Free The Runaway Bride by Carolyn Keene Page B

his grip on Nancy, but he didn’t release her completely. “What if she’s one of them?” he asked Midori doubtfully.
    â€œShe’s not one of them,” Midori replied tersely. “Now, please, Mad Dog—”
    Mad Dog finally relented. “Are you all right?” he asked Nancy gruffly.
    Nancy rubbed her shoulders. “I’ll live,” she murmured, then studied Midori with concern. The Japanese girl appeared to be unharmed, and yet she was even more haggard and pale than shehad been on Friday. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in ages.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Midori?” Nancy demanded. “Who is ‘them’? We’ve all been so worried.”
    At that moment George came tearing up the stairs and down the hall. Her raincoat was dripping wet. “Nan, are you okay—” she began breathlessly, then stopped. She caught sight of Midori. “What on earth!” she gasped. Her eyes traveled from Midori to Mad Dog to Nancy. “What did I miss?” she asked.
    â€œA lot,” Nancy replied, managing a weak grin.
    â€œI followed him, just like you said, but then I lost him in the rain,” George admitted sheepishly. “I headed back here as soon as I realized it.” She turned to Midori again. “Wow, Midori, am I ever glad to see you!”
    Midori nodded. Her amber eyes were brimming with tears. “I’ve caused everyone so much trouble,” she whispered hoarsely.
    Nancy went up to her and put an arm around her. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about it?” she suggested gently.
    â€œOkay,” Midori agreed, sniffling.
    Once inside, the three girls sat down, and Mad Dog went to the kitchen to make tea.
    Mad Dog’s studio came as a surprise to Nancy. She’d expected it to be dark and moody, like its owner. Instead it was full of light and color and whimsy.
    At one end of the enormous loft was a living room area. Instead of the usual furniture, there were hammocks hanging from the ceiling, vinyl lawn chairs, and TV trays that had been papier-mâchéd with American comic strips. In a pot near one of the many windows was a palm tree decorated with hundreds of small origami cranes.
    At the far end was Mad Dog’s painting area. Nancy could see that it was crammed with canvases, buckets, and brushes.
    Midori followed Nancy’s gaze. “Mad Dog is a terrific artist,” she said. “He combines oil paint with all sorts of organic stuff—green tea, soy sauce, old vegetable peels.” She pointed to a large painting on the wall behind them. It depicted a samurai warrior riding a motorcycle. “That’s his.”
    â€œIt’s very Mad Dog,” George remarked.
    Nancy spotted the skinny black cat from the day before. It was crouched on a windowsill, watching everyone suspiciously.
    â€œSo that’s Mad Dog’s cat?” Nancy said to Midori. “We saw it outside when we came by yesterday.”
    â€œMad Dog took him in this morning because of the rain,” Midori explained. “He’s a stray.”
    Nancy frowned. “Midori, if you decided you cared more for Mad Dog than for Ken, don’t you think you—”
    Midori sat up suddenly and interrupted. “No, Nancy. You’ve got it all wrong. Mad Dog and I are just friends.”
    â€œFriends?” George echoed.
    â€œYes,” she went on, clearly desperate to convince them. “He took me in when . . .” Midori’s voice trailed off.
    â€œWhat, Midori?” Nancy said, leaning forward. “I know you’re upset, but you’ve got to tell us about what.”
    Midori brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was an awful thing I did, running away from my wedding,” she began shakily. “But I had no choice.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Nancy asked.
    â€œIt started last Thursday night,” Midori said.
    Nancy glanced at