Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits, #5)(30)

I enter a kitchen and it’s yellow—almost orange. It’s cozy. Maybe three people could fit in it. There’s a stove, a sink, not even a dishwasher. The refrigerator’s covered in pictures and most of them are of a young girl and as I step closer, my eyes narrow. The girl has long brown hair, a glint in her eye and a devilish grin. Holy hell—is that Abby?

“Can I help you?”

I spin, and a black woman with long curly hair pulled back at the nape of her neck walks in. She assesses me like she’s not sure whether to welcome me or try to put me in a sleeper hold.

“Abby sent me,” I say.

She eyes me warily then places a tray of half-eaten food on the counter. “Abby’s usually here by now. Is she delayed?”

“You can say that.” I glance out the back door and wonder if I should bolt. This lady is too calm. This situation too weird. “I need to go upstairs.”

She checks her watch. It’s now 2:50. “If Abby came rolling in this late she would, too. I’ll be in the living room.”

The lady leaves and not knowing what else to do, I follow, but at a distance. The area between my muscles and skin vibrates and I can’t tell if it’s my need to feel an adrenaline rush or if it’s because I’m in the opening scene of a horror flick.

The next room is a dining room. Wooden floors, wooden table, a brown braided rug underneath, and white lace curtains over the windows. To the left is a staircase and the woman enters another room that’s straight ahead. On the china hutch is a screwdriver. This game all feels staged and I don’t like the sinking sensation it creates, like Abby somehow knew she wouldn’t return.

Continuing the messed-up scavenger hunt, I grab the screwdriver. The points tally in my mind. Enter the house without being shot, one point. Finding the screwdriver, three. Does the pissed-off serial killer enter on level two? It’s no wonder she gave this task to me. I’m the only one she knows that’s this insane.

On the second floor, the door’s closed to the first room. The next is the bathroom.

I check down the hall. No sound of anyone coming. No sound of anyone else upstairs. I enter and feel like I’ve stepped into a time warp. Small tiled bathroom. A medicine cabinet that sticks out from the wall. In fact the entire house feels stuck in another era, circa 1930-something and/or before.

Next to the claw-foot tub is a shelf holding towels. I push it out of the way and feel along the seam of the wallpaper. A slight pull and there’s a part of me that’s in awe over the Velcro that kept the paper in place. Using the screwdriver, I undo the door and open it to find cash in an envelope. So much that my gut twists. So much that the girl I know as Abby seems further away.

I pick the envelope up and it’s a double jab to the face. Underneath is a gallon resealable bag that contains smaller zip bags and inside those are pot.

I lower my head and attempt to swallow down the disgust and disappointment. Somehow, I’d managed to compartmentalize Abby the girl who challenges me from the drug dealer. Screw that—I chose to ignore it. To be aware, but consciously staying unaware.

Earlier, a part of me desired to kick Isaiah in the head for how he talked about Abby, but now I respect him. He doesn’t ignore the parts of Abby he can’t stand, he accepts her and still has her back. And he was being her friend because he was questioning me—questioning my allegiance.

I fall back on my ass. “Why do you do this, Abby?”

Besides the air conditioner kicking on, there’s no response. I snatch the envelope, ignore how thick it is, and work to put everything back in place. Abby said I’d know what to do with the envelope. I don’t. I understand nothing of her world.

Rage pushes out any confusion or hurt. Isaiah has her back, not me. He should be the one doing this, and then my face heats. I am a fool. Isaiah would have refused. He won’t cross over into her world, but she knew she could play me. Well, f*ck that.

I bound down the stairs, angry at Abby, angry at myself. Hate pulsating through my veins. I cut into the living room and as I open my mouth to tell this woman that Abby can fix her own damn problems, I whiplash as if I’d smacked headfirst into a wall.

Cold. I go cold and I slightly bend over to wash away the shock.

The woman with the long hair is settling an elderly lady into a chair that’s next to a hospital bed. She’s old. Very old. Almost like she’d dissolved into dust with a touch. White hair pinned into a bun on the top of her head. She wears a sweater and a long nightgown and she has this vacant stare that causes an ache.

I know that stare. After Grandpa broke his hip, he wore that stare. For months. For too many months. And then he died.

“Are you cold, Ms. Lynn?” The woman places a blanket over her lap. “I can get another blanket for you.”

“I need to pick Abby up from school.” Ms. Lynn’s voice is weak. Fragile. As if she’s talking from a memory rather than the present. She grabs the woman’s hand and there’s a bit of recognition in her eyes as she makes eye contact with her caretaker. “Can you pick Abby up from school, Nadia? Abby doesn’t like to be forgotten and I’m always the first one in line to pick her up. She’ll get scared and cry if I’m not there to pick her up.”

Pain strikes my heart hard and fast and I jerk with the impact.

“It’s summer,” Nadia replies. “Abby’s not in school.”