Cold November air bites my lungs the moment I step outside. The oak’s branches look thinner than I remember, and farther away. My hands grip the railing, knees threatening to betray me as I climb up and steady myself, then reach for the branch overhead.
And miss, feet wobbling where I stand on the railing. My stomach almost drops out through my ass when I glance down and see how high up I am.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
No! I’vegotthis.
I reach for the overhead branch again—fingers scraping bark until I catch hold. The wood groans under my weight. My stomach drops, but I don’t look down again. I can’t afford to second-guess anything right now.
Harper needs you, dipshit. Move.
I swing outwards, committing my full weight to empty air, and land hard on a lower branch. My shoes slip before I manage to wedge them against the bark.
Adrenaline slams lights through my veins like electric voltage. Every muscle coils tight.
This is fucking insane!
I don’t care.
I inch toward the trunk, branch bouncing with each shift. When I finally wrap my arm around solid wood, I don’t pause to celebrate. I just start climbing down. Bark tears at my palms. Moss makes everything slick. My footslips hard enough that my heart stops once when I start falling, but I catch myself and keep going.
Halfway down, my shoulders scream, and my hands are raw, but I spot the ground eight feet below.
Almost there.
I grip a thick branch, shift my weight again?—
My foot slides.
Bark rips past my palms. My shoulder clips a limb, and then I’m trulyfalling. Oh god oh god oh god oh?—
The ground punches the air from my lungs.
For a second, breathing is impossible. Then I roll to my side, coughing, and dragging oxygen back into my chest. My shirt’s torn. My elbow throbs. I wiggle my toes and sigh in relief. Nothing’s broken.
I made it.
Harper probably landed like a gymnast, while I fell like dead weight. Doesn’t matter—I’m down, and that’s what counts.
I push to my feet, legs shaking but functional, and don’t waste any more time.
I just broke a rule. Huh.
Climbed down from a balcony and risked my neck, sure. But it feels fucking liberating.
I crouch low past the windows where Mom and Silas sit curled together on the couch, with just a quick glance in. Mom’s asleep with her head on his chest, and he’s got a protective arm curled around her as the screen flashes on their faces.
Harper better be okay.
I slip into the garage, key the ignition of the Mustang. It purrs to life under my hands.
Sorry, old man.
Then I’m backing out, checking all three mirrors twice each—six checks total to make it an even number—and I’m gone.
The drive is only twelve minutes that stretch into eternity. Every red light is a personal attack. I check my phone constantly—nothing from Harper. The knot in my gut pulls tighter as I follow the dot of the GPS coordinates.
I frown as it leads me into one of the old money neighborhoods where the houses are gigantic, each down long, winding driveways long enough to be roads.