Thirty-One
EVERYONE’S brEATHING SEEMS TO STILL AS FIVE PAIRS OF EYES FIX on the phone in McCoy’s hand. Disaster scenarios tornado through my mind. Mitchum is calling. Mitchum has handed the phone to security. Security has turned the phone over to the police. The police have already called in the FBI.
Is this a federal crime?
I feel like I should know the answer, but I didn’t want to dwell on the consequences for something I had no intention of getting caught for.
“Did no one remember to pick up the ransom phone?” Cass asks, her tone low with accusation.
Deonte whips his head toward her. “Maybe if the van had been where we thought it was, McCoy would have been able to return for it as planned. Instead, we were completely stranded, trying to figure out what the hell had happened.”
“I’m sorry,” Cass replies, sounding anything but apologetic. Her pale skin is tinted pink, with bright red splotches growing on her cheeks. “Would you rather be in handcuffs right now? Because if I hadn’t moved the van exactly when I did, I guarantee security would have found me. Which would have led them to all of you. I think I’m owed a little appreciation for my quick thinking.”
“Appreciation?” Deonte repeats. “Man, I don’t even know who you are. So far you’ve hacked a local print shop or something? Their password was probably printshop.”
Cass sets her laptop down as if she’s about to climb out of her seat. I have to regain control, reinstate the new plan, avoid getting caught.
“Enough!” I call out.
The phone’s buzzing stops, leaving the garage eerily silent.
“Maybe it was a butt dial?” Tom suggests hopefully.
“Pray tell, whose butt?” McCoy replies.
Deonte rolls his eyes. “Be serious.”
“I would never joke about butts under these circumstances,” McCoy says.
Before I can end this inane debate, the phone starts ringing again. We don’t have many options. Even fewer when we don’t know who has the ransom phone. I meet Cass’s eyes. She rubs her chin as if she’s running through the same mental checklist I am. When I glance to the phone then back to her, she nods, understanding my silent question. Our move will depend on who we’re up against. Which means—
“Answer it,” I tell McCoy. “If it is Mitchum, he already knows your voice.”
McCoy brings the phone closer to his face, his hand trembling. “What do I say?”
“As little as possible,” Cass supplies.
He doesn’t look stoked about his new role. Slowly, he hits accept on the call, then he quickly shifts the sound to speaker. “Hello?” he says stiffly, his voice unnaturally flat.
I hold my breath, closing my eyes as if I can better hear who holds our fate in their hands if I can’t see the interior of this van.
Sound explodes into the speakers. “Hey, where you guys at? Another party within the party?”
I massage my brow, feeling physically ill with relief and annoyance at once.
Kevin.
“How did you get this phone?” I ask with resignation. It’s not the worst possible outcome. It’s, like, the fourth-worst possible outcome. Competitive ranking.
“I went back and picked it up after the ransom call,” he explains proudly. “Duh. Pretty quick thinking on my part. You wouldn’t want this phone falling into the wrong hands.”
“No, we wouldn’t want that,” I say dryly.
“Where are you guys?” Kevin presses, dropping his haughtiness. “What’s the new plan?”
I consider informing him we’re on our way to catch some mid-wedding weight lifting in the house’s gym. I wonder how long he would wait.
Unfortunately for my nascent plan, Tom interjects. “We’re obviously not going to tell you.”
“You might as well,” Kevin replies, undeterred. “I’ve searched the whole house. If I can’t find you, there’s nothing stopping me from”—he pauses for emphasis—“pointing out your absence to my father.”
I groan. I don’t know whether what is happening here is comical, infuriating, or sad. Probably some of each. I muster patience I didn’t even know I had—forged in the East Coventry High lunch line and the DMV—and formulate my reply.
Before I get the words out, I hear the door from the house open. Footsteps enter the garage.
It could be security or catering. I fall silent, leaving the entire van in vacuum-sealed quiet. I can practically hear heartbeats echoing within the metal cavity of the interior.
“Man, your dad has some sick cars,” Kevin says. “Let’s take one for a spin.”
His voice comes from the phone—and from three feet away.
I feel like screaming when the van door rolls open. Framed against concrete is Kevin, looking incredibly pleased with himself. He grins in exultant victory, the winner of the highest-stakes game of hide-and-seek any of us has ever played.
“Perfect!” he says. “The gang’s all here.”