Page 67 of Fall onto me

* * *

Foster is goingto get help from Wes, who already knows the depths of our situation. I’m on my way to Grace’s house.

I wish I could confide in her, but I can’t risk something happening. She may even be able to see something we’re not, but there’s no way in hell, I’m bringing her into this.

But I won’t risk it.

I’m too focused on saving Foster to see past anything.

* * *

I sitdown on the couch, across from the long wooden table that sits flush against the living room wall. I don’t want to lie to her, to steal from someone I admire, but I have to do this.

Grace has been a constant in my life since I left home. My dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps, become an accountant. How fitting is it that Grace, who was supposed to be my teacher, supported my decision to change majors.

I grab my stomach, but it doesn’t take much effort to convince her since I already feel queasy from lying. “I’m so hungry.”

“Oh!” she exclaims. “I have some pasta left over from last night. Want me to heat you some up?”

“I’d love that, thank you!”

She disappears into the kitchen, but it isn’t far.

I slip off my flip flops and sneak across the floor. The hardwoods are original and with every step they heave and crack from a century of use. I curl my fingers around the wood of the table, and as I lift, it wails.

“So!” I pronounce, trying to cover the sound. “I really loved this season’s performance theme.” It’s not a lie, I adored it, but it is a distraction.

I hope my talk doesn’t make her peek around to chat, but she’s at the microwave. I hear her opening it, the beep of the buttons as she presses them. “Me too! I had a wonderful time!” she sighs. “And I know it’s hard for those who don’t have someone to dance with, but that was the point, finding your own family.”

I nod even though she can’t see me. With a quick movement, I pull the papers out and set them on the side. “I agree.”

I shuffle through the stack, finding blueprints for buildings that have long been torn down. These are old, but it makes sense considering how long ago Grace’s grandfather was a builder.

The microwave dings when I’m halfway through my search. “Yes!” I whisper in triumph, landing on the blueprint for Port Miami.

It’s ten pages of prints, stuck together by a paperclip. The harbor is a long, narrow stretch of property, but what I’m looking for is the one at the far end. It’s tucked away, the perfect spot for being exactly what it is, a hub for criminals. Far from wandering eyes.

“Just a few more minutes. I’m cutting up some veggies!” Perfect.

It’s the seventh page, labeled Harbor C8. I quickly fold the long piece of paper up and shove it into my pocket.

“What are you doing tonight?” Grace asks in a distant voice from the kitchen.

I gather the papers in my hand and tap them against the top. Once they’re all together, I carefully set them inside, but something catches my eye. “I …”

A stutter escapes me as I attempt to form a sentence that never comes.

I pick up the old photograph that was tucked underneath the blueprints with quick fingers, scared it’s going to burn me.

I look at the picture in my hands, and it goes as follows.

Grace is on the left, holding the hand of a beaming little girl who looks much too like me. Blonde ringlets frame a smiling face. It’s like a blast from the past, down to the same bunny I had as a child, but this photo isn’t of me.

It was taken in this very house, near the back door.

A loud thud rumbles behind me, I turn to find Grace with a plate of spaghetti at her feet. “Skyler.” She breathes a shaky, uncontrolled breath.

I hold up the photograph. “The C isn’t for your brother, Colton,” I hiss.

---