Free Trouble In Spades by Heather Webber Page A

to put on. Maybe a helmet too.
    "It's just not like him," she said as though our conversation hadn't been halted by two tons of delivery truck.
    "I'm sure he's fine," I lied. I wasn't sure at all. Everything about his disappearance didn't make sense. Nate was habitual. Shredded wheat for breakfast. Light lunch at his desk. Home by seven o'clock. "We'll nose around today and see what we can find out."
    She looked over at me. "Do you think Claire will talk to us?"
    "Please, Maria, keep your eyes on the road. I don't know if she will, but just promise me you'll be on your best behavior."
    Her mouth thinned and dipped into a frown. "We'll see," she said as she hurtled into my driveway and slammed on the brakes. "We'll just see."

    Inside, I hurried to change. I scribbled a note to Riley that I might be late, and I was wrestling my Keds onto my feet when my cell phone buzzed.
    Could be Kevin, my inner voice crooned.
    Why I would automatically think that, I wasn't sure.
    It couldn't be because I wanted him to call, because I wanted to hear his voice.
    Nope. Not me. Not Nina Colette I'm-so-over-him Ceceri Quinn. The phone buzzed again.
    I hopped toward my backpack and tripped on a shoelace. It could be my mother letting me know about Uncle Giuseppe and Aunt Carlotta's travel plans. I definitely didn't want to pick up the phone to that. Maybe if I pretended I wasn't home, she wouldn't send them here to stay with me. Hadn't my relatives ever heard of Motel 6? The phone buzzed a third time as I rooted around in my backpack. It could be Robert again , my inner voice trilled. Definitely didn't want to answer that. Because if he was calling it was either because Riley was in trouble, or he was calling to talk to about that chemistry between us. I just couldn't deal with that right now.
    Finally, I found the phone and pressed the Talk button before it switched over to voice mail. "Hello?"
    Static echoed across the line.
    "Hello?" I said again. Really, I needed to actually check the caller ID screen before answering the phone. What was I paying Cincinnati Bell all that money for anyway?
    "Don't," a voice said.
    "What?"
    "Don't open it."
    It was a man's voice. He sounded out of breath and spoke quietly, like he didn't want anyone to hear him.
    "Open what? Who is this?"
    "Nina, don't open it."
    A bell of some sort sounded in the background as silence stretched across the line.
    It struck me like a knock to the head who I was talking to. "Nate?"
    "Be careful," he said.
    The phone went dead.

    I had a major case of the heebie-jeebies as I scrolled back through the caller ID readout. Out of Area. *000-000-0000. Damn. Don't open it , he'd said. The package.
    A rock of uncertainty sank to the bottom of my stomach. Nate certainly hadn't sounded like a man on a romantic getaway. He'd sounded . . . scared.
    Ack.
    What do I do now? Should I tell someone about the pack age? Tell Maria about the call? I ixnayed that idea immediately. It would just freak her out. I didn't have any real information at all to tell her. Actually, I didn't even know for one hundred percent certainty that it had been Nate I was talking to.
    Just gut instinct.
    And that voice in my head telling me it was.
    One thing I did know for sure: I wasn't letting that package out of my sight. I double-checked to make sure it was secure in my backpack and pulled open my front door. Ana and Maria had been cornered by Mr. Cabrera on my front porch. They stared at me accusingly.
    "You really need to talk to Brickhouse, Nina," Maria insisted as I closed the door behind me, making sure it was locked. "I have such fond memories of her class." I shot a look at Mr. Cabrera. The tattletale.
    He nodded to me. "Came over to let you know Mrs. Warnicke didn't make it."
    I dropped my backpack. "What!?"
    "Who's Mrs. Warnicke?" Ana asked.
    Maria clutched her chest. "Oh no, not Mrs. Warnicke!"
    I shot her a look. She didn't even know Mrs. Warnicke. Mr. Cabrera, always the flirt, scooted closer