through his teeth and doubled over.
“Reyes,” I cried out, and lunged for him. Just as our eyes locked, he was gone. In an instant, he vanished. I slammed both hands over my mouth to keep a scream at bay. Cookie rushed around her desk and knelt beside me. The agony of what he was going through shone so clearly in his expression. And he didn’t want me to find him?
I would tear apart hell itself to find him.
Chapter Six
NEVER BE AFRAID TO DART AROUND IN PUBLIC,
HUMMING THE MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE THEME SONG.
—T-SHIRT
After parking my cherry red Jeep Wrangler, also known as Misery, half a block away, I swooped back into Mission: Impossible mode to traverse the dangerous domain tucked within the borders of the southern war zone. Gangs proliferated in the poverty-stricken area surrounding the asylum. And the asylum itself, abandoned by the government in the fifties, was now owned by an established biker gang known as the Bandits. For the most part, they were old school, their primary colors reflecting a loyalty to God and country.
I scanned the area, paying special attention to the Bandits’ main house beside the asylum, also known as a Rottweiler den of iniquity—the Bandits loved them some Rottweilers—then I started up the fence as fast as I could. Admittedly, it wasn’t very fast. In all the years I’d trespassed on Bandit turf, the Rottweilers had been out on patrol only a handful of times. The gang usually kept them inside during the day. Praying my luck would hold, yet keeping a weather eye, I clawed and slipped my way to the top of the fence, cringing as the metal wire dug into my fingers. Guys made this stuff look so easy. The only things I liked to scale on a semi-regular basis were those same guys who made this stuff look easy.
Dropping to the other side, I had to stop and regroup, partly to wallow in self-pity and partly to take inventory of my throbbing fingers. Fortunately, they were all present and accounted for. Losing a finger in the line of fence scaling would suck.
After another quick glance at the house, I dashed to the basement window I’d been using to gain illegal access to the asylum since I was in high school. Abandoned asylums had always been a particular fascination of mine. I toured them—also known as breaking and entering—regularly after accidently discovering this asylum one night when I was fifteen. I’d also discovered Rocket Man that night, a relic from 1950s science fiction, when spaceships looked steam driven and aliens were as unwelcome as communists. And I discovered that Rocket was somewhat of a savant in the fact that he knew the names of every person who had ever died, millions upon millions of names stored in his childlike mind. Which came in really handy at times.
I scooted through the basement window on my stomach and dropped into a somersault, landing on my feet on the cement slab of the basement. ’Cause that’s how I roll.
The times I’d tried that same maneuver only to land on my ass with dirt and cobwebs coating my hair didn’t count. I turned to latch the window from the inside. Avoiding Rottweiler jaws always took precedence while visiting Rocket.
“Miss Charlotte!”
For like the gazillionth time that day, I jumped, cutting my finger on the latch. And it was still early. Apparently, this was Scare the Bejesus out of Charley Day. Had I known, I would’ve ordered a cheese ball.
I whirled around and looked up into the grinning face of Rocket Man. He scooped me up into a hug that was soft and warm despite my assailant’s frigid temperature. My breath fogged when I laughed.
“Miss Charlotte,” he said again.
“This is like being hugged by an ice sculpture,” I said, teasing him.
He set me down, his eyes glistening and happy. “Miss Charlotte, you came back.”
I chuckled. “I told you I would come back.”
“Okay, but you have to go now.” He clutched me around the waist, and I suddenly found myself being stuffed back out the basement
“Reyes,” I cried out, and lunged for him. Just as our eyes locked, he was gone. In an instant, he vanished. I slammed both hands over my mouth to keep a scream at bay. Cookie rushed around her desk and knelt beside me. The agony of what he was going through shone so clearly in his expression. And he didn’t want me to find him?
I would tear apart hell itself to find him.
Chapter Six
NEVER BE AFRAID TO DART AROUND IN PUBLIC,
HUMMING THE MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE THEME SONG.
—T-SHIRT
After parking my cherry red Jeep Wrangler, also known as Misery, half a block away, I swooped back into Mission: Impossible mode to traverse the dangerous domain tucked within the borders of the southern war zone. Gangs proliferated in the poverty-stricken area surrounding the asylum. And the asylum itself, abandoned by the government in the fifties, was now owned by an established biker gang known as the Bandits. For the most part, they were old school, their primary colors reflecting a loyalty to God and country.
I scanned the area, paying special attention to the Bandits’ main house beside the asylum, also known as a Rottweiler den of iniquity—the Bandits loved them some Rottweilers—then I started up the fence as fast as I could. Admittedly, it wasn’t very fast. In all the years I’d trespassed on Bandit turf, the Rottweilers had been out on patrol only a handful of times. The gang usually kept them inside during the day. Praying my luck would hold, yet keeping a weather eye, I clawed and slipped my way to the top of the fence, cringing as the metal wire dug into my fingers. Guys made this stuff look so easy. The only things I liked to scale on a semi-regular basis were those same guys who made this stuff look easy.
Dropping to the other side, I had to stop and regroup, partly to wallow in self-pity and partly to take inventory of my throbbing fingers. Fortunately, they were all present and accounted for. Losing a finger in the line of fence scaling would suck.
After another quick glance at the house, I dashed to the basement window I’d been using to gain illegal access to the asylum since I was in high school. Abandoned asylums had always been a particular fascination of mine. I toured them—also known as breaking and entering—regularly after accidently discovering this asylum one night when I was fifteen. I’d also discovered Rocket Man that night, a relic from 1950s science fiction, when spaceships looked steam driven and aliens were as unwelcome as communists. And I discovered that Rocket was somewhat of a savant in the fact that he knew the names of every person who had ever died, millions upon millions of names stored in his childlike mind. Which came in really handy at times.
I scooted through the basement window on my stomach and dropped into a somersault, landing on my feet on the cement slab of the basement. ’Cause that’s how I roll.
The times I’d tried that same maneuver only to land on my ass with dirt and cobwebs coating my hair didn’t count. I turned to latch the window from the inside. Avoiding Rottweiler jaws always took precedence while visiting Rocket.
“Miss Charlotte!”
For like the gazillionth time that day, I jumped, cutting my finger on the latch. And it was still early. Apparently, this was Scare the Bejesus out of Charley Day. Had I known, I would’ve ordered a cheese ball.
I whirled around and looked up into the grinning face of Rocket Man. He scooped me up into a hug that was soft and warm despite my assailant’s frigid temperature. My breath fogged when I laughed.
“Miss Charlotte,” he said again.
“This is like being hugged by an ice sculpture,” I said, teasing him.
He set me down, his eyes glistening and happy. “Miss Charlotte, you came back.”
I chuckled. “I told you I would come back.”
“Okay, but you have to go now.” He clutched me around the waist, and I suddenly found myself being stuffed back out the basement
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