My hands itched for my Magic 8 Ball. For Charlie. For soft, dark, quiet safety. For answers to questions I couldn’t answer myself. For escape from this world by retreating so far into my own head, I never had to question whether it was real or not.
But I couldn’t stop worrying about Miles.
It was Wednesday night—six days after the scoreboard fell, three days after I’d woken up, half a day before I was scheduled to leave the hospital—when Tucker burst into my room, his coat dripping with rain.
“Oh, finally decided to come visit?” I put the finishing touches on my newest Crayola masterpiece, a picture of a T-Rex. It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think of exactly what. “I didn’t figure it’d take you this long to show up.”
“Alex.”
The tone caught me, made me look up again.
“What? What is it?”
“Miles. I think he’s doing something stupid.”
I threw my legs over the side of the bed and hunted for the shoes Mom had brought me. “Have you talked to him? What did he say?”
“He hasn’t been coming to school.” Tucker’s words came out short and fast. “I haven’t seen him until just before I came here. He was at my house—he looked really freaked out, like someone was after him. He apologized. Except he kept tripping over his words.”
I stood, grabbed Tucker’s hand, and pulled him toward the door. “What else?” I peeked around the doorframe.
“He . . . he wanted me to make sure you were okay. He said he couldn’t come himself.”
I ignored the invisible buzz saws cutting holes in my stomach. “Give me your coat.”
“What?”
“Give me your coat. You’re sneaking me out of here.”
“But you’re hurt!”
“I don’t care if I’m missing a leg, Tucker. We’re going to Miles’s house, and you’re driving. Give me your coat.”
He did. I pulled it on, zipping it all the way up. I balled my hair back and pulled the hood up to cover it.
“Lead the way,” I said.
Chapter Fifty-seven
My perimeter checks were useful, but it was Tucker’s knowledge of medical-speak that got us out of the hospital.
I knew I’d never be able to repay him for sneaking me out. And I’d never really be able to thank him for being worried about me when he found out Miles and I were together, instead of being angry.
We sprinted across the rain-soaked parking lot to Tucker’s black SUV and peeled our way out to the street. He didn’t ask me what I thought was going on. They used to be best friends. He probably already knew.
I couldn’t see Hannibal’s Rest because of the dark sheeting rain, but I knew when we passed my street because the phoenix sat atop the stop sign, its feathers flaming red in the rain. We swerved through the Lakeview Trail entrance. Tucker pulled up in front of Miles’s house. I spotted Miles’s truck in the driveway, but not the Mustang that had been there before.
“We have to get inside.” I jumped out of the SUV.
“What?”
“We’re going into the house! Come on.”
Together we climbed the fence into the front yard. I desperately hoped Ohio wasn’t out, or couldn’t hear or smell us in this rain. The monster dog would tear us both to pieces. The front door of the house was shut tight and all the first floor lights were off, but a light was on upstairs.
I pulled Tucker to the doghouse, freezing when I saw the hulking silhouette of the huge Rottweiler, apparently asleep. But there was something unnatural about Ohio’s stillness.
Chills ran up my arms. This was it; this was the night. I climbed up on the doghouse and reached for the drainpipe, like I’d seen Miles do when he’d left the house that night. It had been reinforced with pieces of wood that stuck out at odd angles and made perfect hand-and footholds. Miles must have put them there. The trick to climbing them was not combusting from the fiery soreness burning through my entire body.
Within minutes, both Tucker and I were on the rain-slicked porch roof and making our way to the room with the light.
The window was open enough for me to wedge my fingers underneath and pull it up. Tucker and I tumbled inside.
I started out noticing the little things: the notebooks spilling from the closet; the hunk of Berlin Wall sitting on the dresser, crumbling on one side like part had been broken off; the words scribbled on the walls. A picture frame sat on his nightstand. The black-and-white picture was of a man who looked almost exactly like Miles, one eyebrow quirked up, wearing a black flight jacket and standing next to a WWII-era fighter plane.
“He’s not here,” I said. “We have to search the rest of the house.”
“What about Cleveland?” Tucker asked.
“I think he’s gone. His car is gone.”
Tucker didn’t look so sure.