Run Bad Boy Run

Chapter 9

The rest of the trip is uneventful. Hayden disappears soon after our conversation is over and thankfully I don't see him after that.

The rest of my shopping trip, however, is full of me freaking out over the fact that I have to somehow end up at the party after Friday's football game. I don't even know if the game is at home or whom we're playing. But there's no way I can't not be there. No excuse or family emergency can cut it. And I refuse to let Hayden have a circus with my absence.

Tonight is another one of those times where I wish our grandparents had gone through with their threat of forcing my mother into an alcohol rehabilitation center. She convinced them she was fine. She's always trying to convince everyone she's fine. And sometimes, she is. It's just when six o'clock traffic hits, everything goes south, and Corry is on a mission to find her.

Again.

Pulling into Del-Mart, I'm surprised to see the parking lot packed. Mr. Aplin's deli meats are good, but they've never attracted this much traffic on a Wednesday night before.

"Please tell me you brought the debit card..."

Finding dinner is my job tonight. And as I fish through the pockets of my bag, my fingers come in contact with a cool, plastic square. The flash drive I was supposed to return the device to Mr. Aplin a week ago.

The headlights of an approaching car are blinding and I stumble out of my car and across the parking lot as quickly as possible. Three men dressed in blue technician gear stand outside of the deli, blowing wispy rings of white smoke into the humid air, eyes trailing casually from me to the surrounding landscape. I look from the men to the black van parked six feet away, instinct making my muscles coil and stomach churn. Whether it's that I've gained the ability to tap into their thoughts and know of their interest in a young girl walking alone, or my hyperactive paranoia, I don't like the way they're looking at me.

The doors open to warm air smelling of fresh bread and smoked deli meats, and I'm certain this is what heaven smells like.

There are a few more men in the same uniform as the ones I'd seen outside. A woman wearing a reflective vest sits a few feet away with a CSI hat resting on the table beside her. I guess it makes sense. There had been an announcement about adding more security cameras around shopping complexes and public streets as a precaution to what had happened. The shop was still wrecked and under investigation—what they're looking for after a week is beside me.

Mr. Aplin and his wife rush from one end of the counter to the other, shouting order numbers and instructions to the employees who look just as worn as the owners must be feeling. As I step into line, my eyes linger on a man in a grey suit speaking into his phone about a court case in Madison this weekend. I feel bad for whoever is on the other end of the line.

"I don't care what happened, Keith! I want you to find that damn thing and get it to me by the end of Friday!" A pause. "Or it'll be your ass!" The dark-haired man unceremoniously ends the call and sits down to take a chunk out of his sub, reminding me of a toddler sulking post-temper tantrum.

"I've been waiting a good twenty-five minutes for my food," a redheaded woman whines from the front of the deli counter. "How long does it take to make a chicken salad sandwich?"

"Wait like the rest of us, sweetheart!" someone shouts.

When she turns around, my stomach does an uncomfortable dip, half from complete surprise and half from the murderous look in her eyes. Aside from the employees and the Aplins, she's the only other person I recognize in the store. Abigail Williams. My mentor from freshman year —someone who saved me from so much trouble, nothing I could ever do would be able to repay her kindness.