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The garage door raised, a faint light glowing from overhead, and the driver pulled inside, closing it behind him.
High excitement there.
So, he was home. Matthew McMasters was home. My brother. Right over there.
Or someone had just broken in to kill him in his sleep, using the remote.
Now what was I going to do? Go knock on his door at almost one in the morning? Yes, nothing says sanity like that.
Blowing out a breath and wincing as I adjusted myself back upright, I waited until all the lights were back out that he’d turned on and then started the car. Tomorrow was another day, and I could relax. I had plenty of days.
Back at the motel, though, I was anything but relaxed. The second my ass landed in a chair, I was right back on my feet. Pacing. I stared at my dark phone. It was almost two, and a ridiculous time to kick that bear, but my mind wouldn’t slow the racing. The flames of my father’s house still licked across my vision. I could still smell the old wood on—
“Oh, shit!”
Snatching up my phone, I hit the power button, waiting as it woke up. Covering my eyes from the barrage I knew was coming.
I lit the fire. Walked away. Left the state. Didn’t tell a soul. Didn’t give one thought to anyone considering that I might be in that house.
“Omigod, omigod, omigod...” I muttered, waiting.
I went over there all the time. Mostly when Dad was still alive, but I’d spent long hours over there lately, digging up pictures and mementos. I’d had an old picture of my mother and the three of us in my wallet, and losing that in the attack hurt more than every dollar and credit card in there. I’d wanted to find another one, but never did.
Bing.
Bing.
Bing... bing... bing...
Bing... bing.
I waited it out as the little piece of metal and plastic fussed at me in every alert tone I had. It finally fell silent.
I cracked one eye open and started scrolling. Several missed calls from Hope. I stopped counting at sixteen from Grace. Mateo. Tobias. Two friends from jiu jitsu, but that was probably just to find out when I would be back in class. All except for those left messages in various states of worried to pissed off.
One thing you learn when you’re hospitalized—how small your circle really is. The ones who actually call or come by to check on you versus the fair-weather friends and people who talk to you just enough to gossip behind your back and spill everything you just said. I had a few calls and messages on my birthday, and lots of Facebook wishes from people who just got it in their notifications, and my family was there in my hospital room with a tiny cake I couldn’t really eat yet... but nothing rings in twenty-five like a catheter in your lady parts.
There were two more calls from a number I didn’t recognize with no message left.
I hit the FaceTime button and dialed Grace, shutting my eyes tight. It was almost one there, but that would mean nothing to that mama tiger.
“I’m sorry!” I blurted out the second her tired but very awake face filled my screen. “I’m fine, and I’m sorry I—”
“Nobody took you?” she asked, her dark eyes filling with tears. “You’re okay?”
“Took—took me?” I shook my head, confused. “No. Why would—?”
“Dad’s house burned down, Faith. Your place is trashed and your phone went to voicemail,” she said in a rush, squinting at the screen. “And your hair was in the sink. We’ve been going crazy, worrying about you!”
“My place is what?”
She blinked and shook her head like I was being difficult. “It’s torn apart like—like someone was looking for something.”
Where is it, little chica?
I jumped and dropped the phone, the sound muffled as it hit the worn carpet. The words, the voice, deep and grating, played in my head like it was right next to my ear.
“Faith!”
