Free Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill Page A

office crasher says. “I owe you big.”
    My head starts to throb. I put up a hand for him to stop. “Listen, don’t steal anything,” I warn. “And don’t drink my beer. You need at least one person on your side. We clear?”
    â€œCrystal.”
    â€œI’ve got thirty minutes to get to my nephew’s soccer game.” I scramble to find my keys. “And I need some caffeine.”

CHAPTER 14
    JACK
    TUESDAY, MARCH 30
    My dad stayed away for two nights. So when the garage door opens this morning, and I hear him come back in, I think it’s all over. I actually smile. My stomach quits hurting. Things will go back to normal. It was just a bad dream.
    Dad walks in with the workmen, who carry hammers, saws, and steaming cups of coffee in small, white Styrofoam cups. Downstairs, everything smells of wood shavings. Yesterday the piles were so thick in places I could leave an entire golden footprint.
    I creep out of my room and peer over the edge of the railing, careful to keep out of sight.
    The foyer is cluttered with hammers and saws, the metal teeth sharp and gleaming in the sunlight coming in through the front windows. White drop cloths cover parts of the floor like fallen parachutes. Dad’s in the center of the room, dressed in his dark suit and tie. The man he’s talking to is short and wiry, his muscles tight and tattooed with blue ink.
    My dad hands the man an envelope, shakes hands with him and nods, murmuring something I can’t quite make out. As he turns to round the stairs, I scurry back to my room like a badger down a hole. I crawl into bed and pull up the covers just as my father walks past.
    When the coast is clear and the bedroom door closes behind him, I sit up and fix an ear to the smooth wall. My stomach gurgles, nervous. I’m craving biscuits and gravy to fill the empty space. Below us, boots clomp and echo. Toolboxes squeak open on their hinges, and there’s the sharp sound of a measuring tape snapping back in place.
    I close my eyes, trying to listen for Dad and Ava. After a moment, the arguing starts again. I peel away from the wall, nauseous.
    Stumbling from my room, I press my hands over both ears and make my way to the end of the hall. There’s a set of narrow steps there, leading down to the kitchen. The original owners built it for servants in the late 1800s.
    My socks slip on the bare wood, but I manage not to fall, even though my legs are rubbery and weak. I go straight to the hall closet under the steps and shimmy between the brooms and dustpans. When I pull the door shut, the dark air falls around my shoulders. Since I can’t leave my brother, or catch a plane to Canada, it’s the safest place to get quiet and think.
    Hey, it worked for Harry Potter. Deep in the dungeon-house of Number Four Privet Drive, Harry is forced to live with his awful relatives—the evil, fat Dursley family. Harry’s an orphan, treated worse than a stray cat with mange. There’s little food, lots of chores, and long punishments. His bedroom, and only escape, is the tiny cupboard under the stairs.
    I close my eyes and concentrate. On Hogwarts. And magic. Shifting staircases and wands. I’m in there a long time, until my breath feels hot and sticky in the space. Then footsteps cross the kitchen floor. I nearly leap out of my skin when the hallway door flies open.
    â€œJack, are you in there?” The glare from the light blocks my dad’s face. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
    It’s probably a good thing he found me. It’s stuffy in here. Terrible monster-starvation sounds growl from my belly. And I can’t feel my right leg.
    His hand reaches in and helps pull me out by one arm. I limp to the sofa and collapse on the mountain of thick pillows, sinking my cheek into the one on top.
    â€œJack.”
    I lift my head an inch or two. “Sir?”
    â€œAva and I are having some issues. I’m