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“Miles,” I said.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, opened his eyes, and reached out for me.
Cliff punched him in the ear.
Miles gasped and staggered to the side, clutching his head. I dropped the water pitcher and threw myself at Cliff before he could get another hit in. The next thing I knew, I had Ria grabbing at my hair and shirt, and Cliff trying to pry me off. Then Art was there, holding off two other football players from joining the fray, and Jetta and the triplets and Tucker jumped in around him, trying to help me, and the whole place went to hell.
Eventually, someone grabbed me underneath the arms and lifted me right out of the fight. I was set on my feet behind the counter, and turned to see Gus—big, potbellied Gus, the cigarette still clamped between his lips. He nodded, looking worried.
Pitying.
I hated that look.
He trundled off to break up the fight, leaving a fuming Finnegan in his wake. Finnegan’s face went from red to purple to white. Plates shattered. Drinks flew across the room. Blood dripped from my lip.
Finnegan only got two words out before he apparently lost the ability to speak.
“You’re fired.”
Chapter Forty-seven
My mother was not amused.
As soon as she saw my lip, she knew what had happened. Like Finnegan had some sort of telepathic link with her or something.
Or, more likely, that Finnegan had a sister called the Gravedigger.
She sat me in my room with my pictures and my artifacts, and she forced me to stay there for the rest of the night. Charlie kept me company, curled up in my lap, my arms around her. The gravity of the situation didn’t hit me until Saturday afternoon, when Miles showed up on the doorstep, apologizing.
“I didn’t mean to get you fired,” he said.
I’d invited him in, but he still stood on the welcome mat outside the door, his hands stuffed in his pockets. Shadows ringed his eyes. A bruise was forming along his left cheekbone that may or may not have come from the fight at Finnegan’s.
“It’s not your fault Cliff punched you in the ear,” I said. “He’s a two-hundred-pound human wrecking ball. Did you really think I was going to stand there and wait for him to hit you again?”
He stared at me.
“The answer is no, you didn’t, because no, I wasn’t. Besides, Finnegan was going to find something to fire me for sooner or later. I’m glad it was something worth getting fired over.”
“I could have handled Cliff,” Miles said. “I have some general experience getting the shit kicked out of me. But you needed that job.”
I wanted to argue with him, but sometimes he had a terrible way of being right. I hadn’t just gotten fired; I’d gotten fired for starting a fight. So much for ever using Finnegan as a work reference.
I glanced back into the house to make sure no one was listening, but Mom had gone to the store with Charlie, and Dad had fallen asleep reading a National Geographic on the couch. I stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind me.
“Well, it’s too late now,” I said, then offered up a pitiful smile. “But hey, that means I’ll have more time to figure out what McCoy’s doing, right?”
I was joking, but Miles frowned. “You still want to break into his house?”
“I have to figure out what’s going on. As long as we don’t get caught, it’ll be fine.” I was positive it would, if Miles was still in on the plan. I waited, but his frown only deepened until he pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes.
“I remember lifting you up, you know,” he finally said.
“What?”
“With the lobsters. I remember lifting you up. You were heavy.”
“Uh . . . thanks?”
He shook his head. “When are we doing this?”
“The day before the spring sports awards.”
“That’s soon.”
“I know. Tucker found out from the front desk secretary that McCoy is staying late that day for preparations, so we know he won’t be home. I told my mom I’d have to go back to school to help the club set up the gym—I’d sneak out, but my parents have been watching me constantly.”
Miles exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Okay,” he said. “Am I picking you up?”
“Tucker said he could, and we’d meet you there. Since you already live so close.”
“Fine.” He hesitated a second, then turned to go.
“Wait!” I caught his sleeve between my fingers. “Are you angry?”
He only turned halfway back. “I’m a lot of things,” he snapped. “I don’t know.”
“You could . . . you could hang out here for a while. You don’t have to go home.”
“I shouldn’t—” he began. Then my mother’s Firenza turned down the street and pulled into the driveway, boxing in Miles’s truck. Charlie bounced in the passenger seat. My mother got out and called for help bringing in the groceries.
“Well,” he said, and I swear he sounded relieved, “I guess I could stay for a while.”
Chapter Forty-eight
The day before the spring sports awards, Tucker picked me up just as the shadows of the trees began slanting the other direction. I ran out to his SUV as fast as I could, ignoring the perimeter check, so my mother wouldn’t have time to see who was driving. The Hannibal’s Rest phoenix soared overhead. I didn’t mention it to Tucker.
“I didn’t need anything, right?” I asked, checking myself over. Converse. Jeans. Striped T-shirt.
“Nope. Richter said he knows a quick way in.” Tucker pulled out of the driveway and started toward Lakeview.
“Why do you still call him ‘Richter’? You’ve called him ‘Miles’ before.”
Tucker shrugged. “Habit, I guess. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to call him anything else.”
We made it to Lakeview in ten minutes. Tucker passed Miles’s street and went two more, to a cul-de-sac where rainbows and unicorns came to die. Miles’s truck was already parked along the curb. Tucker pulled up behind it and pointed to a house a little farther down.
“That’s his.”
The place had probably looked good once, but now unchecked ivy grew up its sides. The house must’ve been red and white, but the white was peeling and yellowed, and the red had been bleached to a Pepto-Bismol pink.
We got out and met Miles.
“He hasn’t been home since I’ve been here,” said Miles.
