Page 33 of Close Your Eyes and Count to 10

Blake had clung to Violet, his arms around her waist. “Who is she? Why does she hate us?”

She hadn’t known how to answer.

Violet grabbed the bat before stepping into the hallway. Blake’s door down the hall was ajar, the faint blue light of his various electronics glowing. She moved down the stairs, careful not to step on the one that creaked, gripping the gritty, taped handle of the bat.

She’d never said so to her mother, but there were things she liked about this house better, even though it was small, not grand with high ceilings and big glittering chandeliers. There was no pool or game-slash-music room with a pool table and Dad’s drum kit, no giant U-shaped sofa in front of the home-theater-sized television. Her room was not even half as big. But in that house with its endless hallways and poured-concrete floors, her parents had seemed so far. Their bedroom suite on another level from Blake’s and Violet’s rooms. Here, they were close to each other. In the night, she could hear her mother talking on the phone or punching the bag in the garage. Blake and all his annoying noises—his allergic sniffles, his unexplainable grunts and groans, the creaking of his gaming chair. She liked knowing where everyone was, what they were doing. There couldn’t be any secrets this way, right? Her mother couldn’t be one thing and then suddenly be something else.

Violet stepped into the open-plan kitchen, eyes sweeping the space. Her mom’s whiteboard calendar with all their various activities color-coded—purple for Violet, red for Blake, green for Adele—hung next to the refrigerator. Violet kept everything clean, just like her mom did. No dishes in the sink, every surface wiped to a shine.The coffeepot was set to brew at six o’clock—not that either of them drank coffee, but Violet liked the smell.

She walked through the cozy living room, everything plush with big pillows, photos and Violet’s and Blake’s framed artwork. In the old house, everything had been digital: pictures on the screen saver of the television, on frames that changed every few minutes.

She peered out the door to their fenced-in backyard. Just the table and chairs, the grill.

It wasn’t until she walked down the short hallway to the front door that she knew something was wrong. The alarm pad that glowed red when it was armed was green. The front door was ajar. She froze, lifted the bat. Her throat went a little dry, her shoulders hiked.

Call the police.That was the first thought.

Andbefore, she wouldn’t have thought twice. Of course when there’s trouble you call the cops. Because they were the good guys, and their job was to protect you. But that wasbefore. There was a certain look that people gotafter—the police, the FBI, people who used to work for her father. It was the stern, hard look of disapproval, of judgment. And it was a kind of violence, a look that made Violet shut down, want to run away and hide. Because that look, it was a closed door. It was the look of people who wanted to hurt, not help. Like Agent Coben, who pretended to be nice but really just wanted to arrest her father, could take her mother away, too, if he wanted to.

One thing she knew for sure since her dad disappeared: Violet, Blake, and Adele were on their own.

She steeled herself.Be brave, be wild.That’s what her mother told her when Violet was worried or afraid. Violet crept toward the door, mind racing. If the alarm had been disarmed, someone knew the code. If the door was ajar, was there someone in the house? She gripped the bat so hard that her knuckles ached, the tape abrading the skin on her palm.Outside the door, a shuffling sound. Was that the sound of an engine?

The door opened slowly.

She ran toward it, bat high, issuing a warrior yell, which she hoped would scare whoever it was and wake her brother. A lumbering figure filled the door.

“Violet!”

She swung the bat and missed, went whipping around with the force of her own thrust, the bat flying into the kitchen, crashing against the kitchen island. There was a shout, hands on her.

“You could have killed me. Are you crazy?”

She stared, the face before her coming into focus.

“Oh, my god!” yelled Violet. “Blake, what are you doing?”

The sound of an engine had her running past him, just in time to see a pair of taillights disappearing up the drive.

She turned back to her brother. “Who was that?”

“No one,” said Blake, picking up the bat. “None of your business.”

“It’s definitely my business,” she said. “Did you sneak out? Where did you go?”

“You,” he said, picking up the bat from where it had fallen, “are not Mom. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Blake held up the bat, gave her a look, and then stuck it in the closet. “Why would you be walking around with that thing?”

She grappled with the situation. Who was that? Where did Blake go? He didn’t have a single friend except all the other gamer dorks onRed World, and most of them he’d never met in real life.

“Fine,” she said, her heart rate slowing, hands still shaking. “I’ll tell Mom that you snuck out.”

“You won’t.” Blake moved into the kitchen. “Because if you do, she’ll come home. She’ll lose the game. And then we’ll be in worse shape than we are now.”

She stared at him. His face was blank, unreadable. Adrenaline abandoned her, leaving her vaguely nauseated. He was right. She wouldn’t tell Mom.

“Just tell me.” She sounded dangerously close to begging.

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