Punk 57

I can try to convince myself that I know this house, having been here before, and I can get him through it and try to find what he needs a lot faster than he can. But the truth is, I want to know what he’s looking for and why. So far he’s been like a ghost, and I’m curious.

Crouching down, I push my hand through the doggy door, listening for feet to come running or a bark. But all I hear is leaves rustling in the wind.

Mason comes up behind me, and I stick my head through, seeing only the inside of the pitch-black garage. Sliding my arm in, I turn on my side, maneuver my shoulders through the tight space, and put my hands down on the cold cement floor, wiggling my body through the small hole.

I inhale the musty air and make out the little, green dot of light by the kitchen door, guessing that must be the opener.

Stepping cautiously in the dark, I hold out my hands and move toward the door, trying to avoid the pool table, couch, and other furnishings I know are in the converted man-cave.

“Don’t turn on any lights,” Masen calls.

“Duh.” My foot hits the step, and I reach out my hand, pressing the button for the opener. The motor starts turning, and the garage door begins to lift up. Masen bends down and slides in under the door, and I press the button, lowering it again.

I twist the handle to the kitchen door and open it, immediately seeing moonlight streaming through a large kitchen window. Masen comes in behind me, closing the door, and I inhale, smelling Trey. It’s funny how people smell like their houses. Or vice versa.

Combinations of leather and wood furniture, Febreeze, laundry soap, the different colognes and perfumes your parents and siblings use, the food your family cooks…all coming together to create a single, solitary scent in your house.

Except Masen. He smells like the leather from his truck with a hint of soap. That’s it.

“Let’s go.”

He leads me through the house, looking around as if figuring out where to go, which I could tell him if I knew what he was looking for. But rounding the stairs, he jogs up, and I follow.

“Are you going to Trey’s room?” I ask.

“If so, I’ll find it,” he bites out. “I don?

??t need to know that you know where it is.”

I smile to myself. “I don’t. I was just asking.”

He opens a door, and I peer into the darkness, seeing pink walls and toy hot air balloons hanging from the ceiling.

It must be Emma’s room. Trey’s half-sister. I know Principal Burrowes married Trey’s dad when Trey was about four. Even though he calls her Gillian and doesn’t treat her like a mom, she practically raised him and then gave birth to a daughter several years younger than Trey.

I look at Masen, wondering why he’s not closing the door. What he needs can’t possibly be in here. Emma is only like six. She didn’t steal anything from him.

But he just stands there, letting his eyes drift around the room. His chest moves with his shallow breaths.

“Masen?” I prompt.

But he doesn’t answer.

I touch his arm. “Masen?” I say louder. “What are we looking for? I want to get out of here.”

He blinks, turning away, almost like he’s angry. “Alright, come on.”

He leaves the room, and I shut the door again, catching a flash of movement. The shadows of the leaves outside the hall window dance over the carpet, and my heart skips a beat.

Walking to the next door, Masen strolls in and stops for just a moment, looking around. Heading for the armoire, he pulls open a drawer and takes out a small flashlight from his pocket. He clicks on the small light and starts inspecting the jewelry case.

“You can’t be serious?” I bark in a whisper, stepping up to him. “Did the principal steal your favorite string of pearls?”

“It’s a long story, babe.” He pulls open drawer after drawer, quickly scanning the contents and shuffling items around, searching for what? I don’t know.

“And I’m fascinated,” I retort. “But if you steal anything, I’ll make you bleed.”

“Hold this.” He shoves the flashlight at me. “I won’t take anything that’s not already mine.”