The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

Just saw H. Doesn’t look good.

Miller’s reply was almost instant. What do we do?

I had no clue, hating how fucking hopeless I felt.

But doing nothing wasn’t an option.

On the last Wednesday of school, I hunted the quad for River Whitmore. I found Frankie Dowd first. Or he found me.

He stepped in front of my path—at a safe distance—looking like shit. Unwashed, stained clothes, eyes red rimmed, like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You happy, fucker? My dad lost his job thanks to you. He’s going to jail thanks to you.”

I crossed my arms. “Good.”

“Good?” Frankie cried, drawing looks from students passing by, most with yearbooks tucked under their arms. “They gave him a year. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Not my problem,” I said.

A year wasn’t forever but it was long enough. I pushed past Frankie.

“We’re not done with you yet,” he screeched after me. “You hear me, Wentz? You’ll pay. In the way that hurts you the most.”

I spun around and gripped Frankie by the front of his dirty T-shirt. We had onlookers now. A ring of students, some with cell phones out.

“I’m done fucking with you, Dowd,” I said, my gaze boring into Frankie’s pale blue eyes. “You come near me or anyone I care about, and I will fuck your shit up. You get me?” He nodded frantically, his eyes wide. I let him go with a shove. “Now fuck off. You stink.”

He stumbled and slunk away, muttering to himself, and I spied Whitmore walking with Violet across the quad. His left arm was in a sling and he had a bandage on his temple but otherwise looked okay. I strode to them, leaving a trail of whispers behind me.

“Hey,” I said to Violet. “I need to talk to Whitmore. Alone.”

“Sure.” She pecked his cheek. “See you soon, River. And tell your mom I’m thinking of her. Always.”

“I will,” he said. She left and he jerked his chin at me. “What’s happening?”

“It’s Holden.”

“I figured. What about him? Is he okay?”

“He’s a mess. He’d already be in Paris or fucking who-knows-where except he’s waiting on some cash. Then he’s gone.”

Whitmore’s jaw clenched, his eyes flooding with pain. “Just like that? No saying goodbye?”

“He told me he said goodbye to you at the hospital.”

“That doesn’t fucking count.”

I agreed. “Look. I know him. He needs…help. Or I don’t know what. He needs you.”

Whitmore nodded. “I need him too. Just as much.”

“Show him.”

“How? He won’t talk to me. He won’t answer my calls, and my mom is sick. I can’t be camping out on his goddamn porch for hours…” He cursed with frustration. “I want to do whatever he needs but…fuck. My life’s about to have a bomb dropped on it.”

I knew how he felt. Losing a mother was like a bomb dropping, blasting the life you knew to little pieces.

“There’s a parking lot near the Cliffs,” I said. “Not much to it. A utility shed at the west end. Go there today. Four o’clock. And keep out of sight.”