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I yank my fingers through my hair as I rush over to the open window and peer outside.
Just below is a small stretch of roof that covers the back porch. She must’ve climbed out and took off, but where the heck did she go? As far as I know, none of my sisters have made friends since we moved to Honeyton. Well, except for Londyn and that cashier guy she talks to sometimes. Then again, I’ve been distracted lately, so I’m not positive I really know what’s going on in my sisters’ lives.
I dig out my phone from my pocket and send Payton a text.
Me: Where are you?
When she doesn’t answer, I send another.
Me: If you don’t answer me, then I’m going to use that app I have to track your phone.
It’s total bullshit that I have the app, but she doesn’t know that. Thankfully, she buys the lie and messages me back.
Payton: Stop being crazy. I’m just out with some friends. It’s not a big deal. I’ll be home later.
Me: If it wasn’t a big deal, you wouldn’t have snuck out the window.
Payton: I snuck out to avoid those stupid worried looks you guys keep giving me.
Me: We’re worried about you for a good reason … You’ve been acting different the last couple of days, and I wish you’d tell me why. I want to help you, but I can’t if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.
Payton: Nothing’s wrong with me, other than I’m sick of this family and you trying to play mom. You’re not our mom, and you need to get over yourself. Now leave me alone. I’m old enough to take care of myself.
Me: I know you think that, but there’s still a lot of stuff you don’t understand about life.
About the Harlyton’s life and the trouble our dad got us into.
I swallow hard as worry smacks me across the face. What if, while she’s out doing God knows what, she runs into someone that Axel or August knows?
Me: Just tell me where you are so I can come get you. There’s some stuff I was planning on talking to everyone about over dinner. And it’s really important that you hear it.
Payton: No thanks. I’m sick of family drama. And I know you don’t have that stupid app on your phone. We’re too poor for that.
Sick and tired of having this conversation via text, I dial her number. I don’t really expect her to answer, so I’m thrown off guard when she does.
“What do you want?” she growls into the phone.
Music is blaring in the background, along with shouting and laughing. My bet is that she’s at a party, and considering the types of parties she’s gone to in the past …
I need to get her home as quickly as I can.
“I want you to tell me where you are so I can come pick you up,” I tell her.
“Fuck off,” she snaps. “You’re not my mom.”
I bite down on my tongue, telling myself to stay calm. “Pay, I’m not trying to be your mom—”
“Yeah, you are,” she cuts me off. “And it’s getting annoying. Just because some random woman shows up and gives you some papers saying you have custody of us, doesn’t mean you actually do. For all we know, the papers could be complete fakes.”
“They’re not fakes.” I sit down on the windowsill and take a deep breath. “Social Services would’ve never let you come home if they were.”
“Social Services doesn’t give a shit about anything,” she whispers in a shaky tone. “The people there just pretend to do their jobs, while turning their heads the other way when anything difficult happens.”
Panic flares through me. “What happened to you while you were there—”
The line clicks.
“Shit.”
