Page 30 of Hell and High Water

And knowing I’d never call unless it was an emergency. Even so, I would think news that the mayor vanished would be all over the news and police scanners.

Maybe they left me out on purpose. An old, hurt-kid part of me winces at that.

“You left home for a reason, Tell,” I coach myself, heading up the stairs.

A slice of light hits the wall as I turn the corner, coming from dad’s office. Someone’s here…

I ease up onto the landing, shuffling quietly to the door to peek inside. There, behind his desk, stuffing papers into a briefcase, shredding others…

“Selena.” I announce softly, opening the door. My dad’s secretary looks up, a wild look in her eyes.

“Fuck. Sorry. Tyler. You’re… still here. Of course you are.” She almost looks guilty as she says it.

“Selena, what's going on?” I don’t have to fake the nervousness in my voice.

“Your father emailed me out of nowhere, telling me to clear everything out of his office, to burn everything of legal importance. He said you’d have backups of everything if they need them.”

“I … well, yeah. But what? Where are Mom and Shannon?” I’m not surprised by the contingency. I am surprised that he was that worried over this.

Something must have happened.

“He sent them out of town two days ago.”

I stare, dumbfounded at her for a moment. “And Dad?”

“No one knows. He didn’t show up for work this morning. No one has heard from him.”

“Did he say anything else?” I let my face go slack, distant.

“Just that I should run. That we all should. And that you shouldn’t go looking for them. Or him.”

6

HELLENA

“Again!”

“Hng, fuck, Gavin!” I grit through my teeth.

I flow through the series of punches for the hundredth time.

If I wasn’t gasping for breath, I’d have time to think about how similar this feels, the deja vu of training with Evan. Except Gavin is an even more ruthless teacher.

My elbow flares out to the right. I already know I screwed up the hit before he even tells me.

“Lena, watch your form. You have to drive through the hips through the shoulder. Stay tight, no sloppy flailing.”

“Or my punches won’t pack a… PUNCH!” I hit the pad in his hand hard, knocking it back.

“Damn right! Again!”

“Yes, sir,” I salute mockingly, resuming my stance.

I'm drenched in sweat, a combination of exercise and my body’s protest of activity after being injured and laid out for a week. Three days up, and I already feel worlds better, stronger.

But my body went through trauma and I am still healing. Even so, I need to move. Need to do something.

I swing and almost miss, growling in frustration.

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