Free Winter Break by Merry Jones Page B

shuffled through pens and jump drives. Found his Swiss army knife and rushed back to the third floor, where he listened again outside Rory’s door.
    Hearing nothing, slowly, cautiously, he unlocked the door. Held the flashlight in one hand, the open knife in his other. Pushed the door open with his foot.
    The room stunk like a damned latrine. Evan flashed the light onto the bed. Saw no kid, just his stinking mess. Panned the light across the floor, finally found the kid lying in a heap, all the way across the room. How the fuck had he gotten all the way over there?
    Evan was breathing fast. Damn. He had to go, couldn’t be late. They needed his tenor, couldn’t do the show without him. He flashed the light onto his watch. Shit. Ten minutes. Okay. He needed to calm down, think. He could just leave the kid where he was. Could re-lock the door, pretend he hadn’t heard anything and deal with it later, when he got back. Or better yet, let Sty deal with it in the morning.
    Good plan. But he didn’t leave. He stood there, doing a best-case/worst-case assessment. Best case, nothing would happen and he could wait for Sty. Worst case . . . Jesus. What would the worst case be? The kid could move. Could get to the window and, maybe, yell for help.
    And then Evan had a disturbing thought: What if the kid had already gotten to the window? What if he’d managed to open the curtains and contact someone outside – waving and banging? Had that been what he’d heard?
    Damn. Evan flashed the light on the curtains, walked across the room, peered through the gap between the drapes. Flashing his light outside, he relaxed; the window wasn’t visible to anyone on the street, just to the house next door and its garage. There was a glow from an upstairs window next door, but not much chance that anyone there would have been watching Rory’s window.
    Cool. Turning to leave, Evan stepped over to the kid, flashed the light on his face to see if he was awake. And let out a yelp of surprise as his knees buckled beneath him and he hit the floor, sending his knife and the flashlight flying.
    Leaning on Hank’s pillow, Harper got tired of feeling sorry for herself. She turned on the television, found a marathon of
Psych
reruns and, preparing to settle in, finally went downstairs for ice cream. She took out a giant soup bowl and scooped in a mixture of mint chocolate chip, strawberry and butter almond, which she covered with maple syrup, black olives, whipped cream and wads of super crunchy peanut butter. Decided to wash it down with a tall glass of tomato juice. Took it all upstairs and climbed back into bed to watch the next episode.
    An hour later, she turned off the television and lay in the dark, reassuring herself that Hank, the naked kid and her baby were all fine, reciting her list of worries as a rhythmic mantra. She was dozing, her eyes drifting closed when a beam of light flashed into her room.
    Harper opened her eyes, watched the light move across her wall and disappear. She got up, looked out the window, couldn’t find the source. Nobody was in the driveway or the yard. The street was empty. She looked across at the fraternity, saw it hulking dark and still. Nothing moved. Nobody was there. But the light had come from somewhere. Weird.
    Puzzled, Harper stood at the window until she got cold. Then she got back in bed and lay facing the window, watching for lights, listening for movement. Letting her eyelids drop.
    He landed on his back, head slamming the floor, showing him pulsing red light. Before he could even wonder what happened, a heavy weight landed on him, grunting and stinking – something on his throat – an elbow? Evan tried to roll, but he was pinned, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. What . . . the kid? Yes, the kid. Poking at his face with a filthy hand. Evan slapped and shoved at it, but it kept coming back. Scratching him. Pressing on his cheek. Aiming for his eyes. What the fuck? Evan kicked, tried to hit the kid’s