Read Online Stolen by Lucy Christopher - Free Book Online Page A

hand along the edge, stroking the sand. “There were patterns and shapes, made from the land….” Your face went rigid and angry again as you surveyed the damage I’d done. Eventually you shrugged, sighing as your shoulders dropped down. “But you created a different pattern, I guess…. In a way, it’s almost better. You’re part of it.”
    I saw the line I had made as I’d crawled along the floor, the paint I’d spread everywhere. Shakily I got to my feet. A bundle of twigs tumbled from my lap. I looked at your face, with your red-veined eyes and tear tracks, at the tension in your jaw. You looked crazy then, someone mentally ill who didn’t believe in taking his pills. I ran sentences through my mind, trying to figure out what to say to get out of that room without upsetting you further. How could I get to the door without tipping you over the edge? How were people supposed to act with madmen? But you were the first to break the silence.
    “I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said, your voice level and reasonable again. “I was worried about the painting. I’ve been working on it … for a long time.”
    “I thought you were going to … I thought …” The images were too horrible to get the words out.
    “I know.” You ran a hand through your hair, turning parts of it red from the sand in your fingers. You seemed serious. Your face was tired and empty-looking, your forehead wrinkled up.
    “Just relax,” you said again. “Please. Just relax. For once. Neither of us can go on like this. Just trust that it’s all for the best.”
    Your face was earnest, like you really did want the best for me. I stepped through that strange painting of yours and came up pretty close to you, closer than I wanted to be.
    “OK,” I said. My body was shaking again; it was all I could do to keep upright. I had to keep my voice light and friendly. I knew that much about crazy people. As long as the tone is right …
    I summoned up the courage to look you directly in the eyes. They were wide, not so red as before. “Just let me go,” I said. “Just for a bit, a little while. It’ll be OK.” I tried to make my voice soothing; I tried willing you to say yes. Again, I glanced toward the door.
    The tears were running down your face again. You couldn’t hold my gaze. Instead, you leaned your forehead against one of the piles of sand. The red grains stuck to the wetness of your cheeks. You gulped as you swallowed your tears. You brushed some of the sand, sweeping it into a neat line, and hid your face from me.
    “Fine,” you said. You said it so softly that at first I thought you hadn’t said anything at all. “I won’t stop you. I’ll only save you when you get lost.”
    I didn’t wait to hear it again. I stepped past you. I was so tense, waiting for you to grab me, waiting for those rock-hard fingers on my thigh. But you didn’t even move.
    The door opened easily. I pushed down the handle and stepped out into a white, hot blast of sunlight. You made a sort of sobbing noise behind me.

     
    I started running, past the second building and toward the rocky outcrop of the Separates. I kept looking behind me, but you weren’t following. Sweat was pouring off me before I’d even gone a few feet. I jumped over small bushes and stumbled over dry, exposed roots. I closed that hundred feet in about ten seconds, I think. I was glad for those leather boots.
    I slowed down when I neared the boulders. Again, I noticed the wooden stakes sticking up from the ground, evenly spaced around them, and the line of plastic piping leading from the house. I could follow that. I looked down the small crevice where the pipe entered the rocks, the gap that had looked like a pathway from the veranda. But was it the right way? The other option would be to follow the edge of the boulders, skip going through the middle entirely, and get to the other side that way. But that would mean losing the pipe. And I still thought it was part of some