Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,41

my shoulder to watch him.

“It isn’t difficult to listen in on a conversation with the right technology. Shit, you can buy that crap on Amazon now.” Vic tilts his head to one side, like an animal on the hunt. “I wonder exactly how interested in us the VGTF is.”

“Sara really came at me,” I say, thinking of the plea deal. Just the idea of it makes my stomach hurt. I should tell the boys; I’m just trying to figure out how to word it, so they don’t decide to get all stabby on Sara Young. “Pretty sure she knows we aren’t ‘just high school kids’ now,” I say with a long sigh. Remember what Nora Roberts said: some of the balls you’re juggling are made of plastic, the others glass. Drop what you need to drop, Bernie.

“Bernadette,” Victor begins, a warning in his voice. “Your mother is here.”

A sharp, hot anger overtakes me as I exhale. I put the water bottle aside and stand up with a groan. There’s no blood on my thighs this time, so I guess I was right that the bleeding seems to be slowing. According to Google, early miscarriages sometimes only result in a few hours of heavy bleeding. It’s been, what, a day for me? I’m almost through this hurdle, yet another one I can check off my list of accomplishments. Survive beating on front lawn of high school, survive ensuing miscarriage.

“Let me deal with her,” I say, but all of the boys are standing now. I turn and sweep a narrowed-eyed gaze across them. Maybe I’m bleeding like hell from my vagina and cramping so bad I want to scream, but that’s what I do best: persevere. “I’ve got this. Seriously. Do not fucking intervene.”

I head for the door and open it, but not before Oscar puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Let me check for snipers,” he says, which is legit one of the weirdest and most romantic things any guy has ever said to me. He slips past me, and even though I don’t see any weapons on him, I just know he’s got one there somewhere.

Pamela is already halfway across the lawn when Oscar gives me the all clear.

I step out onto the porch and lean my shoulder against the exterior wall of the garage. Well, what used to be a garage. More like a dedicated grow room now. In typical Prescott fashion, Pam comes at me with violence brimming in her red-painted fingernails. She’d love nothing more than to dig them into my arm or slap me across the face, but I guess Oscar’s presence—or the police across the street—give her pause.

Guess she’s not as stupid as I once thought.

“Where is my daughter?” she demands, dressed in a white blouse that looks more suited to a country club than to the southside. I wonder if she stole this one or purchased it with one of the credit cards she ‘borrows’ off of her rich friends. Pamela Pence is nothing but a world class manipulator. I’ve known lots of those—Kali, Coraleigh, Neil, etc.—but Pam has always had a certain level of finesse that they didn’t have. She’s much better at not getting caught.

“I’m standing right in front of you,” I tell her, and then I lick my lower lip. It tastes like caustic biting remarks and bullshit, acid and fucked-up lies. I cannot stop the next words that fall from my mouth. It’s as if they’ve been summoned by some dark goddess just to incite drama. “Or were you referring to the one you let your husband rape on the regular?”

Pamela’s mouth thins into a line, but she doesn’t react, not the way I so desperately wish she would.

“Where is Heather?” she snaps, and I smile.

Heather.

I won’t let anyone use her or hurt her, not for any reason.

“Out of your reach,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve got on an old t-shirt that has the face of some hideous guy on the front with the word NOPE! slashed over his eyes. I can’t remember if he was just a racist, sexist reality TV host or if he was like, a senator or something. He might even have been president, but shit if I can remember. I think the shirt used to be Pen’s, but it was in the duffel bag full of clothes I packed when I stopped by the house with Cal. I don’t remember packing it, but I’m damn sure glad to have it. “Why? Are