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Air pours in and out of my lungs. “Yes,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth curls.
He’s not sending her back. And she won’t go home. I have no choice.
“Hey, where is she going?” Calvin asks.
Farrow doesn’t look away from me.
“Whoa, what the hell?” Luca blurts out.
“She’s going to the Falls!” Calvin shouts.
Farrow spins around, looking out the window with the rest of them. The bike races off down the street, and I stand there, still seething.
“You fucking gave her a bike!” Constin bitches at Farrow.
But Farrow’s not listening. “Get her before she gets to the bridge!”
Everyone spills out of the barber shop and into the street, running for their bikes.
And for a second, I smile as I grab the towel Fletcher offers. I wipe the shaving cream off my face.
They’re about to learn just like the men in my family learned years ago. Dylan Trent never goes according to anyone’s plan.
Dylan
I rev the engine, damn near pressing my stomach into the tank as I fly down the road. The river flows to my left, and I pass the train bridge that I jumped from on Grudge Night two months ago and spot the other one upriver that I crossed last night when I was taken as a hostage.
I kick it into higher gear, my heart swelling painfully in my chest, but I can’t stop grinning behind the helmet.
I love this. I’m thirty miles over the speed limit, but judging from the overgrowth spilling onto the street, I don’t think this road is ever used. Much of this town isn’t.
I squeeze the handlebars, the rumble of the bike coursing through my body. I wasn’t able to print off a copy of my license, but I can’t resist.
I need this.
The image of Farrow and the guys joining Hunter on the field and taking his punishment with him today keeps sitting in my head.
Kade would never have done that. No one in the Falls would’ve done that for Hunter.
I don’t think he’s ever coming back.
I race past the bridge, laying off the gas for a second. Maybe I should be tossing coins too. But I push the idea aside and speed ahead. I don’t have any coins, and besides, you toss when you cross. I’m not leaving Weston yet.
Curving to the right, I zoom up into the hills instead, past dilapidated houses, one with a porch swing hanging lopsided from a broken chain and another with years of some teenager’s stickers all over two of the upstairs windows.
All of the houses need fresh paint and new roofs, but there are lights inside and valid efforts with the occasional door wreath. One house has a lawn display full of homemade Halloween decorations. Skeletons wear Dad’s old clothes, and foam gravestones line the lawn along the sidewalk.
Climbing the hill, I lean as far forward as I can as the incline grows steeper. The houses fade away and a forest surrounds me, a dense collection of trees to my left and right.
Glancing into one of my sideview mirrors, I see headlights far behind me. Several.
Motorcycles.
I go faster, the road old and the blacktop faded, but it’s less broken than the flood-damaged streets downtown.
Reaching the top of the first hill, I screech to a halt and lift my visor, scanning the road ahead. A thick brush surrounds the path, weeds and years of fallen leaves coating the edges of the street. ARoad Closedsign sits half on the pavement, moved aside to make way for people who don’t care if it is safe or not.
