‘That’s my pick too.’ He nods with approval before his eyes flick toward the old brick building. ‘Let’s go. Hope you have your purple rock with you.’
‘Why?’
‘We need its sneaking powers.’ A smile stretches across his face.
I roll my eyes. ‘It doesn’t have sneaking pow—’
My words get lost in the breeze as he suddenly pulls me behind him. We’re on the move, passing by a white sedan and shooting through the car park until we reach the side of the building. He glances around the corner, as though he’s searching for something. I take a peek, feeling both intrigued and riddled with anxiety. We’resonot supposed to be here.
He pulls his phone out and the screen flashes to life. The wallpaper is a picture of him, Jace and me when we made s’mores on the beach this summer. Ryker is in the middle with his arm hooked around both our necks, an open-mouthed laugh plastered across his face.
I can’t remember what we were laughing at, but it makes me smile now.
I lean in to whisper, ‘What are we doing?’
‘Waiting.’ He glances at the door. ‘Dellenty is going to leave at 10.30 and we’ll have fifteen minutes while he goes and gets a sandwich from The Green Apple.’
‘What’s a Dellenty?’
‘Not a what.’ Strands of black brush against his forehead as he shakes his head. ‘A who. The security officer.’
My face twists. ‘How do you know all of this?’
He winks at me before tapping his phone screen. 10.29 am.
Ryker shifts, pressing a palm against my belly, holding us flush against the wall. The warmth of his hand sinks through my sweatshirt and into my skin. The numbers on his phone flash, changing to 10.30 am. My ears prick up as the door of the admin building swings open and a security guard waddles his way toward the lone white sedan.
With the security guard only a few steps away, Ryker grips my wrist and rushes us toward the closing door. We slide inside, moving so fast I think I have whiplash. The door softly clicks closed. I place a hand over my heart as it races, threatening to burst free from my chest. When I look up, Ryker gives an exaggerated sigh, wiping the non-existent sweat from his brow.
‘Lucky you had your rock.’ He nudges my side and I swat his arm.
The room is stripped bare, but there’s no mistaking that it was once a lobby. The walls are lined with framed picturesof cars, a ’59 Eldorado appearing multiple times. To the left, a display case is filled with trophies and old newspaper clippings. The fluorescent lights above us flicker and the space smells like oil and wood. There’s a service desk in the middle, empty aside from a few stray newspaper clippings. On the wall behind it is a large mural of a navy-blue Hudson Hornet, the same car now rusting outside.
One of the papers has a familiar picture that catches my eye. I reach for it, straining to see the smudged text under the poor lighting. The picture is enough for me to smile: a gunmetal grey ’67 Mustang with rally stripes.
Ryker peers over my shoulder. ‘Your dad’s car?’
I murmur agreement, nodding once. ‘He used to tell us stories about racing here.’
He takes the paper from my palm and heads over to the window where sunlight shines through. ‘Brooks takes home Spokes Cup in three-peat win …’
My eyes travel over all the trophies collecting dust as Ryker continues reading out the details of the race. I’d give anything to have seen it for real, to have been waiting at the finish line when he crossed it. Ma would never let me go when I was little. My heart aches and I take a deep breath, feeling the tears sting through my nose.
Snap out of it.
‘C’mon.’ I turn to Ryker. ‘Show me what we’re here for.’
He smiles, folds the article and puts it in his pocket. Then he leads me down a hallway, the greasy smell getting stronger as we go. Our garage at home has a similar scent, with more musk. I fill my lungs; it smells like home.
Suddenly, a clanging noise sends me leaping to Ryker’s side, gripping his arm with a yelp. He laughs and places a reassuring palm over mine, his hands enveloping me in warmth.
‘Are you sure security’s gone?’ I whisper.
‘He’s gone,’ he says easily.
I’m pretty sure my brows reach my hairline. ‘Then what wasthat?’
‘You know what …’ His eyes go wide. ‘It might be the zombies.’
