So who messed with the stove? The whole place could have exploded with one stray spark!
I’m thinking more clearly now, breathing steadier with a heart rate approaching … No, not normal yet. But I venture back inside and stand very still to try to re-create what on earth happened in here.
I can’t. There is absolutely no answer. No one was in here.
But I heard footsteps. Didn’t I? I was so sleepy.… Of course I was! I was inhaling poison and knocking on death’s front door.
With a whimper of fear, I open the cabinet under the cooktop, not even sure what I’m looking for, but immediately I see an electrical cord hanging there, pulled from its plug in the wall. I vaguely recall Dad talking about that when he installed the new gas cooktop for Mom. Something about an igniter? Something that makes sure there’s a flame and we don’t breathe gas.
How did that get unplugged? And how did the burner knob get turned on?
After fixing the plug, I drop into the chair. The exhaust fan is loud enough to drown out that thought, and I’m certain the smell of gas is dissipating. But I have to clear out this house and I have to …
Tell Mom.
In the distance, I hear the soft ding of my phone, still upstairs, alerting me to a text. Mom in high worry mode, no doubt. And with good reason. I jog back upstairs to assure her I’m still alive—and for once, I’m not kidding. The phone’s on my bed next to my laptop. I unlock the screen to see an unknown number.
Another new friend? Another invitation to hang out with someone I barely know? I tap the message and read.
Lares et penates, Quinte? Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.
What? The last phrase clicks into place instantly—I will either find a way or make a way. Every Latin student learns that in the first semester of phrases.
But what does this mean? Who sent it? And lares et penates? I got nothing there. Still shaking, I seize my Latin textbook and manage to get to the glossary in the back, praying the translation is there. I might know this, but I can’t think. I can’t …
The lares and penates are the Roman gods of the household. My eyes sting as I read the short paragraph. “Gods who looked after the safety and well-being of the home.” Slowly, I lower the textbook because I just can’t stand what this is telling me. Whoever texted knew what just happened.
Then my eyes fall on the last sentence: “The penates are the gods of the storeroom with the duty of keeping the house free of danger.”
I grab the phone and back away, blindly smashing the button that turns the device off completely, if only to prevent the horror of another text. I turn to the door, certain I’m going to meet the eyes of a killer. No one’s there … just the closed door to my brother’s room. My brother who died in a storeroom.
A bolt of horror jerks me and I run out of the room and down the stairs, my whole body vibrating. The place still smells and Mom will be home soon. And she will freak with a capital F.
What’s worse? This … stalker, or Mom discovering I almost died? Knowing the answer, I open the kitchen windows, still seeing the words on my text. He called me Quinte.
Fifth.
The house phone rings, making me jump a foot and yelp like a frightened cat. Instantly, the fear rolls over me again. No one calls our house phone, ever. We use cell phones for everything; the only reason we have a landline is in case cell service is down and we need to call 911 to tell them where we are.
The shrill ringing doesn’t stop. What if it’s another Latin message? What if whoever was in the house is now calling to tell me … caveat.
Beware.
I grab the receiver with one thought: we can trace a landline call.
Bracing myself for the absolute worst mouth-breathing and hair-raising warning, I pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Kenzie, there you are.” I almost faint at the sound of my father’s voice.
Maybe I should tell Dad. Dad could help, right? Dad would take this seriously but not freak out.
“Yeah, I’m right here,” I say, my head whirring.
“I called your cell phone about four times.” He sounds more weary than angry.
“I left it upstairs.” I close my eyes and try to come up