Free Sanctuary by Meg Cabot Page B

her to go to a movie tomorrow night? One of those weird independent films comic book freaks like you are always going to.”
    “Um,” Douglas said. “Let me see. Because her brother just got murdered?”
    “Oh, yeah,” I said, crestfallen. Then I brightened. “But you could ask her as a friend. I mean, she must be going crazy over there, with Coach Albright hanging around. I bet she’d say yes.”
    “I’ll think about it,” Douglas said, and turned back to his computer. “About your symbol. I’ve been researching it all day, but I haven’t been able to come up with anything about it. Are you sure you drew it right?”
    “Of course I’m sure,” I said. “Douglas, I’m serious, you should totally ask her out.”
    “Jess,” he said, to his monitor. “She’s in high school.”
    Memories of Rob and me, in the barn the night before, came flooding back. But I shoved them firmly aside.
    “So?” I said. “She’s a senior, and mature for her age. You’re immature for yours. It’s a perfect match.”
    “Thanks,” Douglas said, deprecatingly.
    At that moment, I heard Ruth’s voice calling my name. As was our custom, she had let herself into the house.
    “I got that stuff,” she said, appearing in the doorway a minute later, breathless and covered with flakes of snow. I guess the Weather Channel had been right after all. “On Seth Blumenthal. You know, that kid who disappeared this morning. Oh, hey, Douglas.”
    “Hey,” Douglas said to Ruth, not making eye contact with her, as was
his
custom.
    “Was that Tasha Thompkins I just saw leaving here?” Ruth wanted to know.
    “Yes,” I said. “That was her all right.”
    “I didn’t know you two were so friendly,” Ruth said to me, as she began to unwind her scarf from her neck. “That was nice of you to ask her over.”
    “I didn’t,” I said.
    Ruth looked confused. “Then what was she doing here?”
    “Ask
him
,” I said, tilting my head in Douglas’s direction.
    He ducked back over his computer, but I could still see the tips of his ears reddening.
    “What’s a guy have to do,” he wanted to know, “to get some privacy around here?”

C H A P T E R
8
    W hen I woke up the next morning, I knew where Seth Blumenthal was.
    And where Seth Blumenthal was wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
    Having the psychic power to find anyone, anyone at all, isn’t an easy thing to live with. I mean, look at how, just by seeing his picture on the wall of Mrs. Wilkins’s bedroom, I now knew this thing about Rob’s dad. I would have traded anything in the world not to have been in possession of that little piece of information, let me tell you.
    Just as I would have traded anything in the world not to have to do what I knew I had to next.
    No big deal, right? Just pick up the phone and dial 911, right?
    Not. So not.
    Normally when I am contacted about a missing kid, it goes like this: I make sure, before I call anyone, that the kid really does want to be found. This is on account of how once I found a kid who was way better off missing than with his custodial parent, who was a bonafide creep. Ever since then, I have really gone out of my way to make sure the kids I find aren’t better off missing.
    But in Seth’s case, there was no question. No question at all.
    But I couldn’t simply pick up the phone, dial 911, and go, “Oh, yeah, hi, by the way, you’ll find Seth Blumenthal on blankity-blank street; hurry up and get him, his mom’s missing him a lot,” and hang up, click.
    Because ever since this whole psychic thing started, and the U.S. government began expressing its great desire to put me on the payroll, I’ve been having to pretend like I don’t have my powers anymore. So how would it look if I called 911 from my bedroom phone and went, “Oh, yeah, Seth Blumenthal? Here’s where to find him.”
    Not cool. Not cool at all.
    So I had to get up and go find a pay phone somewhere so that at least I could give the semblance of a denial