The sound of their front door snapping shut. The sound of her mother leaving.
Her mother leaving. Skye thought of all the times they had picked up in the middle of the night and moved on. She thought of the things they had left behind each time—furniture, her toys, their food, no matter how full the refrigerator or pantry.
Maybe this time her mother had decided to leave without her. Maybe this time she had decided that it would be Skye she left behind.
Skye couldn’t breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—
Her mother always took their clothes. Always. Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother’s underwear, her favorite blouse, the housecoat she had worn so much the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Nothing was missing.
Nothing except her mother.
Skye wandered back to the open couch. She sank onto its edge. As she did, paper crackled. Frowning, she stood and dug under the rumpled bedding and pulled out a section of newspaper.
She flipped on the light to get a better look. It was the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, two days old. She stared at the newspaper, something tugging at her memory. That’s right. Her mother had picked up the paper at the Laundromat the other day. Skye remembered her taking a section of the paper with her when they’d left.
Skye screwed up her face in thought. After that, her mother had begun acting weird. Jumpy and distracted. Short-tempered.
She quickly scanned the page’s headlines: Reagan Sets Foreign Policy; Train Derails Outside City, Four Killed, Dozens Hurt; Jewelry Designer To Host Benefit; Mob Boss Set…To…Testify.
Mob boss. Skye’s legs began to shake, and she sank to the edge of the bed, rereading that last headline again, then the article accompanying it. The article detailed the start of the grand-jury investigation into allegations made against the head of the East Coast’s most notorious crime family.
She had been right. Her mother was on the run from the mob.
Maybe what she had heard hadn’t been the sound of her mother leaving, but the sound of her being taken away.
Taken away.
With a cry of terror, Skye jumped to her feet and ran to the bedroom to dress. She would get Chance. He would know what to do; he would be able to help her. She pulled on her denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, folded the piece of newspaper and stuffed it into her pocket, then raced out into the night.
Skye made it to the trailer he shared with the other guys, and not wanting to wake anyone but Chance, went around to the back side, to the window nearest his bunk.
She grasped the razor-thin ledge and stood on tiptoe. “Chance,” she whispered. “Wake up. It’s me. Skye.”
From inside she heard a rustle of bedclothes and a moan. She waited a couple moments, then tried again. “Chance, wake up. It’s Skye. Wake up, please.”
A minute later his face appeared at the open window. He looked as if he was still asleep. “Kid?” He passed a hand across his face and yawned. “What are you doing out this time of night?”
“I need your help.” She hugged herself hard. “I don’t know what to do!”
“What are you talking about?” He eased up the screen, stuck his head farther out and looked around. “It’s awfully late. Does your mom know you’re ou—”
“She’s gone!” Skye cried. “I woke up…I don’t know why, except I thought I heard a sound. But it was really quiet…and all of a sudden I had this feeling and…and I was really scared.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “So I went to curl up with her, and she was…her bed was…” Skye burst into tears.
“Oh, geez. Don’t cry…” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at her. “Hold on. I’ll be right out.”
A couple minutes later, Chance emerged from the trailer. Skye stumbled toward him. “What am I going to do, Chance? How are we going to find her?”
Chance put an arm around her. “Come on.” He led her away from the trailer, to a grassy spot by a scrubby-looking tree. They sat down, facing each other.
Chance caught her hands and rubbed them. “You’re getting all upset about nothing. She probably went for a walk.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Here you are, and it’s the middle of the night. I bet she couldn’t sleep and decided the night air would help.”
Skye shook her head, wiping roughly at her tears. “But she’s never done that before! I know she hasn’t.”
“How can you be so sure? Maybe every other time you just didn’t wake up.”
Skye caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “At first I thought maybe she’d left me for good. But her clothes are all there. But now I…I think she might have been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” he repeated, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Skye, don’t you think that’s just a little far-fetched?”
“No. Look at this.” She leaned forward and dug the folded newspaper page from her pocket. She held it out. “Here.”
Chance took the paper, unfolded it, then met her eyes. “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”
She reached around him and pointed. “This, about the mob guy.”
Chance read it, then shook his head. “You think this has something to do with your mother?”
Skye nodded, tears welling again. “I found it on the sofa bed. She must have been reading it and now…and now she’s…gone.”
She started to cry again, but softly this time. “What am I going to do, Chance? I don’t have anybody but her.”
He scooted forward, put his arms around her and patted her back. “Look, kid, your mom didn’t run away and the mob hasn’t kidnapped her. She went for a walk. Or to meet a friend.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Skye pressed her face to his chest, the beginnings of one of her headaches pushing at her. “Besides, you don’t understand. I think she’s…that we’re…I think we’re in some sort of trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
Skye rubbed her temples. “I don’t know. She won’t tell me. But we’re…always moving around. We pick up in the middle of the night sometimes and just…go. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
For a moment he was silent, and Skye tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “Chance? You think it’s strange, too, don’t you?”
“What I think doesn’t matter. Ask your mom.”
“I did. She says we’re nomadic adventurers.”
