finding Fletcher.
The tension in town was palpable. A citywide curfew was issued for anyone under eighteen, which meant that at 9:00 p.m., the streets were completely empty even though the sky was barely dark.
The news seemed to run on every channel, a twenty-four-hour loop of local news anchors looking stern and talking in serious tones while a news ticker ran underneath them with sensationalist headlines like “Terror Rocks Bedroom Community.” Avery didn’t know what a “bedroom community” was, nor that she had been living in one, until the incident. That’s what everyone was calling it, “the incident.” And everyone was talking about it.
Chief Templeton clicked off the television and ran a hand over his eyes. “Want to watch a movie?”
Avery looked over her shoulder at him from where she lay on the living-room floor. “You going to stay awake past the credits?”
Even in the dim light, she could see the hint of a smile on her dad’s face. “Probably not.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock. Go to bed, old man.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Burn down the house. What do you think?” She rolled onto her back and put her bare feet on the edge of the couch. “I might go for a bike ride.”
The chief nudged Avery’s feet. “Nope. Curfew.”
“Dad, it’s a bike—” She stopped, remembering that the curfew was for the entire city, not a grounding just for her. Not that she ever did anything to get grounded. “Forgot. Maybe I’ll knit.”
Her father stood up and yawned. “You don’t know how to knit,” he said as he trudged down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Then I guess it’s back to burning the house down,” Avery yelled at his back.
By nine fifteen, all her homework was done. Every album had been listened to, every website perused. Avery could hear her father’s plaintive snores from down the hall. She had slept with her door cracked open ever since her mother died. The sound of her father snoring was annoying but proved he was alive, which comforted her.
She glanced around her room at the piles of what her father affectionately called “crap.” Technically, she could clean her room but that sounded about as appealing as a lifelong algebra class, so she pulled a book from her bookshelf and curled up in her bed. She hadn’t finished the first page before she heard the pip-pip-pip of something hitting her window. She paused, then immediately dismissed it.
Second floor. The chief of police’s house. No one would be dumb enough to tap on the window, not with the whole town on edge. She glanced down at her open book again, relishing the silence as she started to read.
Pip-pip-pip.
It was back. A definite pip ! Something hitting her window.
An electric zing of panic shot through her.
She had heard something.
Avery clicked off her bedroom lights and crept to the wall, crouching in a modified crab walk, her eyes straining to see over the sill with all of the flowers she had received, accompanied by mushy letters of praise and tokens of thanks from people she’d never met. She sucked in a shaky breath and glanced out the window, thinking one of those strangers had come for her. Or maybe the same person who had come for Adam and Fletcher.
The pip-pip-pip came again.
“Avery!”
It was half call, half whisper. Avery threw open the window. “Fletcher?”
He was standing on her driveway, half bathed in yellow streetlight, the bandages on his head and arms standing out stark white against the blue-black night.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Come down.”
She looked over her shoulder, then back at Fletcher. “My dad’s asleep. He’ll flip.”
Fletcher looked down at his hands. Nearly every finger was bandaged or splinted—most of them both.
“Hold on.”
She tiptoed past her father’s room and slipped the lock on the back door—the only one in the entire house that didn’t squeak—then walked down the driveway to Fletcher.
“You’re out of
The tension in town was palpable. A citywide curfew was issued for anyone under eighteen, which meant that at 9:00 p.m., the streets were completely empty even though the sky was barely dark.
The news seemed to run on every channel, a twenty-four-hour loop of local news anchors looking stern and talking in serious tones while a news ticker ran underneath them with sensationalist headlines like “Terror Rocks Bedroom Community.” Avery didn’t know what a “bedroom community” was, nor that she had been living in one, until the incident. That’s what everyone was calling it, “the incident.” And everyone was talking about it.
Chief Templeton clicked off the television and ran a hand over his eyes. “Want to watch a movie?”
Avery looked over her shoulder at him from where she lay on the living-room floor. “You going to stay awake past the credits?”
Even in the dim light, she could see the hint of a smile on her dad’s face. “Probably not.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock. Go to bed, old man.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Burn down the house. What do you think?” She rolled onto her back and put her bare feet on the edge of the couch. “I might go for a bike ride.”
The chief nudged Avery’s feet. “Nope. Curfew.”
“Dad, it’s a bike—” She stopped, remembering that the curfew was for the entire city, not a grounding just for her. Not that she ever did anything to get grounded. “Forgot. Maybe I’ll knit.”
Her father stood up and yawned. “You don’t know how to knit,” he said as he trudged down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Then I guess it’s back to burning the house down,” Avery yelled at his back.
By nine fifteen, all her homework was done. Every album had been listened to, every website perused. Avery could hear her father’s plaintive snores from down the hall. She had slept with her door cracked open ever since her mother died. The sound of her father snoring was annoying but proved he was alive, which comforted her.
She glanced around her room at the piles of what her father affectionately called “crap.” Technically, she could clean her room but that sounded about as appealing as a lifelong algebra class, so she pulled a book from her bookshelf and curled up in her bed. She hadn’t finished the first page before she heard the pip-pip-pip of something hitting her window. She paused, then immediately dismissed it.
Second floor. The chief of police’s house. No one would be dumb enough to tap on the window, not with the whole town on edge. She glanced down at her open book again, relishing the silence as she started to read.
Pip-pip-pip.
It was back. A definite pip ! Something hitting her window.
An electric zing of panic shot through her.
She had heard something.
Avery clicked off her bedroom lights and crept to the wall, crouching in a modified crab walk, her eyes straining to see over the sill with all of the flowers she had received, accompanied by mushy letters of praise and tokens of thanks from people she’d never met. She sucked in a shaky breath and glanced out the window, thinking one of those strangers had come for her. Or maybe the same person who had come for Adam and Fletcher.
The pip-pip-pip came again.
“Avery!”
It was half call, half whisper. Avery threw open the window. “Fletcher?”
He was standing on her driveway, half bathed in yellow streetlight, the bandages on his head and arms standing out stark white against the blue-black night.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Come down.”
She looked over her shoulder, then back at Fletcher. “My dad’s asleep. He’ll flip.”
Fletcher looked down at his hands. Nearly every finger was bandaged or splinted—most of them both.
“Hold on.”
She tiptoed past her father’s room and slipped the lock on the back door—the only one in the entire house that didn’t squeak—then walked down the driveway to Fletcher.
“You’re out of
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