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What the hell?
I make my way back down and walk past my friends who are bickering about how much play money one of them has to fork over to the other. At least this way they're distracted.
I find the basement door ajar and hadn’t even considered looking down there—I was on my way to the garage to check if our rental was still there.
Opening the door all the way, I take two steps when I hear my father’s muffled voice. His tone is...tense. I slowly make my way down, conscious of minimizing any sound that could alert him to my eavesdropping. I’m at the bottom step when I can hear him clearly. I flatten myself against the wall and stay out of sight.
"I’m positive, yes." Pause. "I don’t know, honey." He’s talking to Mom? "I promised I wouldn’t keep anything from you anymore, but you need to stay calm."
From the shrieking that I can even hear from my hiding spot, my mother is anything but calm. "Heather." More yelling. "Heather! Stop!" Dad uses his command voice, and it shuts Mom up. "We need him. He is our best chance of finding our daughter." Who—? "I don’t like it either. The father in me wants to bash his head in, not even hand him over to the authorities." Fuuuuck. "But for one, we don’t have any proof. Yet. And two, he seems to truly care about her. I’m not sure what to make of it. And we don’t know how much the kids know." He listens again. "I will. I haven’t been able to be around Nate much; Rhys has been with him the entire time. He seems to trust him." Pause. "I agree." Another pause. "Okay, I’ll keep you posted. Please try to stay calm. We’ll get her—" Mom doesn’t seem to like his last statement. "As calm as you can, honey. For Natty’s sake. How is she?" Dad is quiet, and I’ve heard enough. Tiptoeing back up the stairs, I halt outside the basement door.
Dad knows—or at least suspects that Nate is The Babysitter.
FUCK, FUCK, FUUUUUCK!
I hidefor the remainder of the evening, an easy feat since everyone already waits for me to lose my shit and doesn't question my behavior—like, at all. I could run through the mansion in the blowup unicorn costume the team forced on Owen during last year's Homecoming prank, and no one would bat an eyelash. Well, maybe George, but he still would remain his stoic, lovable self.
Lying on Lilly’s bed, I’ve gotten well acquainted with the ceiling over the last several hours. There is a tiny cobweb I want to remove tomorrow once I find a broom or a ladder. And some type of water stain I need to mention to Nate. But besides coming up with a maintenance list for the bedroom, I have no fucking idea what to do. Telling Nate about Dad is out of the question. He needs to concentrate on finding Lilly. I’m a selfish prick for that, but there is no way I’ll let him get distracted.
By one in the morning, the walls are closing in. Not that I mind being alone. Besides watching Nate work, I prefer it that way. The pity looks everyone tries not to give me—and fails epically—make it impossible not to go apeshit. Nate's the one with the ability to find her when the big bad Marines can't.
I keep picturing my father changing his mind and having Nate arrested or taking it into his own hands. I don’t think he would do it here—with George and his men around—but my mind has played out more scenarios than Denielle has shoes. Eventually, I swing my legs off the bed.
I need to talk to someone.
I pat down to the second floor. The lighting in the house is muted, the hallway fixtures dimmed, and most doors closed. It's eerily quiet after the commotion all day. The only room lit is Lilly's office. When Nate first dropped that tidbit of information on me, I choked on my water. Because despite being aware of her newfound affinity for the digital world, imagining her sitting behind this desk with all the screens, command line windows, and her hair up in a messy bun with her glasses gave me an instant hard-on. So inappropriate for the current situation.
So. Inappropriate.
I peer into the room, and my eyes widen when I see Nate's head resting on his forearms, asleep. My jaw clenches, and I want to shake him, yelling what the fuck does he think he's doing? But the momentary surge of heat is quickly replaced by understanding. The guy got stabbed, flew across the world, and has been in this room for twelve-plus hours.
With a sigh, I ease back out and pull the door closed.
On the first floor, I come to an abrupt halt when I find George sitting in the kitchen, a laptop and a mug in front of him. He looks like shit—like, the pile someone stepped in and then tried to smear it across the sidewalk to get it off their shoes.
His eyes flick to mine, but he doesn't show a reaction otherwise.
"Have you slept at all since Wednesday?" I ask as I sink down opposite him. He sure doesn't look like it, and Lilly went missing almost thirty-six hours ago.
"Some." He leans back and folds his arms over his chest, waiting.
"Where is my father?"
"He took the spare room next to Weston and Denielle. He said to get him if we find anything new."
I nod, avoiding direct eye contact. I scan the kitchen, focusing on nothing in particular.
We sit in silence for several minutes. I keep glancing back at the man across from me several times, but he just raises an eyebrow, his scar pulling the corner of his eye up with the movement.
"My father knows about Nate," I blurt out when I can’t take it anymore.
"What exactly would that be?"
I want to pound the calmness out of him.
"That he’s The Babysitter." I drop the bomb, but George doesn’t seem surprised.
"I’m aware." He places his hands flat on either side of the computer.
