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The house behind Farrow is misnumbered. It doesn’t fit in the sequence with the others on the street.
Zero-one.
And backwards, it reads,One-zero.
Zero-one.
One-zero.
Zero-one.
One-zero.
And then it hits me.
01 and 10.My face falls.Their football numbers.
I shoot my eyes up, taking in the house again. Three stories, a gable over the entryway, a small lantern on the right side of the grand door, and the shadow of the flame inside dancing against the dark house.
This is where she was last seen.
“Knock Hill,” I whisper.
That’s what Aro had said.
This neighborhood is Knock Hill, but while all of the houses lining both sides of the road are similar, there’s only one that’s infamous.
He brought me tothehouse.
“Well, it does matter who your father is,” Farrow goes on.
“Good,” I say, but my voice shakes a little now. “He doesn’t take his anger out on who deserves it. He takes it out on whoever he can reach. Be careful.”
I steel my jaw. I’m not running home.
My phone rings, buzzing in my hand, and I hold it up, but before I can see who’s calling, Mace snatches it away.
“Hey.” I reach to take it back, but she tosses it to Calvin, who glances at the screen and smirks.
“Aro Marquez,” he says, handing it to Farrow.
He takes it. “She’s too late.”
“Where are the adults?” I ask.
“I’m an adult.”
“Where am I staying?” I demand next. “What’s going on?”
They stare at me, Mace and Calvin flanking their boy. Calvin tips his head toward Farrow. “He won’t like this.”
He?
But Farrow tells him, “He’ll love it.”
Who will love what? Jesus, fuck.
The door to the house opens, and Coral Lapinski appears, jogging down the steps with a couple of other girls.
