Free Chasing Midnight by Courtney King Walker Page A

running down the walkway and vanishes into the darkness before I even realize he’s gone.
    Shoot.
    I run after him, but stop at the end of the driveway where an over-the-top display of professionally arranged pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns sit atop two big bales of hay. The jack-o’-lanterns glow in the moonlight, their carved smiles seeming to mock my incompetence, a hint of evil hiding inside their rotting cores.
    “Mackenzie, what’s your problem today?” Dad pops out of the shadows, making me scream. I can’t help it; I still have evil on my mind. “Let’s go!”
    “Right.” I sprint toward him.
    We join the same creek path route we always run. But it takes us a little longer to get there since we have to start all the way at the top of Sea View Drive.
    Dad is much quieter than usual, bumming me out a little because part of the fun of running with him is all the challenges he invents, like whoever reaches the guy in the red jacket last has to do fifteen pushups. Or running backwards until the next mile marker, or telling jokes and making me laugh, which of course always gives me side stitches and then I have to stop and let him beat me to the finish line.
    Just stuff like that.
    By the time the sun crests the top of the hill, I am wiped out and have to slow to a jog on the way back. We ran twice the distance I’m used to, and an hour earlier, too, though I’m not sure why because none of my wishes said anything about being an overachiever.
    When I lope into our long, circular driveway five minutes later, Dad is already stretching on the top step, not even breaking a sweat. I stop short at the edge of the lawn, mesmerized by its perfection, running my palms across the top of the velvety grass. The blades are perfectly even and plush, with just the right amount of bounce, even in November. None of my lawns ever came close to such excellence, not by a mile. It takes money to look this good.
    “Nice run, Mackenzie,” Dad says when he sees me. “Next time, though, get up on time so we don’t have to cut it short, okay?”
    That was short?
    “Who are you?” I say under my breath, following him inside. And where’s my real dad? I want to ask. But the monster house we live in has already swallowed him up, and I don’t know whatelse to do now, other than find my way back to my room and get ready for school.
    It’s the kind of moment that calls for music—you know, the pump-me-up-while-I-try-on-twenty-new-outfits kind of moment.
    My first instinct is to look for an iPod. But then I remember I have an iPhone. Who needs an iPod? I thumb through the songs in my phone, relieved my taste in music hasn’t changed since . . . well . . . since I turned rich. It’s nice to know that certain things are off limits.
    After picking some dance music, I scour my unfamiliar bedroom for a speaker dock, figuring the rich me would’ve never skimped on something as important as that. No matter where I look, though, I come up with nothing. So I settle for the next best option—turning up the volume on my phone and pressing my song of choice.
    Bad idea.
    The room explodes with music, igniting the air like I stepped onstage at a concert. My hands fly to my ears. It’s still way early, and if today’s schedule is anything close to the norm, my mom and little brothers still have another hour to sleep.
    The music seems to chase me at every turn as I race around the room, picking up anything that can pass for a speaker—a shiny jewelry box . . . no . . . a vase filled with pale pink flowers that aren’t artificial nor is the water in which they are soaking . . . no . . . a laptop computer . . . no . . . an iPod mini with attached headphones (good to know for future runs) . . . no . . .
    “What are you doing?” a jarring voice yells from behind me, barely audible above the music.
    I spin around to face a barely-awake Spencer. His bedhead hair is twice the height of his normal hair, which already has about four inches on the