anything out, we’ll be sure to call you.”
“Sir, you don’t seem to realize—”
“I realize just fine, officers,” Dad said, his polite smile never wavering. “But Ethan has already given you his answer. Thank you for stopping by.”
They looked irritated, but Dad wasn’t a small man and had this stance that could be compared to a friendly but stubborn bull; you weren’t going to get him to move once he’d made up his mind. After a lengthy pause—as if hoping I would fess up at the last second, perhaps—the officers gave curt nods and turned away. Muttering polite “ma’ams” to Mom, they swept by her, and she followed them, I assumed to the front door.
Dad waited a few seconds after the back door clicked shut before turning to me. “Todd Wyndham is the boy who came over the other night. Anything you’d like to tell me, son?”
I shook my head, not looking at him. “No,” I muttered, feeling bad for lying, especially after he’d just gotten rid of the policemen for me. “I swear I don’t know anything.”
“Hmm.” Dad gave me an unreadable look, then shuffled back into the house. But Mom appeared in the doorway again, watching me. I saw the fear on her face, the disappointment. She knew I was lying.
She hesitated a moment longer, as if waiting for me to confess, to tell her something different. But what could I say? That the kid who’d spent the night with us was part faery, and this creepy new breed of fey were after him for some reason? I couldn’t drag her into this; she would flip out for sure, thinking I was next. There was nothing either of them could do to help. So, I averted my gaze, and after a long, achingly uncomfortable pause, she slipped inside, slamming the door behind her.
I winced. Great, now they were both pissed at me. Sighing, I switched my rattan sticks to one hand and went in myself. I wished I could smack the tire dummy a while longer, but keeping a low profile seemed like a good idea now. The last thing I wanted was a grilling session where they would both ask questions I couldn’t answer.
Mom and Dad were talking in the kitchen—probably about me—so I slipped into my room and gently closed the door.
My phone sat on the corner of my desk. For a second, I thought about calling Kenzie. I wondered what she was doing now, if the police had shown up on her doorstep, asking about a missing classmate. I wondered if she was worried about him … or me.
What? Why would she worry about you, you psychopath? You’ve been nothing but a jackass to her, and besides, you don’t care, remember?
Angry now, I stalked to my bed and flopped down on it, flinging an arm over my face. I had to stop thinking of her, but my brain wasn’t being cooperative this morning. Instead of focusing on the demonstration and the missing half-breed and the creepy Fey out to get us both, my thoughts kept going back to Kenzie St. James. The idea of calling her, just to see if she was all right, grew more and more tempting, until I jumped up and stalked to the living room, flipping on the television to drown out my traitorous thoughts.
The day passed in a blur of old action movies and commercials. I didn’t move from the couch, afraid that if I went into my room, I’d see my unblinking phone and know Kenzie hadn’t called me. Or worse, that she had
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