out of the house, it was a good time to have a look at his search history without starting another war.
She tapped the touch pad and the screen lit up.
Facebook. Dandy. He wasn’t old enough to have an account. But when had she been able to stop Derrick from doing something he wanted to do?
She stared at the selfies of the handsome young boy with the sullen mouth and that blasted black hoodie pulled low over his eyes.
With a tap, she refreshed the screen and scrolled, checking out his friends and messages.
The more she read, the colder she got. One “friend” flashed gang signs and puffed on something that looked suspiciously like a marijuana joint. One urged him to hitch his way back to Houston. Another bragged about a “piece” he’d stolen from his old man.
A piece? As in a gun?
“Oh no. Not guns and drugs.” She’d thought the shoplifting episode was scary. “He’s not even twelve!”
But the young and angry, she knew from her clinic experience in the inner city, were prime targets for gangs and trouble. Derrick was both.
Holding her stomach, she closed the laptop and left the room, reeling. What if he’d read the messages and run away? Houston was miles and miles from Gabriel’s Crossing.
Frightened now, Gena grabbed her keys and loped for the Xterra, praying he was at Quinn’s place with the kittens. Even there was better than on the road to Houston.
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