The Taking (The Taking 1)

By 10:36 Tyler had texted me no less than eight times, saying nothing in particular but revealing so much with his absurd messages.

Planning to sleep tonight, or should I be worried that you’re some sort of creature of the night, like a vampire or bat?

I meant bat like the animal. Not of the baseball variety.

Did you get my last text? Am I bothering you?

I can bring you another book if you need one.

And my favorite, but mostly because it was so lame: I’ll be dreaming of you.

I’d responded with a lot of yeses, got its, nos, and thanks but no thankses. But I’d learned three very interesting things from his attempt to text the pants off me.

He’d been keeping track of my sleeping habits, which could either be viewed as disturbing or sweet.

His flirting skills sucked.

He’d definitely gotten under my skin.

When half an hour had passed since his last message and I was sure we were done for the night, I set the phone aside and left my room in search of leftovers. As usual, the house was quiet at this hour; and just like every night since I’d been back, my mom had left a plate for me, another of my old faves: meat loaf.

And just like each night the food tasted . . . not quite right. I picked at it for a few minutes, choked down a few bites, and ultimately tossed the rest. I threw it down the garbage disposal so my mom wouldn’t notice that I couldn’t seem to stomach her cooking anymore.

As I stood in front of the sink, I peeled the curtains apart and peered outside. I didn’t really expect to see Agent Truman and his cop-mobile out there, but I couldn’t rule it out either. Not after he’d shown up at the softball field the way he had.

He had definitely gotten under my skin, and not in a good way.

On my way back to my room, I paused in the hallway. The faint glow of a night-light spilled out from the open door to “my brother’s” room. I took a wary step forward, curious about this kid who was supposed to mean something to me.

His room was the exact opposite of what it had been the last time I’d been in there, when it had been filled with IKEA office furniture, and filing cabinets stuffed with my mom’s work files, and bookshelves jam-packed with my trophies and team pictures. I wasn’t sure where any of those things were now, but it seemed likely they’d been banished to the same place my personal belongings had gone. That, or thrown away. Remnants from another life.

Now it was a nursery, complete with crib and rocking chair and colorful letters on the wall that spelled out LOGAN. Even the smell was different, somewhere between sweet and too-sweet, like a noxious combination of floral air fresheners and baby powder. Since I’d seen the kid wearing diapers—something that made me further question his development, because shouldn’t a two-year-old be using the toilet by now?—I guessed that the air fresheners were meant to cover up the gross stink that went along with pooping in your pants.

I approached the crib as quietly as I could manage, not wanting to wake the kid.

As much as I hated to admit it, he was cuter, or rather less annoying, asleep than he was awake. He sucked his thumb, I noted, unable to stop myself from judging him even when no one was around.

But since no one could hear my inner thoughts, I supposed it was safe to confess there were good things about him too. That his skin was so smooth and unblemished, and his lashes so thick, that any girl in her right mind would envy him. And his expression was so peaceful and relaxed, and he slept so soundly, that I envied him. He had soft curls that peeked around from behind his neck, and my first thought was that I wanted to pet him. To run my fingers through those downy, feather-like curls and to pinch his plump cheeks.

I was such a cliché. I couldn’t afford to watch him for another minute or pretty soon I’d be carrying snapshots of him in my wallet and asking total strangers if I could see pictures of their kids. That’s what grown-ups did. They pretended to be interested in the photos of other people’s kids just so they’d have an excuse to show off their own.

I knew, because my dad had been a master at that game. He once even had giant buttons of my fourth-grade picture made, and he wore his everywhere he went. I found my mom’s in her glove box the day she explained that she didn’t need to wear my face on display to carry me in her heart.

I wondered if Logan had taken up my share of that heart.

“We’re all trying, you know?” The hushed voice startled me, and I spun around to find The Husband—Grant—leaning casually against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He had on a plain white tee and flannel pajama bottoms. “Your mom most of all.”

I shrugged, not wanting to have this conversation. Not here, not with him. Maybe not ever.

I tried to brush past him, but his hand caught my arm. He wasn’t rough, just firm. “Kyra. We all get how hard this must be for you. Everything’s different now, but it wasn’t like we did it on purpose. Things just . . . changed. We want you to be part of our family.”

I closed my eyes. I knew he was trying to help, but his words—the way he said we and our, like I was just supposed to accept him and his son because that was the way things were now—made me want to puke.

“I’m trying too,” I said, and jerked my arm out of his grip.

When I reached my room, I closed my door and leaned against it to bar myself inside.

When was this going to get easier? When would I feel like I belonged somewhere, that I was part of a home or a family, or that someone really understood the person I was now?