Maybe three, if you counted Pescoli.
*
*
*
382
Lisa Jackson
Jeremy felt like hell. He’d crashed on Tyler’s mom’s lumpy couch after taking off from the jail. Now his back felt like he’d been sleeping on a bowling ball. He sighed and got himself into a sitting position. It was still better than the drunk tank. What a bad trip that had been, with the old guy yabbering on and on about aliens and old women and Yetis . . . and still no word on Mom.
If he could think of anything to do to help find her, he’d do it. But what could he do? Who could he call?
His cell phone was vibrating in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, annoyed, and saw that Bianca had called him about a jillion times. And then there were her texts:
Where R U?
Come get me!
Call me!!!
I h8 it here!
Where’s Mom?
Every text with a damned exclamation point, as if she were wired. Or on something. Though as far as he knew, she was straight. Just a pain in the butt. Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he got to his feet, used the bathroom, then splashed water over his face to wake himself up. He poked his head into Tyler’s room where Tyler was facedown on the bed in his clothes, his face buried in a pillow. He looked half dead, but then made a loud, smacking noise with his mouth as he shifted position.
Tyler’s mom was still sleeping, too. Jeremy could hear the sound of snoring through the closed door to her room. She was sawing some serious logs. He grabbed his keys, cell phone, and wallet, then
CHOSEN TO DIE
383
walked out of the second-floor apartment, down the stairs to the parking lot. It was snowing like crazy and there had to be four inches piled up on the hood of his truck. He started to put on his gloves, but only had one. Searching his pockets, he didn’t find the other, so he headed inside again, searched the couch, and couldn’t find it.
Great.
Outside again, he nearly slipped on the stairs, then walked through the snow to his truck. Man, was he sick of the stuff.
When he moved out of the house, he figured he’d head to California, where there was hot sun and hotter chicks. He’d learn to surf and maybe work in a surf shop on the beach, or in a computer store, or something. He’d do anything, if he could just get out of this cold.
But first Mom had to come home. Had to. It just couldn’t be any other way.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Heidi.
“Yeah?” he said, as he reached his truck and began batting the snow from its windshield with his one glove.
“What’s up?”
“Not Tyler.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“My dad said you were in the drunk tank.”