Page 66 of Hunter or Hunted
Easing out a shaking breath to keep the sudden fire in my eyes from pouring over, a breeze fluttered to my flushed cheeks. On my right, just ahead, air rushed in from a cracked window.
It was only a few inches, maybe five, but technically enough for a cat to escape through. Especially if the screen was broken.
Jaw tight, still holding Samson, I kicked through the screen. It fell to the ground outside with a thwack!
Samson jumped, nails cutting through my hoodie to my shoulder.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whispered.
His nails retracted slightly, still burrowed into the fabric.
Evan would think Samson escaped through the open window.
I clicked the door shut behind me.
What was I doing again?
Something pink. There was something pink on that shelf.
I returned to Evan’s game room.
And my stomach dropped out of my ass.
A bracelet.
A beaded friendship bracelet, with a pink, plastic butterfly wing, and a few letters strung together.
J+D=BFF 4EVA
21
SEBASTIAN
When I arrived at the funeral home and caught sight of Evan at the bar downstairs, I texted Gwen,
Love you <3
That was code for He’s here, house is empty, you’re good.
Paranoid? No, not at all. If we became suspects in Evan’s disappearance later, our text messages would be subpoenaed. Wouldn’t be good if they found we were texting about breaking into his place before the fact.
He looked as he had yesterday. Hunched over the bar in a suit and tie. An odd cross between Poor, pity me and See how dignified I am?
The part guys like him played.
I gave his shoulder a pat in greeting. More of a smack, really. All my life, I’d found it odd how fellow boys my age and friends of my dad’s bonded through aggression. But it was the norm.
“How you doing, man?” I asked, lowering myself to the stool beside him.
“Could be worse.” His words slurred, distillery-scented breath hitting me like a truck. “You a beer guy? Or a liquor guy? Ah, shit, it’s a funeral. Dan, get my friend here a shot.”
The older man behind the bar crooked a brow at me. As if to say, Shots? Shots before a funeral? “What’re you drinking?”
“Just an old fashioned. Whatever you got.” The judgmental quirk on his face subsided as I shrugged off my jacket and sat beside Evan. I gave the lineup of glasses before him a once-over. Two empty beer bottles and three empty short glasses. He held a glass of clear liquid. “What’re you drinking?”
“Vodka soda.” He belched, propping himself up on an elbow. “That’s Allie’s drink. Vodka soda or vodka cranberry.”
It wasn’t. Not really. No teenage girl knew what her go-to drink was at that age. They sipped whatever their nearly thirty-year-old boyfriend recommended.
