The fan clicks.
Once, twice, three times.
Click.
Oz reforms beside me, rising from the gap between cushions where he’s been hiding all day, compressed flat and nearly invisible.
His surface shimmers with exhaustion, the gold threads dim and slow.
“You can’t keep doing this,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Squishing yourself into nothing for eight hours at a time.”
Oz says very seriously, “I can hide for as long as you need me to.”
And while I know he’s trying to be reassuring, all it does is make me feel worse.
Keeping Oz a secret is getting more and more impossible. Not just because of Gram, but because of all the questions without answers in this town.
Somewhere out on the ridge, Mrs. Pritchett is hunting for her stolen Bel Air and whatever pulled apart that coyote, and Gary still hasn’t found Captain.
Between Gram’s holy radar and Mrs. Pritchett’s casserole-fueledwarpath, it’s going to be impossible to keep Oz hidden forever.
But I simply turn to him with a forced smile and say, “We’ll figure it out.”
But a big part of me isn’t so sure.
Chapter 15
Something on the Ridge
Maisie
The orange vests appear atnine the next morning.
Oz is tucked away somewhere in the house, quiet and out of sight. I’m at the kitchen window with my coffee when I see them: Deborah Pritchett, Gary, and a woman I vaguely recognize as the Crawford’s Supply clerk, all wearing high-visibilityvests like they’re directing traffic at a construction site.
Mrs. Pritchett has a clipboard. Gary has binoculars. The Crawfords’ woman has a stack of flyers.
“Oh, this has to be good,” Gram says from the armchair. She’s got her reading glasses on and a fresh ball of roving in her lap, her fingers working on a cute little owl figure. “What are they doing?”
“Organizing, apparently.” I watch Mrs. Pritchett staple a flyer to the telephone pole at the end of my driveway. “There goes the neighborhood.”
Gram peers over her glasses. “Is that Deborah’s safety vest from the Fourth of July parade?”
“Same one.”
“She hemmed it herself. You can see the stitching from here.”
“I can, Gram.”
And from here, I can also read the flyer, because it’s written in the boldest font I’ve ever seen:NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH MEETING—THURSDAY 7PM—PRITCHETT RESIDENCE. All Recent Unusual Activity Will Be Discussed. Refreshments Provided.
“Refreshments provided,” Gram reads over my shoulder through a pair of binoculars she seemingly produced out of thin air. “That’s how you get attendance. Deborah knows her audience.”
Mrs. Pritchett is marching up my driveway before I can retreat. I know better than to hide and pretend like I’m not home, so I head straight for the door and open it before she knocks.
