“No,” Harper exclaimed quickly, looking over at Trent, who was grinning at her.“I mean, no, I was just bringing Trent some cookies.”Holy shit.Was she really that lame?It was like that moment inDirty Dancingwhen Baby told Johnny she carried a watermelon.
Dred turned and smiled enigmatically at Trent.“I see what you mean, man.”
“Give.”Smiling, Trent held out his hand.Reaching inside her bag, she pulled out the cookies and handed the container to him.
“Seriously, dude, she’s the best fucking cook on the planet.”Trent paused to take a giant bite.“You got to try one,” he mumbled, offering the container over.
Harper watched, mortified, as a modern-day rock legend bit into one of her cookies.
Dred chewed and groaned.“These are almost as good as sex.”
Harper laughed.
“Not quite,” Trent responded, giving her a look that made her burn.“You should try her pot roast.Could bring a grown man to his knees.”
He nodded his head toward her bag.“Where are you off to?Frankie’s?”
“Yeah.I’m picking up Anton from one of his friends’ houses on the way.”
“Okay, text me when you’re done, and I’ll come get you.”
“Would love to take you up on that, but I can’t.My phone died.We’ll need to get it fixed tomorrow, I think, which sucks.I’ll ask Frankie if I can call you from his place.”
“See you later, darlin’.”
“Bye, Trent.Nice meeting you, Dred.”
His mouth was stuffed with another cookie.“Nish meeting you too,” he mumbled, crumbs going everywhere.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“And I’ve gotanotherpaper to do,” Anton complained glumly as they walked toward Frankie’s studio through the deserted parking lot of a medical center.
Harper smiled, and looked up at the remnants of what had been a glorious sunset.Kids always thought they were overwhelmed with homework.“What’s this one on?”she asked.
“The Battle of Antietam.”She guided Anton around a giant pothole filled with brown water.The overhead streetlight flickered indecisively.Too dark to be off, too light to be on.
“It was in 1862.The most gruesome day of battle to happen in the U.S.There’s so much to write about.”
“I can either write a biography of General Lee or of General McClellan, or I can write about how the battle happened.”All good questions with plenty of scope for research, structuring, drafting, and writing a great essay.
“Hey!”Anton yelled as he was pulled away from her.Harper reached out, managed to grab the bottom of his sweater, but it slipped through her fingers.She ran into the narrow alley after him.
“Get in the van, Taylor.”Harper fixated on the knife blade pointed at Anton’s neck.Nathan stood in the shadows, his back to the wall, with Anton held firmly in front of him.
She glanced to the end of the alley, past the overfilled Dumpsters, at the brown van parked on the curb, and tried to slow her breathing.
“Don’t hurt him, Nathan.Please.”She looked around for anything that would help.A piece of wood or a discarded metal pipe.Something.Anything.
Nathan was high.She’d seen that crazed look before—eyes so wide that his pupils had overtaken the blue of his irises.His breath was coming fast and furious, a harsh gasping to draw in enough air.There was a sheen of sweat across his upper lip despite the cool breeze of the evening.
His face was gaunt.Gone were the once-handsome features, replaced with a menacing sneer.Tight, sinewy muscle and raised veins wrapped their way around the arms she’d once felt safe in.
“There is no option here, Taylor.Get in the van or I will kill this fucking kid where he stands.”She looked at Anton, willing him silently to remain still and quiet.He stared at her, wide eyed, his body frozen with fear.
Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms as she gripped her hands into tight fists.The sight of Nathan, combined with every teacher’s worst nightmare of a child getting hurt, made it difficult to think.What could she do?
“Taylor!”he snarled.“Move it before you force me to do something you’ll regret.”The knife broke the skin of Anton’s neck.A small slice, but enough to make a small trickle of blood run down Anton’s skin.
