Twenty Two #2
“No. Thinking Arielle was kidnapped. Phil is freaking out because he can’t find her.
And Dark Static said he was supposed to make people think someone had kidnapped her, but she was gone before he could, and so he assumed someone got her for real .
What if she wasn’t captured? What if she figured out she was going to be, and she ran away first ? ”
“And Bridges asked you to find her because he thought you’d know where she went, so he could follow you.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. Fox and I are on exactly the same page. I look behind our car at the line of traffic piled up, and sure enough, on the street are sleek, unmarked vehicles, exactly like the ones I’ve seen chauffeur Phil and Arielle.
“Phil’s team is behind us,” I say.
Fox motions for me to sit. He taps his steering wheel, seemingly unphased. “I can lose them. What about Arielle?”
I draw my knees into my chest. Fox doesn’t order me to get my sneakers off of his leather seat, which I interpret as a sign of being friends again. This causes a drawer of knowledge to open in my brain. I know where Arielle is.
“Cool,” says Fox, after I tell him where to drive. “Time to break out this bad boy.” He presses a button on his stereo, and flashing blue and red lights envelop us.
“This used to be an undercover cop vehicle? Where did you get this? This is so illegal.”
Fox winks at me. “Maddragon, you gotta risk it to get the biscuit.” The traffic in front of us pulls over like a zipper coming undone, and Fox and I sail through. “Comes in handy, right?”
“Unbelievable.” Yet, it works. As we tear through the heavy traffic, Phil’s posse does not.
The historical house where Arielle and I grew up is a straight ten-minute shot away.
As one of the first houses ever built in Capital City, it has amazing alcoves for secret meetings.
After my mom died, we sold the house to a young couple with a dog.
There’d been a crazy amount of offers for it, which I remember because the real estate lady was overjoyed about her commission, but my dad and I didn’t want to sell to someone who would only knock it down.
We didn’t want to lose that last piece of Mom.
Then, a young couple—the new owners—promised they wouldn’t change the house or knock down its history, so our memories of living with Mom could still live in that house, even if we didn’t.
The car’s tires whisper as Fox pulls past the house and parks a few buildings down.
The lights are off and the driveway is empty, which makes sense, because the new owners are hip and probably at Hallowfest. The neighborhood shows no signs of Arielle’s car or her belongings.
I don’t really expect it to, because Arielle isn’t stupid—but a long crack slices the house’s front window, and the door is slightly ajar. Someone did try to find her here.
“I shouldn’t call the police, right?” asks Fox, eyeing the broken window and unlit rooms. “Are you sure she’s there? There’s a lot of broken glass.”
“She’s here,” I respond. “You remember playing hide and seek with her. Finding Arielle is impossible in this house, even if you know she’s here.
” Once, she’d hidden from my parents, and the police had to bring over their dogs to recover her.
All that did was disturb our neighbors and give Arielle a smug satisfaction when she finally came out.
Phil Bridges was right—I know her best hiding spots.
One secret room—the original owners had created it for clandestine meetings—is behind what used to be the outhouse, and it still exists behind the refrigerator.
If you’re small enough, you can squeeze between the wall and the fridge to locate the secret door to a tiny room with no windows or no lights. Arielle has to be there.
“I’ll be a lookout,” says Fox. “You go find her.”
“Thanks for everything tonight.”
Fox tilts his head, shaking his blonde hair to mess it up. “I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me. I’m happy I could start making it all up to you.”
That last part stops me, the part that meant the most. But I put one foot in front of the other and leave him in the SUV, pausing that conversation for later. I forgot that Fox has game.
The front door is silent as I nudge it open and walk lightly to the kitchen.
The house is as I remember it, only it’s a little disorienting with someone else’s furniture and picture frames.
Focus, Madeline. I reach the tall steel fridge and inhale, suck in my stomach, tuck in my butt, and squeeze past the giant appliance.
I can barely duck inside the secret alcove, but somehow I make it to stand before the outhouse’s remnants. I pull the iron handle. Locked.
“Arielle?” I knock. There’s no response.
Alright. Powers time.
When I was in City Hall’s basement, I somehow blew it up, like I’d manipulated the water vapor in the air to put pressure on what’s near it.
I try spitting on the lock—maybe I can make it explode from my saliva?
I rub my finger in the liquid, trying to get it hot enough to burn through the keyhole. Nothing.
Ugh.
I study the door. When Arielle and I were younger, I found her in the secret hideaway by knocking to the beat of her favorite song, a classical piece she played on her clarinet. I’ll never forget how that piece goes, she played it so often.
Tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap, I start. The door swings open.
“Nice outfit,” says Arielle. I blink, adjusting to the room. My sister leans against the ancient wall, still wearing a ball gown.
“Hey, you too.”
“I’m glad you remembered my all-time hiding spot, Madeline. I’ve been counting on it.” She has a flashlight, granola bars, and a gallon of water. Arielle guessed she’d be there for a while.
“What’s going on?” I demand.
Arielle beckons me in. “Shhh,” she whispers. “Just close the door before they find us.”