The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(108)

He rolls his eyes.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?”

“I lost it,” he barks with attitude.

“Where were you?”

“Out!” he yells.

“You . . . selfish little shit.” Something snaps inside of me. “You are grounded!” I scream as I lose all of my control. “Get in that house, and do not come out of your bedroom ever again,” I cry. I push his back to try to make him get there faster. At least when he’s in there, I know he’s safe. I can protect him from himself.

“Typical,” he mutters under his breath as he storms past me.

“Harrison Anderson, you are in so much trouble!” I yell after him. “You’ve lost it—the phone, the internet. Every damn thing you own . . . is gone.”

“I hate you.” He storms inside and marches up the stairs. “I hate you all!” he yells. His bedroom door slams shut.

Tears roll down my face, and I’m shaking in anger. I am furious . . . beyond furious.

Fuming.

“We’ll get going, love.” Mom smiles sadly as she rubs my arm. “Glad he’s home safe. Good luck.” They turn to Tristan. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” He forces a smile, and they leave.

I begin to pace back and forth while I wring my hands. “What am I going to do with this fucking kid, Tristan?” I cry. “He’s out of control and doesn’t even care.”

Tristan exhales heavily. “I’ll go call Fletcher, let him know he’s here.” He disappears out the front door.





Tristan

I dial Fletcher’s number. “Hey, Tris.”

“Hey, buddy, he’s home,” I say.

“Are you kidding me?” he growls. “I’ve been riding around all night looking for him. I’m going to kill him.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks. Hey . . . your mom is freaking out. Can you come home?”

“On my way.”

I hang up, exhale heavily, and look out over the street. Where was he? I glance down and see his dirty backpack dumped next to the door, and I pick it up and go through it. Everything is sopping wet. Where the fuck was he? Did it rain here overnight? A sweater, a bottle of water, some wrappers from chocolate. I undo the zipper of the side pocket and pull out a crumpled, wet packet of cigars.

What?

I read the label. Not just any cigars—expensive ones.

Where the fuck did he get the money for these?

He smokes?

Jesus, what next?

He said he lost his phone. Is that a lie too, or did it just get wet? I dial his number again. “Hello,” a woman answers.

I frown, surprised. “Hello, I . . .” I hesitate, unsure what to say. “You found my phone?”

“Yes, dear,” the woman replies. She sounds elderly.

“Thank you so much.” I hesitate. “It’s actually a friend’s phone. Can I come pick it up?”

“Of course. I am at Sixty Napier Street.”

“Whereabouts is that?”

“Suffolk County.”

I screw up my face. Suffolk County . . . that’s at least fifteen miles from here. “Where did you find it?” I ask.

“On the street, in the gutter, just half an hour ago.”

“Was it raining there last night?”

“Yes, poured all night. Luckily the phone was in the ziplock bag.”

What?

This isn’t making any sense at all. “Okay, see you soon.” I hang up, scribble the address down, and walk inside to Claire. “I’m just going to the grocery store. I’ll need to take your car. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks.” She sighs heavily, as if she has the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I take her into my arms and softly kiss her. “He’s home now, babe. You can relax.” I brush the hair back from her face.

She smiles up at me. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Feels good hearing that. I smile and kiss her again. “Back soon.”

Half an hour later I pull up to the address and knock on the front door. “Hello,” the lady answers.

“Hi, I’m here for the phone. Thank you so much for answering my call.”

“Oh, that’s okay, dear.” She smiles warmly. “I’ll just get it.” She disappears inside and then returns and hands it over. I stare at the phone in my hand. Carefully placed in a ziplock bag.

“Where did you find it?” I ask.

“Up on the corner of Elm and Second.”

“Okay, thanks. I really appreciate it.” I walk out and get into my car and put the street names into the GPS.

What are you up to, Wizard?

I pull the car up slowly at the corner of Elm and Second and stare at the huge black metal gates in front of me and read the sign.

SUFFOLK COUNTY CEMETERY

My heart drops. There’s only one person I know who may be here.





Wade Anderson.


He was coming to see his dad.

Sadness fills me as the pieces of the puzzle click into place.

With a heavy heart, I turn the car on and do a U-turn. I need to get back.

It’s just around six o’clock, and I finish up the dinner I’ve cooked for us—spaghetti bolognese. I need some carbs before I curl up and die. Claire fell asleep on the couch watching a movie, and Patrick and Fletcher are sitting on the bench talking to me.