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Hawke’s only slightly older than Kade, Hunter, and me, but he knows more, and we never forget it.
He takes something out of his back pocket. “Spare phone.” He hands it to me. “Keep it charged. Keep it hidden. Keep it silent.”
I take it, pressing the button to see the screen light up.
“You know the code if you’re in danger,” he tells me.
I nod. I text2357to him. He came up with it. Prime numbers. Don’t ask me why.
Next, he pulls out a smartwatch and wraps it around my wrist. “This will give you a notification if I’m calling or texting it, but I only will if I have to,” he explains. “Otherwise, I’ll call your regular phone.”
Great. Something else to keep charged. How does he expect me to do that with one cord?
“Where’s your jacket?” he suddenly asks.
I take another bite. “Somewhere,” I mumble over the food, avoiding his eyes.
“You got robbed.”
I take another bite.
I hear him blow out a breath, reaching into his breast pocket, taking my hand, and slapping a wad of cash.
I widen my eyes, holding up the bills. “Wha—” I cough over the food, meeting his eyes. “Oh, I love being cousins with a doomsday prepper!”
“I’m not a doomsday prepper,” he grumbles. “You just never know when you might have to go into hiding. Or suddenly leave the country.”
I chuckle, slipping the money into my pocket.
“It’s for necessities only,” he states. “If you don’t spend it, you give it back. And don’t let them get it. Act like a Trent, for Christ’s sake.”
I toss him a salute and pick up the drink he brought, tasting lemonade through the straw.
“Come on. I want to show you something,” he says.
I set down the taco and dust off my hands, pulling off the hoodie wrapped around his waist and slipping it on. He moves for the door I thought was a pantry and stands aside for me.
“Go first,” he says.
I wouldn’t if it were anyone else telling me, but I follow instructions and ascend the stairs. I climb, winding step after step, but I’ve only taken a few before Hawke orders, “Okay, now stop.”
I turn, seeing him just below me. But instead of following me to the right, he runs his hand along the panel to the left—the wall—and pounds his fist. The board snaps back, and he slides it easily, revealing more staircase, leading farther down.
Light spills in from somewhere I can’t see, but the stairwell is considerably more ragged. Stones are coatedwith cobwebs and a draft pours up from the basement. Why was it concealed?
“That’s scary,” I say more to myself.
He waves for me to follow, and he descends, spiraling around and around as I follow.
We come to the bottom, into a large room, but instead of boxes, old lamps, or an ancient wooden wardrobe, the room has a table and chairs, a fireplace big enough to sit in, and cabinets lining the walls with shelves holding old jars, dishes, and tins. A lone white plate lays discarded on the table, the late afternoon sun spilling through all the windows on the west side.
I gaze around, noticing two hallways, maybe another room down at the end of one. “It’s like…”
“Another kitchen,” Hawke tells me.
I spot the large basin sink, and a wood-burning stove, but there are no electric appliances. No fridge, no dishwasher. Judging from the grayed marble tiles that were once black and white, this room hasn’t been used in more than a hundred years.
“I had no idea these houses were this old,” I murmur.
