustling for money, and because Dad is preparing for the day I get so sick that he’ll quit his job and his entire life to take care of me, he shoves a ton of what we make into savings. I do what I can to add to the pot.
I have him on speaker as I sit at the desk in our living room and search through file folders, searching for Evelyn’s diary. It’s a copy of a diary from a library in upstate New York. One my mother had heard about and asked to see, and they were nice enough to send. The same one I saw in Sawyer Sutherland’s hands tonight, and I have no idea how he got it.
Those papers were securely placed in a hope chest in my room. No one knew I kept the diary there, not even Dad. I have ransacked nearly every part of my house in search of the copy, hoping against hope that, besides me, Sawyer is the only other person in the world who owns a copy. This riddle is driving me insane—how did Sawyer get his hands on my transcript of Evelyn’s diary?
“V,” Dad says. “I asked if the new people are done moving in.”
“I guess.” I shove all the accounting files for Dad’s business back into the drawer.
Relaxing on the circular window seat and listening to me and Dad chat, Mom stares into the night. She’s peaceful, as if there’s not a problem in the world. I wish I could feel that way for thirty seconds. “I don’t see them hauling in any more boxes.”
Dad and I are close. From the way people talk at school, we’re closer than most parent-child relationships, but I don’t feel like telling him that the guy who moved in downstairs was making fun of me. As much as I hate to admit it, their words hurt. Plus, Dad will kill him for upsetting me, and it would suck to have to visit Dad in prison.
“All the gas receipts are officially scanned into the computer and logged,” I say.
“Thanks.” Dad sounds as drowsy as I feel. He drives long hours before taking the mandatory rest period the government insists truckers take. In the background, I can hear the TV in the sleeper of his cab.
Dad tells me about a character of a waiter he had at the truck stop diner and the story makes me laugh. As he talks, I check my school email and find a reply from my teacher.
I had nicely begged for permission to do the research project on my own. Her answer was short, simple and to the point: No. One of the purposes of this project is to learn how to work with others. This is an essential skill you will need for your future.
I disagree. Wholeheartedly. I have absolutely no intentions of doing anything in my future that involves me working with groups of people.
“Did you deposit the rental check?” Dad asks, drawing me out of my melancholy mood.
“Yep.”
“Tomorrow, not tonight, as you need to get some sleep, can you set up all the new spreadsheets for these tenants?”
I’ve already started them. Rent, utilities, incidentals … “Yep.”