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She found Biggs standing near one of the police cruisers. “I have to leave. Now.”
“Whoa. Wait.”
“No time to explain. I can’t deal with any red tape or even questions. Cover for me,” she said under her breath.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
“Uh-oh. What’re you planning, O’Meara?”
“Just cover me. I’ll call.” She was already jogging to her car. She turned, looked over her shoulder, and added, “Oh, yeah, you’d better find a way home.”
* * *
Atop his bed, Dylan stared at the screen of his laptop and frowned. Absently, as he watched his monitor, he chewed on a tough piece of jerky and ignored Reno prancing beside the bed, whining for a bite.
What the hell was his mother doing?
After cruising through the streets of Edgewater she seemed to be stalled on the west end of town. Near Harper, but not in the same spot.
He was tracking them both, as he had for the past six months, just to keep tabs. He’d felt it was some supremely cool irony that instead of his mother tracking his phone, he was keeping hers in his sights. Just the opposite of so many kids he knew whose parents were monitoring their whereabouts.
This spy shit was amazing!
But now he was worried.
His mom was on the move again, heading toward Harper, who was at the old fish-packing plant on the edge of town. What the hell was she doing there? Yeah, he’d helped her again by shutting down the old alarm system so she could sneak out and hook up with Xander, but he didn’t think they would go to the building that caused their mother a major freak-out.
What was that all about?
Nothing good.
Right?
His mom was on the move again, heading to the packing plant.
Weird, weird, weird.
Something wasn’t right.
In fact, it was very bad.
He reached for the last piece of jerky from what was ridiculously labeled a “jumbo pack,” then, seeing the dog out of the corner of his eye, bit off a piece and threw the rest to Reno, who caught it on the fly and swallowed it whole.
Lacing his hands behind his head, Dylan watched the screen. He could tell that his mom had turned into the lane leading to the cannery, so she should run into Harper. Right? Harper wasn’t moving . . . or at least her phone wasn’t.
She wouldn’t leave her cell though.
It was, like, glued to her.
But...
He bit his lip and pulled up his GPS for an aerial terrain view, but could see nothing more. “Come on, Harper,” he said, squinting and beginning to worry, “what’re you doing?”
* * *
Rachel’s heart clutched as she drove down the bumpy, pock-riddled asphalt of the cannery’s lane. In her headlights she saw the weed-choked ruts and her heart beat a painful drum the closer she got to the old building. Her skin crawled and she couldn’t help but remember the last time she’d been here, twenty years earlier, and the tragedy that had ensued.
