Page 38 of The Missing Half

Chapter Thirty-seven

I stride to the open doorway of Jenna’s bedroom and shoot a frantic glance around for the nearest way to get out. I don’t know what to do about the gun or what I assume to be Jenna’s plan or any of what I have just discovered. All I know is that she can’t find me here, having broken into her house, snooping in her room. I can’t leave through the front door—she’ll be walking in in a matter of seconds. There’s the back door in the kitchen, but it’s across the house, which risks her spotting me. The only other plausible exit is the window in her bedroom.

Outside, I hear her truck door open, and I make a split-second decision.

I close the bedroom door, spin around, and dart across the room, the carpeted floor creaking loudly beneath my feet. When I make it to the window, I realize that there’s a screen on the other side. My mind screams at me in frustration. How could I have forgotten about fucking screens?

I grab the bottom of the window and yank, but it’s locked, so I have to fumble with the latch on top. As I do, I hear the deadbolt of the front door turn. I finally manage to tug open the window, then push my palms against the screen. It pops out of the frame with a clatter and falls to the ground below. In the house behind me, I hear the front door open. As quietly as I can, I clamber through the window and land in a heap on the ground, the hammer in my backpack knocking hard against my spine. Scrambling to my feet, I yank the window down, then go to replace the screen. But my hands are too jittery, and I drop it just as Jenna’s bedroom door swings open.

I whirl away from the window, pressing my back against the wall, chest heaving. Please don’t have heard me, I think furiously. Please don’t notice the screen. I wait for the moment when Jenna spots it, then flings open her window and sees me.

But it doesn’t come.

I hear her bustling around her room, her movements casual and routine.

I don’t wait to catch my breath. She may not have seen me yet, but with every passing second, the likelihood that she will goes up.

I’m on the opposite side of her property now, far from the gate where I came in, and it feels too risky to retrace my steps. Instead, I stride to the right side of the house. When I turn the corner, I see another window. It has to be the one in Jules’s old room, but to be safe, I crouch to my hands and knees and crawl beneath it.

When I stand up, my mind shouts again in panicked aggravation—there’s no gate in this part of the fence, just an HVAC unit tucked between it and the house. My only option to scale the fence is to climb on top and launch myself over. As quietly as possible, I heave myself onto the hunk of metal, then grab the top of the fence. The edge is ridged and digs painfully into my palms as I bring one foot up. Using the side of the house for balance, I lift my other foot and realize suddenly how high up I am. It will hurt when I hit the ground.

I take a deep breath, then jump, landing hard on my hands and feet. When I lift my palms, I see blood beading through the dirt that now covers them. Quickly, I stand and dart in the direction of my bike, but I only make it to the edge of the driveway before I hear the front door open.

Why is Jenna coming back out? Did she hear me?

There’s no time to run, so I crouch behind the bed of the truck, listening as her footsteps get closer. After a moment, the truck door opens, and I hear a muffled sound as Jenna tosses something onto the seat. This is it. The second she reverses out of the driveway, she’ll see me. I look around for somewhere to hide—there’s nowhere.

But the engine doesn’t turn on.

Instead, I hear her footsteps retreat.

My body slackens with relief, and I straighten, which is when I notice the mound of tarp in the back of Jenna’s truck. I’ve never seen it there before, and it sends a bad feeling through me. I turn to peer through the truck window and spot an overnight bag on the seat. It’s zipped halfway, as if Jenna packed it in a hurry. Inside is a tangle of clothes, a pair of tennis shoes, and the corner of the blue plastic box.

So that’s why Jenna’s taking a half day—she’s planning on doing it right now. She’s going to McLean’s and she’s going to kill him.

I stand frozen with what feels like indecision, but deep down, I already know what I’m going to do. At minimum, McLean has fifty pounds on Jenna. A gun won’t be able to guarantee her safety. I can’t let her go to his place alone. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if she got hurt all because I was too scared to intervene. And after everything she did to shelter me from her plan, she’s not just going to let me come along—especially not after I broke into her house.

I don’t let myself give it another thought. I step up onto the back wheel and hurdle over the side into the hard flat bed. Crouching down, I grab the edge of the tarp and throw it over my head, and suddenly I’m awash in hot, plastic-smelling air. The front door of Jenna’s house opens again, and I listen to her footsteps approach. She slides into the truck and slams the door behind her.

And then the engine is kicking on, and it’s too late to wonder where McLean lives or how long it will take to get there. Too late to wonder what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into.