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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 run the rest of the way home, pausing on our stoop to catch my breath so I don’t blow through the door looking like the devil’s on my heels.

And it’s the second night I fall asleep with the lamp on, Kincaid’s jack-o’-lantern glowing with a look of infernal delight.

Seventeen

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MY WORDS COME out, “Can we talk?”—so similar to how I approached Kincaid last night that it’s a physical stab in my chest, making me press my lips together, cringing inside.

Bree gives me a skeptical look. “You okay?”

She cares if I’m okay. I should be shot. Granted, she said it in her usual deadpan way, with a trace of distracted annoyance, but again: Bree doesn’t lie. She wouldn’t waste the words if she didn’t care. “Yeah. I just need to talk to you later.”

We’re at the cool table this time, our usual lunchtime vibe disrupted by Trace’s unsinkable grin. “You better wipe that off your face,” Sage says, holding out one of her hot-lunch delicacies to him, a plastic cup of what’s supposed to be a trail mix but is mostly pale, unsalted peanuts and withered raisins. “Crack takes one look at you, he’s going to know something’s up. You’re never this happy at school.”

“I can’t help it. It’s so funny.” He ducks his head, snorting laughter, something he’s been doing periodically since we sat down. Tries to compose himself, which only gets him laughing harder. He digs his fingers through the cup. “I only like those raisins covered in Elmer’s.”

Nobody seems to know about the hidden Bug but us—none of the students, anyway. Trace checked out the window during gym class; the VW still isn’t back in the teachers’ lot. I guess the administration and the cops must be keeping it hush-hush while they search for it, figuring drama is exactly what we attention whores want. I lost some sleep over it last night, the dread of getting caught, though it wasn’t the only thing preying on my mind. Crackenback made it to work today anyway—I heard his rusty tones over the intercom this morning—and if the teachers’ gazes are a little sharper, it could also be due to the general unease laying over everyone like the thin fog from a February thaw.