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“You just—you want to leave?”
“It’s probably nothing, but we’re out in the middle of nowhere. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
When they were in the truck, Michael fed Casper old fries from the Wendy’s bag. He kept the windows closed, but Hunter peered out at the trees as they passed.
Nothing.
Michael glanced over. “Any problems at home?”
Hunter almost choked on his breath. “What do you mean? Why?”
“No pentagrams or anything?”
Oh. Those.
“No,” he said, speaking around the sudden gravel in his throat. “No pentagrams.”
And again, he waited for Michael to push, but they just drove in silence back to the parking lot at Home Depot. It wasn’t that late, but it was a weeknight, and the lot was mostly empty.
Hunter slid the cap off his head and ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall across his face. His muscles were starting to knot together with tension and exhaustion, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Calla’s threat to burn more houses.
Even if she hadn’t been stalking them at the landscaping job—and he still couldn’t make that work out in his head—she could be planning something tonight.
And he had no way to stop her.
“Thanks,” said Michael, pulling twenties from his wallet and holding them out.
Sixty bucks. Hunter looked up. “I don’t have enough change.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Hunter wanted to take two twenties and leave the third—but who knew when he’d be able to get his hands on cash again. He closed his fingers around the bills and shoved them into his pocket.
The night had turned pitch-black so quickly. The halogen lights in the parking lot blazed like suns against the darkness. Hunter put his hand on the door handle, ready to burst into the cold air.
Into the promise of another night alone.
Hunter checked his phone. No messages.
His throat felt tight again.
He needed to get the hell out of the truck before Michael called him on being a freak.
Then Michael said, “You want to talk about it?”
For some reason, the words were a relief and an assault simultaneously.
Hunter couldn’t even get it together to answer him. He kept his eyes on the strip of metal where the truck door met the window. It must have been colder than he thought; his breath began to fog in the air.
Michael flipped on the heat in the cab. “Nick does that, too.”
That pulled Hunter’s gaze off the window. “Does what?”
“Drops the temperature when he’s stressed. I’d bitch about it, but I can just turn the heat on. If you set the truck on fire, I don’t have as many options.”
Hunter held his breath, but there was no judgment in Michael’s tone, and no urgency or impatience, either. “I’ve never lost control like this before.”
“You’re sixteen, right? It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
