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

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.”

And Abby’s too old to be picked up and, if she wasn’t, it’s hard to imagine an Abby that’s not hell on wheels and independent.

Ms. Lynn’s forehead wrinkles. “Then where is she? It’s three. Abby should be home.”

Her voice is gaining strength, picking up speed, and the worry that causes my own mother’s voice to go higher in pitch is recognizable in her tone. Nadia looks over at me and the grandfather clock on the other side of the room begins to chime.

One.

Two.

Three.

Three p.m.—Abby said I needed to give the envelope at three.

My feet feel like they’re cemented in concrete as I force them forward. I hold out the envelope and hope to God this is right. “This yours?”

She lightly bows her head, but then returns her attention to Ms. Lynn as the older woman grows more restless. “It’s three. Abby should be home by three.”