It’s the perfect escape route. I’m just such a… I roll my eyes… such aBoy Scout, I’ve never dared sneak out.
But Harper…
Oh, fuck.
My hands are clumsy as I dig through the jumble in her side of the drawer—hair ties (seven), mascara (two), a half-empty lip gloss (one)—until my fingers close around what I need.
A bobby pin.
Rule #123: Don’t invade people’s privacy.
But I’m about to break it anyway.
My hands shake as I work the pin into the slot. Feel for the give. The metal scrapes. Once. Twice. Three times before?—
Click.
I pause, my stomach knotting.
Rule #7: Don’t disappoint Mom.
Rule #123: Don’t invade people’s privacy.
Rule #898: Protect Harper at all costs.
The rules are contradicting themselves. My notebook is filled with contradictions now. Nothing makes sense anymore. The whole system is breaking down.
A better person would stop now. I thought it was a dick move when Silas tried busting into her room; it’s still a dick move now. I don’t care if I’m being hypocritical.
Because the pit in my stomach says I’m already too late.
I ease the door open an inch, arm braced in case she tries to slam it in my face. “Harper?”
Silence.
Another inch. “Harper?”
No explosion. No curses. No projectile aimed at my head.
By the time the gap is wide enough, my breath is stuck somewhere in my chest.
I step inside.
And absence hits me harder than the baseball bat I was expecting.
The bed is neatly made. There are no clothes on the floor.
And no Harper.
Sox darts past me into the room, jumps on the bed, and meows plaintively at the empty pillow.
The French door didn’t latch all the way, and one door has been pulled wide open by the wind. November air floods in—cold and accusing. The curtains twist in the breeze.
I hurry over to close the doors before the cat can get out. Count the branches visible from here. Twelve. Same as I cataloged before.
When did she leave? It’s two days until her birthday. I was supposed to have 2,880 more minutes.
But she doesn’t give a shit about numbers.