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Back The Missing Season Save as PDF
Chapters (36)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. About the Author
  34. Books by Gillian French
  35. Back Ad
  36. About the Publisher

I break into a sprint, knowing the paved hill is like a cattle chute: nowhere for me to go but right where they’re driving me. Somebody’s got to be seeing this out their window and not doing anything about it, not stepping in. Not like Bree would.

Yellow and White burn by me on either side, one ripping a handful of my hair, making me shriek and swear at them as they crisscross into my path at the base of the hill.

I go left, head for the open doorway of the laundry building, one glance showing me that nobody’s inside before I reach back and drag the door shut behind me, the cinder-block doorstop thudding over onto the dirt.

I dig my heels in and hold the door shut, engaging in a short battle as one of them tries to get in, can’t; leverage is on my side. A hail of rocks batters the door and wall, gradually petering off to the sound of silence.

A scrape, then a thud against the door. More laughter.

Shit. I think that was the cinder block. They must’ve wedged it between the door and the ground. I stay where I am, listening, fingers aching against the handle. “Have fun,” one of them calls.

Slowly, I straighten, giving the door a tentative push. Won’t move. Go to the window, standing on tiptoes to watch as they pedal back up the hill, stopping to dump my backpack out in the middle of the road, books and notebooks tumbling everywhere. Green Hood kicks my phone across the asphalt.

I hit the glass. “Asshole!” But they’re at the crest of the hill now, then out of view.

Twenty-Three

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SILENCE IS MY enemy. Not only because it drives home how alone I am, but because it means none of the washers or dryers are running. Which means there’s a good chance nobody’s coming to get their laundry anytime soon.

Still stoked on adrenaline, I look for an obvious way out. Two small windows covered in wire mesh on the wall facing the hill. A back exit that I test and find locked. Washers beneath the window, dryers against the far wall. Two molded plastic lawn chairs with curling magazines stacked beneath, a folding table.

I bang on the door for a while, yelling for help, not holding out a lot of hope. The closest thing is the deserted bus shelter; the laundry building’s set back from the units, embraced by the woods.