"He didn't take it well, did he?" my brother's voice greets me.
"What did you expect?"
"Not that he would storm out of the house like a little toddler throwing a tantrum," Nate sneers.
"He did what?" I jump up from my crouch in front of the vanity. Even before racing into the hallway, I know I'll find Rhys's room empty.
Not paying attention, I slam straight into a body coming down from the third floor: Tristen. Stumbling back, we stare at each other. His eyes dart to the device plastered against my ear before he scans my face.
"Lilly? You there?" Nate’s voice filters through the speaker.
Tristen’s gaze snaps back toward my lifted hand. "Whose phone is that?"
Heather hasn't gotten around to getting me a new one since the accident, and I haven't pushed the issue. I'm with the people I'd contact anyway. One of them always has a phone I could use—not that I need to.
My mouth opens and closes several times. I glance toward the stairs. If Rhys left the house, he's already gone. My mind begins to race. If I stay here, there is a likely chance of my adopted father cross-examining me. I do the only thing I can think of. I dart around Tristen and break into a sprint, taking two steps at a time to the first floor.
"Lilly."
I pretend not to hear him calling after me. Standing in the doorway to the garage, I realize my mistake. I don't have a car.
Shit, shit, shit!
Footsteps on the stairs make me react on instinct. I grab the keys to Tristen's Raptor from the hook and make a run for it, slapping the garage door opener on the wall in passing. Thankfully, no one in this family ever locks their cars inside the garage, and I climb in.
Starting the truck, "Hail to the King" by Avenged Sevenfold blares out of the speakers, and I jump. Jeez. Twisting the volume button down all the way, I hear my brother's voice.
"Lilly Ann, if you don't tell me, right this fucking second, what the fuck is going on, I'm going to send George to pick you up. I don't give a fuck what he wants to do; I'm the one writing his fucking paychecks!"
Lifting the phone back to my ear, I scoff, "You realize that you just used the word fuck four times."
"I don’t give a flying fuck!" Nate barks.
A knock on the driver's side window makes my head snap around. Heart beating in my throat, I lock eyes with Tristen. I hold his stare for several breaths before putting the Raptor in reverse and pulling out of the garage. My adopted father stands, hands on his hips, in the spot his car occupied a few seconds ago. His face is expressionless—as usual—and I push the garage door button on the visor. I'll deal with the consequences later.
Lancaster’s car is still parked on the street. Thankfully, the windows to Tristen's black monstrosity are so tinted that the guy doesn't recognize me, and I hit the gas as soon as I have the massive truck in the middle of the road.
I putthe phone on speaker and place it on the center console. "Sorry, I'm back. Tristen caught me with the burner, and I kind of just stole his truck." Heat creeps up my neck.
That makes my brother burst out laughing. "Now I want to hack into the feed to see his face."
"How did you know that Rhys left if you weren’t already watching?" I assumed he was when he called.
"His tracker started moving again. Fast. I know he just came home, so I figured you told him, and it didn’t go well."
Of course they’re following everyone’s movements like a hawk after what we found this morning.
Nate stays on the phone but doesn't say anything else. I drive by Wes's but don't see the Defender anywhere. "Where is he?"
I should’ve asked that first.
"Almost at Woodland Park." I hear the clicking of keys in the background, and I wonder what Nate’s doing.
Focusing back on the road, I turn right at the next intersection. Wes's house is not far from the park, but I was heading in the wrong direction, and the following streets are all one-ways or cul-de-sacs. I come to a halt at the light in front of Café Chai. It's similar to Magnolia's, but the cheerleaders had declared it their spot years ago, so I never ventured into the enemy’s territory. The light turns green, and I take my foot off the brake when someone darts across. Pushing the pedal back down, I roll my eyes at the idiot. Why can't people wait the extra minute until it’s their turn again? Suddenly, theidiot pivots back. That’s when it registers who is standing in front of me: Katherine Rosenfield.
This is the first time I’ve seen her since I had let my rage take over and planted my fist in her face. A red haze forms in front of my vision, remembering the confrontation. How was that less than three weeks ago?
Neither of us breaks eye contact, and my surroundings fade into the background as I tighten my hands on the steering wheel. It’s just her and me. Everything I’ve read over the last few days about myself floods my brain at once. She started it all.