Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
CALEB
I grab my phone and pull up the tracker app Silas made me install on her phone before he gifted it to her.
Yeah, it felt like a violation at first—until we used it to find her at that truck stop about to hop in some random stranger’s big rig. Now I check it without guilt.
Her dot hasn’t moved far. Thank god.
I stare at the coordinates, and my brain automatically calculates: 2.3 miles from here. At 35 mph average with four traffic lights, twelve minutes. Call it fifteen with parking.
Fifteen minutes. 900 seconds. I can do this.
I zoom in, screenshot the coordinates, and snatch my keys off the desk.
But the second I hit my door, reality slams into me. Mom and Silas are downstairs. Movie night. They started at 7:30 p.m. Movie runs 132 minutes. Should end at 9:42 p.m.
It’s 8:26 p.m. now.
If I walk past them, jingling keys, they’ll corner me. Demand answers. And then Silas will lose his shit when he finds out where Harper went and what she’s doing.
Rule #7: Don’t disappoint Mom.
Rule #681: Don’t take the car without permission.
Rule #2: Don’t lie to Mom.
I’m about to break all three. Probably about ten more, if I’m honest.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets. Thumb to index, index to middle, middle to ring, ring to pinky.
Can’t afford the time to calm down. Harper needs—
I can’t waste ten minutes arguing while Harper’s in danger.
My eyes cut to the bathroom. The balcony. The oak tree.
Rule #156: Don’t take unnecessary risks.
Rule #203: Plan before acting.
Rule # —
I can’t remember the number—something about always having a backup plan.
The rules are screaming at me. My whole system is screaming at me.
But Harper is out there, and I’m wasting time.
Fuck it. I’m doing this.
I move.
Cold November air bites my lungs the moment I step outside. The oak’s branches look thinner than I remember, and farther away. My hands grip the railing, knees threatening to betray me as I climb up and steady myself, then reach for the branch overhead.
And miss, feet wobbling where I stand on the railing. My stomach almost drops out through my ass when I glance down and see how high up I am.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
No! I’ve got this.
I reach for the overhead branch again—fingers scraping bark until I catch hold. The wood groans under my weight. My stomach drops, but I don’t look down again. I can’t afford to second-guess anything right now.
Harper needs you, dipshit. Move.
I swing outwards, committing my full weight to empty air, and land hard on a lower branch. My shoes slip before I manage to wedge them against the bark.
Adrenaline slams lights through my veins like electric voltage. Every muscle coils tight.
This is fucking insane!
I don’t care.
I inch toward the trunk, branch bouncing with each shift.
When I finally wrap my arm around solid wood, I don’t pause to celebrate.
I just start climbing down. Bark tears at my palms. Moss makes everything slick.
My foot slips hard enough that my heart stops once when I start falling, but I catch myself and keep going.
Halfway down, my shoulders scream, and my hands are raw, but I spot the ground eight feet below.
Almost there.
I grip a thick branch, shift my weight again—
My foot slides.
Bark rips past my palms. My shoulder clips a limb, and then I’m truly falling. Oh god oh god oh god oh—
The ground punches the air from my lungs.
For a second, breathing is impossible. Then I roll to my side, coughing, and dragging oxygen back into my chest. My shirt’s torn. My elbow throbs. I wiggle my toes and sigh in relief. Nothing’s broken.
I made it.
Harper probably landed like a gymnast, while I fell like dead weight. Doesn’t matter—I’m down, and that’s what counts.
I push to my feet, legs shaking but functional, and don’t waste any more time.
I just broke a rule. Huh.
Climbed down from a balcony and risked my neck, sure. But it feels fucking liberating.
I crouch low past the windows where Mom and Silas sit curled together on the couch, with just a quick glance in. Mom’s asleep with her head on his chest, and he’s got a protective arm curled around her as the screen flashes on their faces.
Harper better be okay.
I slip into the garage, key the ignition of the Mustang. It purrs to life under my hands.
Sorry, old man.
Then I’m backing out, checking all three mirrors twice each—six checks total to make it an even number—and I’m gone.
The drive is only twelve minutes that stretch into eternity. Every red light is a personal attack. I check my phone constantly—nothing from Harper. The knot in my gut pulls tighter as I follow the dot of the GPS coordinates.
I frown as it leads me into one of the old money neighborhoods where the houses are gigantic, each down long, winding driveways long enough to be roads.
I’ve been here for birthday parties and fundraisers before, but never like this. Never to chase a girl who might not want saving.
Maybe Harper’s just hanging out with another new friend and there’s nothing to worry about after all?
But then the blinking dot has me turning down the road to McKenzie Davis’s house… which can’t be a good thing.
I hear the party before I see it. Bass pounds through the trees.
This isn’t a party. It’s a fucking disaster.
Cars everywhere. I try to count them automatically. Lose count at seventeen. Start over. Lose count at twenty-three.
Can’t count them. Too many. Too chaotic.
My brain is screaming at me to organize something, anything, but I can’t.
I double-park behind a BMW. Wrong. Illegal. Against the rules.
Rule #84: Park legally and safely.
Don’t care.
I get out and jog for the house, heart hammering.
The front doors stand open, and I’m overwhelmed the second I step inside. The music is pounding, and a hundred drunk teenagers are trying desperately to look like they belong.
I push through the crowd. Neon lights strobe across grinding bodies. I step over crushed cups and abandoned heels and god knows what else.
I’ve heard about these legendary parties the seniors throw and never once been tempted to attend. They reek of the kind of scene my biological father would’ve loved—money, prestige, and trying to impress rich assholes so other rich assholes will be your friends.
I’ve spent my life trying to be nothing like that man.
But I can see how Harper might like a place like this to disappear for a night.
Except while Harper’s street smart, she might have her guard down at a place that glitters with so much wealth.
She might not expect that just as many predators hide in the dark here as where she grew up. Maybe even more.
No. That’s not happening to Harper. Not on my watch.
I spot doors to the back deck and fight through the crowd, ignoring dirty looks and muttered complaints. I’m bigger than most of these kids. They move.
I explode onto the patio. The pool glows electric blue. Pretty people splash and scream like extras in a commercial.
But Harper’s not here either.
I pull out my phone. Text her. No response. Seconds drag. The noise becomes static.
“Hey—” I grab a guy who’s passing by me by the arm.
It’s Rudy. I knew him from Little League eight years ago. Outfielder. Batting average .417. He’s all grown up now. His polo’s soaked with what looks like pool water and… ugh, is that vomit? His eyes are bloodshot, pupils just pinpricks.
I plant myself in front of him, grip his shoulders. “Have you seen Harper? Dark hair, boots, leather jacket, about five-six—”
Rudy grins slow and stupid, brain buffering. “Oh yeah. She was totally wasted, man. Like... gone. They had to pull her out of the pool before she, like, drowned, dude.”
My blood turns to ice.
Harper’s limp body flashes before my eyes, skin gray-blue, hair floating like weeds underwater—
No. Focus. She’s not dead. Rudy said they pulled her out. Past tense. She’s alive.
But for how long? Average time until brain damage from oxygen deprivation: 4-6 minutes. Permanent damage: 10 minutes. Death: 15 minutes.
How long was she under? How long ago? I need exact times. I need—
“Where is she now?”
My fingers dig into his shoulders. I realize I’m squeezing too hard. Rudy winces.
Let go. Even pressure. Can’t hurt him. Need information.
His droopy eyes lift a little at my question, and a lazy arm waves vaguely. “Some guy was carrying her...”
“Which direction?” I want to shake him until his teeth rattle. “Think. Which way?”
“Away from the pool?” He shrugs like it’s a game show guess.
I shove him back, fists clenched. “What drugs are they passing out here?”
But Rudy’s already drifting toward a group of girls, forgetting I exist.
This is why I hate these fucking parties.
Rachel Watson. Freshman year. Dosed with Special K at a house party just like this. She was found hours later in a pool house bathroom, clothes torn, memory gone. She never came back to school. Her parents sued everyone, but lawsuits don’t rewind time.
The thought of Harper ending up like Rachel sends a red haze across my vision.
Pool house.
I run. My shoes skid on wet stone as I round the corner. The pool house looms ahead—smaller than the mansion but still bigger than most people’s homes.
I rip the door open. Inside, people mix drinks on sticky counters. Couples are knotted together on the sectional like some low-rent porno.
I sweep my phone’s flashlight across every face in the main room. Count them. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six people. None of them Harper.
Kitchenette: Two people. Not Harper.
Bathroom: Empty.
Bedroom one: Four people. Check each face. Not Harper. Not Harper. Not Harper. Not Harper.
I sweep my phone’s flashlight across every face, ignoring disgruntled shouts at the intrusion.
No Harper.
Down the hallway, a sock hangs from a bedroom doorknob. My stomach turns.
I shove the door open. A girl screams. Some guy shouts in protest. My flashlight cuts across the bed.
None of them is Harper.
Thank god, not Harper.
“Get your own fucking room!”
I slam the door and lean against it, chest heaving. Fear and rage trade back and forth in my churning gut.
I burst back outside and stare up at the main house—four stories of shadows and possibility.
Four stories. Windows on each floor. Try to count them. Lose count. Try again.
First floor: twelve windows visible from here. Second floor: I count eight, but there might be more on the other side. Third floor: six? Seven? I can’t tell in the dark. Fourth floor: four definitely.
How many rooms total? The average room has 1.5 windows. So if there are—
I can’t do the math. My brain has short-circuited.
A hundred hiding spots. A hundred places for a drugged girl to vanish.
I check my phone again. Her dot is still here. Still in this house somewhere.
How many times have I checked now? Twenty? Thirty? Lost count.
I try to count my breaths. Four in, hold four, four out.
Can’t hold for four. Can’t breathe right.
Try three. Three in, three out.
Odd number. Unlucky. But it’s all I can manage.
My hands won’t stop shaking. Thumb to index, index to middle, middle to ring, ring to pinky.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Four times. Even number.
Doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
I have no plan. No map. No time. No system that works for this.
All my rules, all my counting, all my careful control—
Useless.
But I have one thing: I’m not leaving without her.
Even if I have to tear this mansion apart brick by brick.
I sprint back into the house.
Hold on, Harper. I’m coming.