Harder (Caroline & West #2)(31)

Weird like the hair is standing up on the back of my neck.

Weird like when people say they just have a feeling. That déjà vu thing.

I accept the call, shutting my laptop and shoving it in my bag.

“Ms. Pia … Pia …”

“Piasecki,” I say.

“This is Jeff Gorham. I’m the counselor at Putnam Elementary, and I have Frankie Leavitt here needing a ride home. I haven’t been able to reach her brother. I’ve got you listed as an emergency contact on the ride form, is that right?”

I have no idea. But as I push out the library door and into the overcast fall afternoon, I say, “Uh, yeah. Did you try his cell?”

“Frankie did.”

I hear a garbled voice on the other end of the line, and then the counselor again. “Would you be able to swing by and pick her up?”

I glance at my watch. I have a meeting in an hour, but the elementary school isn’t far. “Sure. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

My car is parked on the east side of campus. I find myself rushing to get to it. Jogging, impatient, freaked out. Those words—emergency contact—set off some kind of alarm in the back of my brain.

Plus, you know, the obvious thing. West.

He must have put my name down on that form, but I bet he hated doing it.

I bet he’s going to hate this even more.

When I pull up outside the school, Frankie’s sitting on the steps with a guy who looks young enough to be a Putnam student. I step out of the car, wave in her direction, and wait to see if they’re going to beckon me over. I don’t know what kind of rules govern who gets to pick up a ten-year-old from a public school.

I guess all Frankie has to do is tell him I’m the one she’s been waiting on, because in a second she’s free. She walks to my car with her head down. When she gets in, her backpack hits the wheel well with a heavy thump.

“Sorry,” she says, before we’ve even pulled away from the curb. “I missed the bus. I didn’t know Mr. Gorham would call you.”

“That’s all right,” I say. “Where should I take you?”

“Home, I guess.”

“Which is …?”

She points straight ahead. “That way.”

The whole drive feels unauthorized, like I’m breaking some law. Guilty, too, because she’s texted me a bunch of times since they got to town, but I’ve been trying to disengage. I’ll wait a day or two to reply, then respond in short, generic phrases. Afraid she’ll cling and I’ll have to explain that her brother and I are … whatever we are.

“So you tried to call West?” I ask.

“I told Mr. Gorham I did, but I didn’t want to bug him at work. I thought I could just walk. Mr. Gorham said no.”

“How far is the walk?”

“I don’t know, a few miles, I guess. You go left up here.”

After the turn, I study her surreptitiously. Her eyes are puffy as if she’s been crying.

“Did you miss the bus?”

She shrugs, turning her face toward the window. I guess that means no, but she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“You need anything to eat? A snack or something?”

“Nah. There’s plenty at home.”

“When will West get back?”

“Around twelve-thirty.”

“At night?”

“He works swing shift.”

“What are his hours?”

“Three-thirty to twelve, mostly. Sometimes they run ten-hour shifts and he works four-thirty to two.”

“And you’re just by yourself at home every night?”

“No. He’s got four days on, three days off.”

“You’re too young to be alone that much.”

Frankie’s expression turns mulish. “Go right here.”

We end up at a small white farmhouse in the country. Where most people would have grass, huge metal sculptures litter the dirt. Gravel has been laid down between them in a kind of path.

I’ve heard of this place. Laurie Collins, the guy with the woman’s name who makes all these sculptures, is a permanent visiting artist. He’s famous at Putnam because he’s the one who made the giant metal phallus sculpture, but I think he’s famous more generally, too. The college tour guides make a big deal out of him.

“You’re staying with Professor Collins?”

“No, over the garage.” She points to the side of it, where a wooden staircase leads up to a door.

I pull to a stop. The farm seems like a nice enough place. Pleasant, perfectly safe. The farmhouse has cheerful yellow curtains and a bright blue door.

But there’s no traffic, nobody in sight.

It must be so quiet in that apartment when she’s alone.

“Thanks for the ride.” She opens her door.

“Hold up.”

Frankie stops.

“I’ve got a meeting soon, but maybe you want some company? You could come with me. We’re just making posters for this march. The Student Government office has huge rolls of paper and giant markers, and we can decorate them however we want. And then after maybe we could grab dinner? Unless you’ve got homework.”

“I do,” she says, “but if I get home early enough I can do it before bed.”