Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(29)

“Is that what you think? Does it make you feel like less of a jerk to believe that? You need to believe you didn’t quit on us just because of some stupid DNA test, but you did!”

“I’m not a jerk!”

“Ha! You’re the worst kind because you don’t even know it. It would have been far kinder to just break up with me instead of dragging this out. At least that would have been honest.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. There’s just the purr of his engine and the gleam of his eyes from within the dark interior of his car. And then: “You’re right. I should have broken up with you,” he confessed. “I wanted to. Guess I was too much of a coward.”

His words shouldn’t wound me, but they do. My chest tightens, and it hurts to breathe.

I fight past the lump in my throat to say more. “Consider it done then.”

He nods, the motion rough and jerky. I can’t make out his expression in the dark, but I sense his relief that it’s done. That we’re done.

“Good luck, Davy.” He floors it and the car shoots ahead into the night, turning the corner at the far end of the street so fast that it fishtails before righting.

Then he’s gone. And I’m all alone.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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TEXAS ORDINANCE NO. 12974B (MODIFYING TITLE II: POLICE POLICIES OF PERSONS UNDER THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OF AGE) WHEREIN the State concludes there has been an increase in violence and crime by persons under the age of thirty-five, resulting in a broad variety of offensive behavior, including vandalism, breach of the peace, and assaults on citizens.


WHEREIN persons under the age of thirty-five are chiefly susceptible to engage in dangerous and unlawful activities . . .


WHEREIN the offensive actions of persons under the age of thirty-five are not easily controlled by existing law . . .


HENCEFORTH a curfew for those under the age of thirty-five will be in the interest of public safety and welfare and will facilitate and promote public safety for the citizens of Texas. . . .





ELEVEN




I’VE BEEN OUT PAST CURFEW BEFORE, BUT NEVER alone. Never walking the streets. Even in a nice area like this, where the houses sit far back from the road, draped in oak trees, it’s not completely safe. The most dangerous criminal behavior is reserved for the cities, but some of that element spills over. All I need to do is flip on the television to remind myself of that—or think about why the Wainwright Agency even exists, wresting more and more control from the government.

Plenty of police patrol the area, issuing citations, and even arresting people for being disruptive. Or just suspicious. Their presence used to make me feel safe. Now I feel hunted. Like they’re out to get me, waiting for me to make a mistake. Someone like me, a carrier . . . it wouldn’t have to be a big mistake. It could be something small.

Like getting caught out after curfew.

I move swiftly along the street, past manicured lawns. There are no sidewalks out here. Simply large, acre lots with curving roads intersecting them. The vast carpets of rolling green look so inviting. I want to lie down on them. A sprinkler chugs, and the sound reminds me of a distant train.

Mom always says we’re lucky to live where we do—outside the city, where local law enforcement keeps strict vigilance. The majority of the crime happens in town. Not just in Texas but across the country. Some cities have been abandoned entirely to the indigent and criminal. To carriers. The police never even set foot in those places—even parts of San Antonio are lost.

Still, considering that I’m now a perpetual suspect, I wouldn’t mind a little less diligence on their part.

As I hum lightly, my gaze scrutinizes every car that appears in the distance, trying to detect if it’s a patrol or just a random vehicle hurrying home before ten. A quick glance at the lit screen of my phone reveals I have about half an hour left.

As much as I hated Zac’s reminder, he’s right. If I’m caught out past curfew, it won’t be a simple ticket. I’m in the HTS database. They’d take me into custody. I remember that much from the packet Pollock had given me.

A car approaches in the night, and it looks like it has a light bar on top. Even though it’s not yet ten, I panic and dive into a yard, tucking myself behind a hedge of boxwood edging the driveway.

The car passes me and I see it’s a simple luggage rack on top. My breath eases and I shake my head. It’s not even past curfew. How jumpy am I going to be when it’s after ten and I’m still walking the streets?

Rising from behind the hedge, I watch as the car turns into a driveway and disappears into a three-car garage. The doors rumble shut and the neighborhood is silent again.

My heart slows but still doesn’t resume its normal pace. Suddenly, I feel foolish. I should have just let Zac drive me home.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I quickly punch in Mitchell’s number. After a few rings, it rolls to his voice mail. He’s probably at some bar where he can’t even hear his phone.

I debate calling my parents wincing as I imagine the questions that will be fired at me. Mom was so thrilled that I was going out with Zac. At least one part of my life appeared unchanged. Even if it’s just my love life. Funny . . . they always thought Zac and I were too serious. Now that’s changed along with everything else.