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She hadn’t heard from Tyler since she’d seen him kill the Guide.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him, either, but it hurt that he hadn’t reached out to her.
And now, walking down empty school hallways, terror settled into her muscles, slowing her pace.
They couldn’t make her go somewhere, could they? Brittany Asher had been in foster care, and she’d told horror stories around the lunch table about gross foster fathers sneaking into her room in the middle of the night. Or foster mothers whose tempers would rival Quinn’s mom’s.
Quinn stopped in front of the door to the office.
She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes blurred.
She had to run. She could hide.
“Quinn?”
Quinn swiped a sleeve over her eyes. Becca’s mother stood there, signing in for a visit to the office. Quinn almost didn’t recognize her in street clothes—the woman practically lived in nursing scrubs.
And Quinn was standing here with a running nose and heaving shoulders.
Mrs. Chandler abandoned the sign-in book and put her hands on Quinn’s shoulders, rubbing gently. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
Quinn shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t—they’re going to take me—”
Then she couldn’t hold it in anymore, and she was crying on Mrs. Chandler’s shoulder, clutching at her sturdy form. This was what a mother was supposed to be like: all soft curves and gentle hands and quiet support.
“Please don’t let them take me somewhere,” Quinn said, clinging to any possibility that an adult could fix this. She knew she wasn’t making sense, but she couldn’t stop begging. “I want to go home. Will you tell them it’s okay? Tell them to let me go home. Please—”
“You can’t go home,” Mrs. Chandler said gently. “Not now, Quinn.”
Quinn cried harder. She couldn’t stop shaking. “Please.
Please help me.”
“Oh, I’m going to do that. Calm down now.” She stroked Quinn’s back. “Let’s go inside and talk about it. We’re supposed to be doing this with your guidance counselor.”
Quinn lifted her head. “What?”
Mrs. Chandler pulled tissues out of her pocket. “I called to set up the meeting. I just found out about your mother, and your brothers, and what’s been going on in that house of yours.”
r and Becca had brought her dad, Bill Chandler, back to the house when they’d called to tell them what had happened.
Bill had looked at Gareth’s body and had said to Michael,
“You all killed Gareth Brody. You might not have wanted a war, kid, but I think you just started one.”
Adam studied Nick in the darkness, his eyes full of wary uncertainty. Nick wondered if this was the wtf coming home to set up shop.
Adam frowned. “And the studio . . . if the police come knocking, you expect me to tell them we left before anything happened? That we had no idea?” His voice was level, even.
Nick shifted on the step to look at him. “I don’t expect you to do anything, Adam. You don’t need to keep my secrets.” He sighed, resigned. “I know what I am. I know what happened. If you want to tell the cops everything, I can’t stop you.”
Adam nodded.
And that could mean anything.
“Okay,” Nick said softly. “I don’t want—” He hesitated. “I’ll leave.”
He waited for Adam to protest. Adam didn’t.
