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Emily’s fork scraped across the plate. “So your plan is . . . what? To sit outside the office and wait for him to show up and use his powers?”
“There are ways to make him break the deal.”
At that, Tyler looked up. He met their father’s eyes across the table.
And smiled.
Michael spent Friday night in his room, lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Waiting.
When Emily reported him, how long would it take for the Guides to come after him? Would they kill him right away, or would they take him somewhere else?
Michael hoped they’d take him somewhere else. He kept thinking of his brothers, how every time they looked at him now, he knew they were just waiting for him to drop some bomb about running away.
That was nothing compared to watching an execution.
A soft knock rapped at his door just after nine. Had to be his mother; no one else in the house would knock softly.
He wanted to pretend to be asleep, but no way would she buy it this early.
“Yeah?” he called.
She cracked the door and leaned in. “Sure you’re not hungry?”
He was, but he couldn’t sit in the kitchen, look his parents in the eye, and pretend everything was fine. Even now, he couldn’t face his mother. Not knowing what he’d done.
He shook his head and kept his eyes on the ceiling.
“Well”—she eased into the room—“I made you a little something, just in case.” A plate slid onto his bedside table.
He glanced over and immediately felt like an ass. She’d made him a turkey sandwich. A good one, too, with extra slices of lunch meat and cheese piled high with tomato and lettuce. He could smell the deli mustard. Three oatmeal-raisin cookies sat on the plate as well.
She had to have made them just for him. No one else in the house liked oatmeal-raisin.
His throat felt tight. God, he’d been so stupid.
Maybe he should run now, before he brought them all down with him. He should have run last night.
It took him a second to find his voice. He still couldn’t look her in the eye. “Thanks.”
“Can I sit down?”
He nodded and shifted until he was sitting up against the wall. She sat beside his knees, and the side of the bed barely dented with her weight. He remembered being young, before his brothers had come along, how she’d sit with him in the dark at bedtime and ask about his day. That time grew shorter when she had twins to take care of—and shorter still when Chris arrived—but she hadn’t stopped until he’d outgrown it. It always made him feel special.
Now he knew just how much being special sucked.
He couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in here.
He picked up the sandwich and took a bite, just to avoid the need to say anything.
It didn’t stop her from talking, though. “Do you want to tell me what happened today?”
He almost choked on the bread. “Nothing.”
“You don’t hole up in your room for nothing.”
“I’m just tired.”
