the hottest guy on the team asks you is a grand idea. It’s not respect that stops me; I just don’t have the energy for a fight right now.
“We’ll talk when I get home, Kenzie. Be careful.”
I don’t respond because I feel like crap and my head hurts even worse now. Anyway, “be careful” is just her everyday sign-off. I learned long ago that it was her substitute for “I love you” and stopped waiting to hear the real thing.
I hang up, still staring into the hall. The other door is visible, but closed, of course. Conner’s room remains exactly as it was the day he went to work after school and let me tag along because I didn’t want to be home alone.
I stay still and listen, but a bone-deep exhaustion still presses, despite the adrenaline rush. I know that if I don’t move, I’ll be asleep again in a minute. Fighting the same physical pain that I feel when my alarm goes off at 6:30, I slowly roll off the bed.
I have to go downstairs and make sure I locked the door.
Shaking my head clear, I walk across the room, drawing back with a face when I get another whiff of that rancid smell. What the heck?
My pulse is loud enough in my head that I don’t hear my own footsteps, let alone any downstairs. I hold the handrail and peer down.
“Anyone there?” I say, feeling incredibly stupid. And just a little … sick.
A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and I grip tighter, taking each steep step slowly.
The house is dead silent, but the smell is stronger. I hesitate on the last step, continuing to steady myself with the handrail. This is crazy. I’ve spooked myself for no reason.
I leap around the stairway wall, landing in the empty, quiet dining room.
Now I really feel stupid. And, whoa, dizzy. I walk to the kitchen because I was absolutely sure I’d heard Mom in there. But the room’s as quiet and still and empty as when I came in. I go straight to the door and check the latch, which is firmly horizontal and locked.
Okay, totally an overactive imagination. But what is that smell? Good God, did someone blow one in here?
I turn in a circle, my gaze stopping on the lock, my book bag, the mail, the partially opened pantry door. Did I leave it like that?
Another set of chills rises over my arms because I swear, I did not leave that door open. I take a step closer and then I hear something.
A low, soft, slow … hiss.
What the hell is that noise?
I look at the stove to see that the back burner knob is twisted to the right—on—but there are no flames. What does that mean?
It means that poisonous gas has been seeping through the whole house, and if I hadn’t just noticed, I’d have been dead in about ten minutes.
CHAPTER VI
Throwing myself at the stove, I flip the knob so hard it pops off in my hand. With a small shriek, I lean closer, listening for the sound of escaping gas.
Everything’s off. But how—
No. Not yet. If I think, I’ll freak. I have to move. Or worse—I’ll faint.
If Mom hadn’t called I would have died in my sleep!
I lunge toward the stove-top exhaust fan, turning it on max, then bolt to the kitchen door, unlocking it with trembling fingers to throw it open. I don’t care who’s out there, or who was in here.…
Yes I do.
I fill my lungs with air, gulping and gasping like a person who’s been held underwater. Instantly feeling clearer, I look side to side, not even sure what or who I’m looking for, a million thoughts at war in my head.
Did someone break in? Did Mom leave the stove on all day? Was Dad here? Or was it someone else? Did I bump the knob by accident? Did I really lock the door? What did I hear when I thought it was Mom?
But the questions are all just background noise to the words my brain is screaming.
I almost died. I almost died. I almost freaking died … for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
The side yard is empty except for the trash cans, neatly closed and lined up the way Mom likes them. The way Mom likes everything—orderly. She’s obsessive about neatness. And safety. And timeliness. And she checks the stove about ten times a day, including before bed and before leaving the house, even if nobody