a knock, then slowly push it open. (They moved back in about two years ago, after Stevie’s hours at the oil refinery were cut, to help defray living expenses for all of us.)
Kim is dozing soundly, but next to her is empty space. Great. He’s probably out with Hank, Nick, and J.D., tossing back a few, something they’ve been doing more lately to help numb their grief. But what’s the point of having your retired Marine big brother sleep under the same roof as you if he’s not sleeping there when you need him?
Fine, I’ll do it myself.
I tiptoe downstairs and head for the kitchen. I pass through the doorway, which is “decorated” up and down with lines marking various Rourke family members’ heights over the years. And not just Alex’s. Mine and my brothers’. My late father, John. My aunt Anna and cousins Matthew and Jacob. Generations of us.
But I don’t have time to be sentimental. Not now.
Not when I’m in danger.
An emergency flashlight sits on top of our old, humming refrigerator. Wedged behind the fridge is an even older Ruger bolt-action hunting rifle.
I take both.
I unlock the front door, step outside, flip on the flashlight, and survey our driveway and front yard. Everything looks normal. All sounds quiet. I exhale, relieved. Maybe I’m so exhausted, I really am starting to—
Clank.
No, there it is again. I’m sure of it. Coming from behind the farmhouse.
Gripping the flashlight and gun tightly, I slowly stalk around the side of the house, trying to crunch the dry grass as little as possible so as not to give away my position.
I reach the backyard now, where I haven’t been in weeks. No sign of anyone. Not near the house, at least. But then my flashlight glints suddenly off something metal and blue leaning against the back porch.
It’s Alex’s dirt bike, untouched in ten weeks.
A lump forms in my throat. The pain is still so fresh. But I quickly push it out of my mind—when I hear another clank echo from farther out on the property.
I start following the dirt path that winds along the fields, toward our old barn. Crickets bombard my ears. Mosquitoes gnaw at my face. But I keep going, rifle aimed and ready…even when I reach the old tire swing hanging from that giant oak tree. The site of that framed picture of Alex I love so much. My eyes burn.…
But I hear yet another clank. Even louder now.
I’m getting close. But to what?
Finally I see something strange. Light. Coming from inside our ancient woodshed, peeking through the cracks. The shed is rotting and practically falling apart. Plus, it doesn’t have a power line running to it—so where’s the light coming from?
I carefully approach. The door is open just a crack. I hear the hum of a diesel generator powering what I think is a set of work lamps. I can barely make out a male figure, backlit, hunched over what looks like a bumper.
I’m so confused. A strange car? A generator? What the hell is it?
I ready my rifle—when I accidentally bump the door with the muzzle.
The figure spins around. I get ready to shoot.
It’s my brother.
“Stevie?” I say, throwing open the door, just as surprised as he is.
“Jesus, Molly! I almost jumped out of my skin.”
I enter the shed and look around. Up on cinder blocks is what appears to be a 1990s-model Ford Taurus, a silvery blue, badly rusted one. Its hood is open, its engine in a state of chaos, tubes and wires lying everywhere.
“What the hell is all this? It’s one o’clock in the morning!”
Stevie glances down at his watch. “1:15,” he says a little sheepishly.
Has it only been a few minutes since I crept out of bed? It feels like closer to an hour.
Stevie looks away and starts wiping grease off his hands with an old rag. He seems embarrassed, like a little boy caught sneaking candy before dinner.
“I…I don’t understand, Stevie. Whose car is this? Where did it come from? What were you…?”
I trail off when I start to piece it together.
Alex’s sixteenth birthday is—well, was—just a few months away. He’d be getting his driver’s license.
And metallic-blue was his favorite color.
That lump in my throat comes back with a vengeance.
“Buddy of mine from the refinery had it sitting on his front lawn,” Stevie explains. “Few months ago, I gave him a hundred bucks for it. When Alex was at school one day, and you were off at the market or somewhere, I had it