Part 15 (1/2)

”Dad?” I call again, wondering if maybe he forgot his house key. I move into the living room to look out the front window, but the driveway's still empty. No one's home yet.

My pulse races as I approach the door. I look out the peephole, but there's no one standing out there. I tell myself it must have been a door-to-door salesperson and that he or she must have moved on already.

A moment later, I hear a pelting noise coming from down the hall.

I take a deep breath, wis.h.i.+ng we had an alarm system, then grab the phone to dial my dad's cell-but it won't click on, and I can't get a dial tone. Meanwhile, my cell phone's in my bedroom.

The pelting sound continues. It's followed by a loud cras.h.i.+ng sound, like gla.s.s shattering.

Like someone's trying to break in.

My hands shaking, I snag an umbrella from the holder by the door and grip it in my hand, the tip pointed, ready for a fight. I start down the hallway, debating whether I should go to a neighbor's house instead, but I'm too afraid to go outside.

A second later, I hear a noise at the front door. I move back in that direction, noticing how the doork.n.o.b is jiggling. The screen door opens, and the doorbell rings.

My heart hammers hard inside my chest. I peer through the peephole, almost collapsing in relief when I see who's out there.

I unlock the door and whisk it open. Kimmie's standing there, a plateful of brownies in her hands.

”What do you think you're doing?” I blurt out, pulling her inside.

”No, the question is what are you you doing? I called your cell phone-no answer. I called your home phone-the line is busy.” doing? I called your cell phone-no answer. I called your home phone-the line is busy.”

”I left it off the hook,” I say, remembering.

”Exactly,” she huffs, thrusting the plate of brownies at me. ”That's what the operator said, too.”

”You called the operator?”

”Well, yeah. The whole thing smelled like fish, after all. I mean, I know you guys have call-waiting.”

”Fishy or not, you scared me to bits.” I look toward the hallway. The pelting sound has stopped.

”I broke your window, by the way,” she says, prying the umbrella from my grip. ”When you wouldn't answer the door, I thought that maybe you were taking one of your marathon baths, and so I decided to throw rocks at the bathroom window. But apparently, I got a little too aggressive, because the gla.s.s broke. Brownie?” She lifts off the plastic wrap and helps herself to one. ”I hope you don't mind if a couple got smooshy. They were crammed in the basket of my bike.”

”You rode here on your bike?”

”Hauled a.s.s is more like it,” she says. ”Do you know how many potholes this cheapskate town has?”

”Why didn't your mom drop you off?”

”Mom's too busy trying to appease my dad, by shopping for miniskirts and thigh-high boots.”

”Okay, so wait.” I shake my head, my mind whirling with questions. ”Why didn't you just ring the doorbell?”

”Um, yeah, h.e.l.lo! I rang it for, like, ten minutes straight.”

”I was in the bas.e.m.e.nt.”

”Which is probably why you didn't hear it, Nancy Drew.”

I smile, grateful for her persistence. ”Well, at least you got to take out some of your aggression on the window . . . not to mention the door.”

”The door?” she says, her mouth full of brownie.

”Yeah, you practically beat the door down.”

”Um, no I didn't.”

”You didn't pound on the door?”

”I may have rapped a couple times, but not hard. I could hear the doorbell ringing from the outside, so I knew it was working.”

”Wait,” I say, feeling my heart speed up again. ”You didn't bang at the door? You didn't knock real hard?”

Kimmie shakes her head, a worried expression on her face.

I grab the umbrella again and step into the doorway, checking outside to see if anything looks off. But aside from Kimmie's bike, parked smack in the center of my mother's jasmine bush, everything appears fine.

”What are you thinking?” she asks.

”Someone was pounding.”

”But I was outside, remember? I would have seen someone knocking.”

”Not if you were out back, throwing rocks at the bathroom.” I let out a giant breath and start to close the door. But that's when I see it; a s.h.i.+ver runs down my back.

”What's wrong?” Kimmie asks, following my glance.

I gesture toward the mailbox. The red flag is pointing up, indicating that something's in there, even though I know for a fact I checked the box on the way in and it was empty, with the flag pointing down.

”Do you want me to check?” she asks.

I shake my head, not knowing what to do-scared to know what's in there, but maybe even more scared to just leave it alone.

”What the h.e.l.l did Ben say to you today?” she asks.

I continue to look outside, straining my eyes, wondering if I'm being watched at this very moment-if someone's out there lurking behind a car or down the street.

Kimmie steps outside and opens the mailbox.

”What is it?” I ask.

She looks up at me, her lips parted in shock, like she doesn't want to say.

”Tell me,” I demand.