Gone.
I stumble forward half a step, my hands grasping at empty air where she was a second ago. My lips tingle. My tie’s hanging askew. My heart’s trying to punch through my ribcage.
She’s laughing—this delighted little giggle that sounds like victory—and she’s already three steps away, moving backward across the parking lot with the grace of someone who’s made hasty exits an art form.
“Damn, they don’t make ’em like you back where I’m from, Boy Scout.” She’s grinning at me, and there’s something in her eyes that might be genuine regret. “I sure will miss those lips.”
She winks.
Turns.
Starts walking away.
That’s when I see it: the rectangular bulge in her back pocket that definitely wasn’t there a moment ago.
My wallet.
She just?—
My hand goes to my pocket automatically—left front, where the wallet should be. Right front, where nothing should be. Left again. Right again. The symmetry of the checking doesn’t make the wallet any less gone.
She kissed me and pickpocketed me at the same time.
I’m still so dazed, so thoroughly scrambled by that kiss, that for a solid five seconds I can’t decide if I’m furious or impressed. My hand goes to my pocket again automatically, reconfirming what I already know. It’s empty.
“Hey!” I start to call, finally finding my voice.
But that’s when Silas’s dark blue four by four pulls into the parking lot.
Everything happens fast after that.
Too fast.
New Girl’s head snaps toward the truck like a deer catching the scent of a predator. I see her whole body go rigid.
And then she runs.
Not a casual jog. Not even a strategic retreat. She fucking bolts like her life depends on it, legs pumping, arms churning, heading for the far side of the parking lot where the grass meets the soccer field.
What thehell?—?
But that’s not even the half of it, because just then, Silas’s truck lurches forward. The engine roars as he guns it, tires squealing on hot asphalt. He’s not heading toward the curb where he’d normally pick me up.
He’s chasing…her?
“Silas!” I’m shouting, sprinting after them both, my messenger bag banging against my hip. “What are youdoing?!”
The truck eats up the distance faster than she can run. He cuts her off before she reaches the grass, jerking to a stop at an angle that blocks her escape route. His door flies open, and he’s out, moving with a speed and purpose I’ve never seen from my normally laid-back stepfather.
She tries to juke left. He mirrors her.
She pivots right. He’s already there.
“Harper.” His voice carries across the parking lot, low and dangerous. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Harper.
So that’s her name.