I open the pics, the bottle stalling against my lips when I view the photos.
No, no, no.
Straightening in my seat, I play the video. The jumpy footage sends a wave of rage and fear through me. I need to send this to Kane, but I have to get to Heather first. I have to check she’s okay.
I’m on my feet, my hand curled around the door handle before I remember I haven’t closed down my laptop.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
My carelessness could cost AFD everything. Jason and Alex might be missing half their brain cells, but there’s enough remaining to raise a few alarm bells if they glimpse what’s on my screen. Shutting down my laptop, I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and hurry out of the room, nearly colliding with Alex doing bicep curls in front of the TV.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, he asks, “What’s the rush?”
“Hot date,” I lie.
“You have to watch Arnie take on Lou Ferrigno. It’s pure poetry.”
I’d rather take on that eighties mullet you’re attempting to grow. “Yeah, another time.”
From behind a dumbbell, Jason grunts a goodbye.
I catch mostly green lights on the twenty-minute trip from my place to hers. Stopping outside her parents’ house, a double-story, ivy-walled home, I send Heather a text.
Justin:Meet me outside.
I wait five minutes, but there’s no reply. Irritation flares. If I want to see her, I’ll have to venture inside. Heather probably thinks I don’t have the guts to confront her father.
How wrong you are, babe.
Taking off my helmet, I dismount and press the gate buzzer.
“Yes?” says a voice on the intercom.
“Good evening, Mr. Walker. I’m here to see Heather.”
Silence. “Your name, son?”
“Justin.”
Another five-second silence. “Come on in, Justin.”
The gate motors open. I bring my bike in, toe out the kickstand, and leave it on the driveway.
The front door opens and a balding man wearing glasses stands in the doorway. His gaze flicks to my shoulder-length hair, then to my eco-pirate T-shirt sporting the Sea Shepherd’s logo. When his brown eyes make the return trip to my face, I stiffen, steeling myself for the judgment and condemnation the man will be unable to hide.
Heather’s father, however, simply smiles and extends his hand in greeting. “Good to meet you, Justin. You can dispense with the mister and call me Leo.”
I shake his hand, my shoulders relaxing a fraction. “Good to meet you, Leo.”
Leo motions me in and I step into the entrance hall. Photos cover one wall. I pause, captivated by all the different stages of Heather growing up, from a chubby-cheeked baby to a brace-toting teenager to a recent photo of her looking poised and happy at some college event. Heather mentioned a sister and I assume the golden-brown beauty in many of the photos is Heather’s sister. A week ago, she would have grabbed my attention, but now my eyes bypass the beauty and are repeatedly drawn to Heather’s wholesome appeal.
My folks’ house also boasts its share of photos. There’s one of my parents marching in a protest rally with the founder of IDA, another of my mom and PETA’s president posing together. In pride of place is a photo of my dad chatting to primatologist Jane Goodall. Our living room is a bragging wall of fame. A wall that doesn’t feature a single photo of me, their only son.
“Heather’s cute, isn’t she?” asks Leo, standing behind me.
I nearly choke on my astonishment. Talk about a loaded question. However I answer there’s a bullet for me. “Uh, I don’t...”
Heather’s father chuckles. “I’m teasing, Justin. Let’s go through to the living room.”
