Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(48)

And as Tucci pointed out, with the current events, anything could happen to him.

“Sure,” I respond, punching the UNLOCK button. He dives into the passenger seat.

The parking lot is already crowded by the time I back out, cars in the front impeding our exit from campus. As I inch behind vehicles, I glance to the doors and migration of students, scanning for one taller than the most. An ink collar on his neck. But he never appears.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers ..................................................................



* * *





(FBI interrogation)


AGENT OALLEN: Why did you do it?

KEVIN HOYT: What are you talking about?

AGENT OALLEN: C’mon, man. We’ve confiscated your computer. Your phone. I’ve talked to the other three. They didn’t pull off the largest mass shooting in this country’s history on their own. We know you’re the brains behind this.

KEVIN HOYT: That’s kind of you to say.

AGENT OALLEN: So. Why?

KEVIN HOYT: Why not?

AGENT OALLEN: You don’t even care? You feel no remorse? One hundred and twenty dead. Over fifty injured . . .

KEVIN HOYT: Pretty good. We were aiming for two hundred but, like you said. Over fifty injured. We might get there yet.

AGENT OALLEN: You’re a monster.

KEVIN HOYT: That’s what everyone keeps saying. . . . It’s good to know they were right. Isn’t it?





EIGHTEEN




IT DIDN’T TAKE TOO MUCH INVESTIGATING TO FIND out where Sean lived. I still had my notes from his interview, including the name of his foster mother. A quick online search uncovered only one Martha Delaney in the area. I plug the address into my phone and head downstairs, finished with sitting at home with nothing to do. Four days of no school. No friends. No leaving the house. Mom said it’s too dangerous for me to go out. It isn’t safe for imprinted carriers to walk the streets. All over the country they’re targets for vigilante justice.

She’s right, of course. I should just stay home, but there’s only so much television a person can watch.

Snatching my keys off the hall table, I abandon the empty house. I haven’t seen Dad since the day I was imprinted. Mom says work keeps him away, but I know it’s not that. It’s me.

Mom faces me every day, her smile in place, but even she has taken to avoiding me, increasing her hours at the office. Mitchell’s Jeep sits out front and I’m sure he’s sleeping late. I heard him back out of the driveway last night while I was in bed.

With one eye on my phone’s map, I drive, leaving my safe neighborhood behind and getting on the highway that takes me closer to town. I pass the exit to Keller High School and keep going. I pass the next exit that would take me to Gilbert’s apartment.

I never would have visited anyone this close to the city before. Not only would my parents have forbidden it, I would have been too afraid. Bad things happen within the city limits. Even on the outskirts, where I’m headed. Like an infection, the crime is spreading, spilling into what once used to be safe suburbs.

The hills get smaller. More houses and buildings appear as I head south. Buildings that look like they’ve seen better days. Graffiti is everywhere. I exit the highway and take a right at the first stoplight. The buildings aren’t rock here like where I live. They’re mostly a mud-colored HardiePlank that reminds me of cardboard. I weave to avoid hitting a stray cat that looks more like a skeleton. Patches of fur broken by raw flesh cover it.

The road narrows and I have to ease off the gas so that I can maneuver around cars parked in the street. The apartments get shabbier, interrupted by an occasional house with cracked concrete porches and yards overrun with weeds and miscellaneous junk.

A siren sings in the distance. A moment later, it soars through the cross street in front of me. I watch it for a moment and find myself wondering where they’re going, who they’re after. A carrier? Like the ones splattered all over the news. Shaking my head, I glance down at the address again.

I mutter under my breath, searching for house numbers that aren’t visible on most homes. At a corner sits a rusted Dumpster. A hand peeks out from its depths throwing something that might be a rotting watermelon into the arms of a waiting youth.

I slam on my brakes as a body bolts across the street in front of my car. A split second later another person flies after the first. He tackles him on the sidewalk with a bone-jarring crack I hear through the windows of my car. The two tussle, arms swinging, fists slamming.

I blink and gawk, unsure whether I’m witnessing an assault or high-spirited horseplay. Given where I am, it’s pure optimism to think I’m watching a couple of boys wrestling good-naturedly.

I step on the gas and drive on, almost missing Sean’s house, the numbers mostly hidden behind an overgrown bush.

I consider his home for a moment as I idle in the street. It’s a little better than the neighboring houses. The yard is mowed and there’s a pot of flowers in the window. I park directly behind his truck and step outside, taking my time to shut the door, assessing my surroundings.

From somewhere inside the house, music blares. I stand motionless for a moment in the driveway before walking up the uneven sidewalk and stopping on a threadbare doormat. I lift the chipped brass-plated knocker and let it fall twice.