Free Hexed by Michelle Krys

go on: Leather Jacket Guy. He knows something, if he didn’t actually take the book himself. All I have to do is find him.
    “I’m going to get the Bible back, Mom. I promise.”

9

    S o, slight problem with that plan: I have absolutely no clue where to start.
    There are over three million people in Los Angeles. The Staples Center seats twenty thousand; Dodger Stadium holds fifty-six thousand. Finding someone in L.A., especially if they don’t want to be found, is like finding a needle in a haystack. Or, as Mom would say, like bailing out a battleship with a bucket.
    But I’ve promised Mom, and I’m almost certain that, if I weren’t planning to sneak out just as soon as she falls asleep, she’d be in support of my plan. In support of anything that means finding the Bible.
    I set Mom up with a live stream of Fringe, Season Four—so confusing it’s sure to lull her to sleep.
    “You have everything you need? A refill on the tea, maybe?” I hike my thumb toward the kitchen.
    “I’m not an invalid, Indie.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You need to rest.” I take her half-empty cup to the kitchen.
    “Just, maybe one more thing?” she calls to my back. And the way she says it—guiltily—lets me know she wants her cigarettes.
    “Seriously?” I answer. But I’m already going to the freezer.
    “Thanks, doll! I’ll quit just as soon as I’m feeling better.”
    “Yeah, yeah.” A blast of cold air hits my face as I open the freezer. I grab a pack of cigarettes from the carton and pad back to the living room. “Virginia Slims? What happened to the Marlboros?”
    Mom’s brows draw together. “Marlboros? What are you talking about?”
    I remember the Marlboro butts in the shop’s attic, and my spine tingles.
    “What, honey?”
    “Oh, nothing.”
    Two cups of tea and three cigarettes later, and Mom’s sawing logs.
    So now I’m sitting in the front seat of the Sunfire, the engine vibrating beneath me, gripping the steering wheel as I stare at our house in the headlights.
    Hours pass. Or maybe minutes.
    I could trawl the area around the shop and look for Leather Jacket Guy, talk to some people, maybe see if anyone saw him or which direction he went. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s a pretty solid plan, the only real plan I can see. So why can’t I move?
    It definitely isn’t because I’m scared. Nope. Not possible. I’m not afraid of the dark, and it isn’t like hundreds of hoboes will jump on the hood of my car if I dare slip below fifty on Melrose at night—probably. I can handle this by myself.
    But just for fun, I run through the options of friends I can enlist for help.
    Bianca?
    I bark a laugh. That’s a good joke. “Hey, Bianca, can you please leave this fun party to help me find my mom’s witchcraft Bible?” Yeah. Not likely.
    There’s Devon. …
    I remember his helpfulness tonight and groan, sinking my fingers deep into my hair. Nope, Devon is out too. None of my friends can help me. Not unless the emergency is of the fashion or hair variety.
    For some weird reason, Paige flashes into my head.
    Paige is a nice girl, if annoying, and she comes with the bonus that she’s not the gossiping type. Plus I bet she’s the only person in L.A. without plans on a Friday night. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a fantastic idea. Sure, some people might say I’m “using” her, but those people just don’t have the complex understanding of human behavior that I do.
    I exit the car, and with a handful of pebbles collected from the edge of the driveway, scamper through the narrow space between our houses until I stare up at Paige’s bedroom window. It’s higher than I expected, and my first throw misses by a wide margin. But on my second attempt, I hear the rock tink against the glass. I throw a second pebble, and then a third, for good measure.
    Then I wait, wringing my hands as I pace in the tall grass. What could be taking her so long? Is she trying to prove a