Morgan ignored her, folding the pillowcase, shoving it in a pocket.
Liz set her jaw. “If anyone goes after him, it should be me.”
“Where he has gone, you cannot follow.”
“You know where he is?”
“I have some idea.”
Which was more than she had. At least in Chapel Hill, she‟d known Zack‟s few friends and his hangouts. Here, she was
clueless. Doubts assailed her. She should never have moved them to Maine.
“Then I‟ll drive you,” she said.
Zack was her son. Whatever mood had driven him from the house, whatever trouble he found, he was her responsibility.
Morgan stalked to the door. “You stay here.”
“But . . .”
He glanced over his shoulder. “In case he comes back.”
And before she could summon another argument, he was gone.
She kept staring even after the front door closed behind him. She wasn‟t Emily‟s age anymore. She wasn‟t looking for a
prince to ride to her rescue, and she‟d lost her belief in fairytale endings when Ben died. But inside her flickered the hope that
this one time everything would turn out all right. With Morgan‟s help. For Zack‟s sake.
Even if it meant Morgan was more firmly entrenched in their lives than she‟d ever imagined or wanted him to be.
Zachary glanced at his cell phone display, ignoring the blinking message icon. Almost nine, barely past sunset. Man, he
couldn‟t get over how dark it was here. He could see in the dark since . . . His mind shied from the thought. Well, he could see.
Enough to avoid tripping over his feet on the crumbling edge of the road. But the lack of street-lights, headlights, made him
feel even more alone.
No city glow stained the horizon. Only red clouds marking where the sun went down and silver clouds veiling the moon.
Nothing to do in this hick town but go to the beach— “Amazing the things one finds underwater,” don’t go there, don’t go
there, don’t —or sit in his room jerking off.
His mouth hung open. He couldn‟t get air in his lungs. His chest was hot and tight.
“She feeds you, clothes you, shelters you like a child.”
But he didn‟t feel like a child. He felt . . . The pressure in his chest built and pushed at his throat like a sob, like a scream.
He walked faster along the broken road to escape it.
Occasional lights pierced the dusk and his solitude, the pale flicker of a TV through a window, the yellow glow of a lamp.
Real families secure in their homes, with mothers who didn‟t drag you off to Bumfuck, Maine, and tell you to get a job, with
fathers who didn‟t die or show up sneering out of nowhere.
A screen door creaked and slammed. Something thumped and was dragged rattling down a driveway.
He didn‟t want to see anybody. He couldn‟t talk to anybody, not with the weight sitting on his chest, cutting off his air. He
stopped in the shadow of the trees a few yards away as somebody—a girl—lugged two garbage cans down to the road.
It was her. The girl—his mind fumbled for her name—Stephanie, from Wiley‟s Grocery Store. Stephanie Wiley. Her dark
red hair was almost black in the twilight, her arms smooth and pale. He could smell her, the salt of her skin, the freshness of
her shampoo. Her gum. Inside him something quivered and went still like a cat stalking a bird on the lawn.
He didn‟t speak, but maybe he made a sound because her head jerked up.
She whirled toward the road, eyes widened against the dusk. “Who‟s . . . Oh.” Her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Zack? It is
you, isn‟t it? God, you scared me to death.”
He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth and shuffled forward, no longer a stalker in the shadows, a sleek predator
in the grass, but himself again, fifteen and awkward.
Her silver lip ring glinted as she smiled, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just, you know.” He gestured largely. “Out. Walking.”
“You could have made a little noise,” she said. “Next time cough or say hi or something.”
Next time. His heart swelled. Like she thought he would come by again, like she expected to see him.