Page 113 of Stealing Home

“Red, what the hell are you doing?” my dad demands when he sees what she’s holding.

“You guys can ask nicely, but I’m going to make sure that little asshole tells us what we need to know. Also, I’m going to teach him a lesson for messing with my son,” she says while slapping the crowbar into her hand.

“Mom, did anyone ever tell you that you’re scary?”

She nods. “Once or twice.”

“How are we going to find him? There are people everywhere,” I say, a note of hysteria in my voice.

My dad climbs into the bed of the nearest truck, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts, “A hundred bucks to whoever can tell me where to find Campbell Chase!”

Amazing what waving a Franklin around a crowd of starving college students will do to speed things up. The music cuts off, and people scramble in every direction. I’m not even sure everyone who is running around even knows who they’re looking for. In less than two minutes, Max and Will walk over dragging Campbell between them.

My dad goes to take money from his wallet, but Max waves him off. “We’re doing this one for free. In fact, I’ll pay you if I can get some hits in too.”

Campbell turns around to leave and walks straight into Max. Other team members gather ‘round, and he finds himself surrounded. I step up and get in his face. “Earlier you implied I wouldn’t be seeing Harlow after the game. What exactly did you mean?”

He shrugs. “Nothing, I was just trying to get under your skin.”

“Whose truck is this?” my mom asks out of the blue, pointing at a newer model pick-up next to her.

Max and Will each point at Campbell. A wicked smile pulls at my mom’s mouth seconds before she swings the crow bar and busts out one of his taillights. “I was really hoping for that. It’s been a long time since I got to use one of these. Scott’s dad likes to keep them from me, since the last time I had one I killed a guy who was trying to attack me.”

She points her weapon straight at him. “These guys are going to ask you a bunch of questions, lose their patience, then hit you a lot. As a woman who has experienced what I fear Harlow is going through right now, I don’t have any patience to lose. So, I’m going to tell you how this is going to go. You’re going to tell me where she is, or I’m going to hit you with this. I’ll get away with it too, because I’ve got a medical history of PTSD, and my husband is richer than Midas.”

“I’d listen to her. She’s not joking about killing a guy with one of those, she did forget to mention she hospitalized the other guy,” my dad warns him. I might have thought he was exaggerating if I hadn’t grown up hearing these stories from my family and seeing the news reports.

Campbell stands there, slack jawed, watching all of us. He doesn’t seem to believe my mom is the biggest threat in front of him, and keeps eyeballing my dad. She swings the crow bar again and busts out his other brake light.

“I’m running out of inanimate objects to bust. My next swing takes out a knee.”

He throws up his hands. “You know what? I don’t give a shit about any of this, or any of you. Coach Rivera said he was going to pick her up from the game and convince her to take him back. He said if I helped him find a secluded place where they could talk he’d get me back on the mound. I don’t see that working out for me if your psycho mom busts my knee. There’s a cop, Officer Dietrich, he used to play on the team. He let Rivera use his hunting cabin to meet with Harlow. I’ll text you the address.”

“Right now,” my dad insists, while restraining my mom from hitting Campbell for taking too long.

Campbell rolls his eyes and takes his phone out of his back pocket. “Fine. You are all insane.”

My phone dings with a text. I pull it out and look at the information he sent. It occurs to me this information might not be legitimate, but I’ll have to go out there to see for myself. “Max, can you take Campbell somewhere and sit on him until I find Harlow?”

“And if she’s not there?” Max asks.

“Then do whatever you want with him,” I reply.

Max smiles. “Count on it.”

* * *

“You are definitely not gettingyour deposit back for this car,” I say to my dad as he flies down the country roads to the address Campbell sent me. Rocks kick up from the tires, pinging off the formerly pristine paint job.

I’ve got a death grip on the door handle in part due to my dad’s driving, and because I’m afraid I won’t get to Harlow in time. My stomach sinks when we locate the right address and find a car haphazardly parked in front of the house with the trunk agape. The front door to the cabin is also open, and there are two drag marks in the gravel headed toward the woods.

My dad pops the trunk of his rental, and grabs the bat out of my equipment bag. He must have grabbed it from the stadium. He tosses it to me, and we follow the tracks toward the woods. A loud crack sounds from closer to the trees, and I hold my breath.

“Was that a gunshot? Please tell me that wasn’t a gunshot,” I beg my dad.

He puts his hand on my shoulder and holds me from running toward the sound. “We need to call the police. You can’t help her if you get shot too.”

Holding my arms out wide, I spin in a slow circle. “This place belongs to one of the local cops. They’re not going to help us.”

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