There are a million reasons to get the hell out of this place and forget that the whole thing ever happened. Yet I turn off the engine. It makes knocking sounds as it cools, and my heart thunders behind my ears. I check my purse to make sure my inhaler and cell are still inside, then shoulder it, take a deep breath, and step outside.
The air is languid and still; crickets chirp loudly in the dark. I spin in a circle and squint at the slithering shadows. A dog barks in the distance, and my heart punches against my ribs. I exhale slowly and feel for the shape of my inhaler through the fabric of my purse.
It’s okay, Hope. It’s okay.
The cars are all empty, so whoever they belong to must be inside. Four against one at best…considerably more against one at worst.
I turn back to the warehouse, hemmed in by chain-link fencing. I’d thought it was completely dark, but now that I look closer, I realize there’s one room on the main floor that shines dully with opaque light.
I wait a moment, two, three, my heart racing, but no one emerges from the building. They’re waiting for me.
Go home, I tell myself. Get in the car, drive fast and far. Ethan was right.
Thinking of Ethan makes a bitter shiver flash through me. Ethan, who laughed at me and told me it was stupid, who might take me to the movies tomorrow if I really want. Who’s probably kissing Savannah at this very moment.
The fence is taller than it looked from inside the car and reaches several feet over my head. I walk the length of it, looking for an opening, but the only one is a gate bolted shut with a thick padlock. I grip the fence and test my weight with a foot in the chain. Then I grunt my way up.
It’s easier to climb than I would have thought, and I move quickly up the fence. If only Mom could see me now!
But by the time I reach the top, I’m huffing for air and my arms and legs feel weak and wobbly. I cough into my arm, the gravelly sound unbearably loud. The wire fencing digs into my hands.
Almost there.
I blow out a slow breath to calm my breathing, then take the last step up and flip my legs over to the other side, but my purse strap gets caught on a spike in the chain link.
I lose my footing and grapple furiously at the fence, but my fingers slip, and then I’m falling. There’s an awful second where I think, This is going to hurt, before my back cracks against the pavement. Hot pain splits up my spine; black spots flash in my eyes.
The last thing I see is a side door of the warehouse swinging open and a pair of Converse sneakers walking calmly toward me.
I hear their muffled voices first. From the sounds of it, they’re young, and, thankfully, all girls. I keep my eyes closed and strain to make out what they’re saying. Shoes scuff on the ground. I keep as still as possible.
“Someone gonna wake that bitch up or what?” a voice says over me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I pop my eyes open to find a pair of startlingly blue eyes assessing me. The girl has spiky black hair and the wild, unpredictable look of a feral cat. I push up to my feet so fast a wave of nausea hits that threatens to knock me back to the ground.
“Who are you?” I demand. But even as I ask it, a creeping realization strikes: I know this girl. Hartley Jensen, St. Beatrice’s resident badass. Last year she set the school library on fire. No one knows how she managed to escape expulsion.
Hartley steps forward, and I resist the urge to step back. I’ve seen enough Animal Planet to know that retreat is a sign of weakness to a predator.
“Did you do this?” I ask, though I don’t know why. Of course she did. It would be the exact type of thing Hartley would do. Rules mean nothing to her. I don’t think she’s gone a single week without getting detention, and rumor has it she has a criminal record. B&E or grand theft auto, depending on who tells the story.
“Do what?” Hartley asks.
“This!” I say, gesturing around. “Did you send me that invite?”
Hartley tips her head back and laughs.
“I’m serious. This isn’t funny.” In fact, it’s screwed up—even for her.
“Relax, Mom. I got here the same way as the rest of you.”
At the same moment, a girl says, “Leave her alone, Hartley.”
I wheel around. The girl gets up from the turned-over storage crate she was sitting on, her satin-and-mesh shorts falling around her knees.
“I apologize on behalf of my very rude friend here.” She reaches out a hand. “I’m—”
“Lyla Greene,” I interrupt.
“Oh.” She lets her hand fall to her side.
“I’ve been to one of your games,” I explain.