They All Fall Down Read online

  “Why?”

  “I just thought …” That smell dances up my nose again, putrid and stronger. “I was thinking about going to the football game at school.”

  “Oh, Kenzie.” I hear her already digging for reasons why no safe or sane person should go to a high school football game. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yes, Mom.” I try to dial back the bitchy, but it gets so hard sometimes. What I want to say is, I think going to a football game on a nice autumn night when you’re sixteen years old and the hottest guy on the team asks you is a grand idea. It’s not respect that stops me; I just don’t have the energy for a fight right now.

  “We’ll talk when I get home, Kenzie. Be careful.”

  I don’t respond because I feel like crap and my head hurts even worse now. Anyway, “be careful” is just her everyday sign-off. I learned long ago that it was her substitute for “I love you” and stopped waiting to hear the real thing.

  I hang up, still staring into the hall. The other door is visible, but closed, of course. Conner’s room remains exactly as it was the day he went to work after school and let me tag along because I didn’t want to be home alone.

  I stay still and listen, but a bone-deep exhaustion still presses, despite the adrenaline rush. I know that if I don’t move, I’ll be asleep again in a minute. Fighting the same physical pain that I feel when my alarm goes off at 6:30, I slowly roll off the bed.

  I have to go downstairs and make sure I locked the door.

  Shaking my head clear, I walk across the room, drawing back with a face when I get another whiff of that rancid smell. What the heck?

  My pulse is loud enough in my head that I don’t hear my own footsteps, let alone any downstairs. I hold the handrail and peer down.

  “Anyone there?” I say, feeling incredibly stupid. And just a little … sick.

  A wave of nausea swells in my stomach and I grip tighter, taking each steep step slowly.

  The house is dead silent, but the smell is stronger. I hesitate on the last step, continuing to steady myself with the handrail. This is crazy. I’ve spooked myself for no reason.

  I leap around the stairway wall, landing in the empty, quiet dining room.

  Now I really feel stupid. And, whoa, dizzy. I walk to the kitchen because I was absolutely sure I’d heard Mom in there. But the room’s as quiet and still and empty as when I came in. I go straight to the door and check the latch, which is firmly horizontal and locked.

  Okay, totally an overactive imagination. But what is that smell? Good God, did someone blow one in here?

  I turn in a circle, my gaze stopping on the lock, my book bag, the mail, the partially opened pantry door. Did I leave it like that?

  Another set of chills rises over my arms because I swear, I did not leave that door open. I take a step closer and then I hear something.

  A low, soft, slow … hiss.

  What the hell is that noise?

  I look at the stove to see that the back burner knob is twisted to the right—on—but there are no flames. What does that mean?

  It means that poisonous gas has been seeping through the whole house, and if I hadn’t just noticed, I’d have been dead in about ten minutes.

  CHAPTER VI

  Throwing myself at the stove, I flip the knob so hard it pops off in my hand. With a small shriek, I lean closer, listening for the sound of escaping gas.

  Everything’s off. But how—

  No. Not yet. If I think, I’ll freak. I have to move. Or worse—I’ll faint.

  If Mom hadn’t called I would have died in my sleep!

  I lunge toward the stove-top exhaust fan, turning it on max, then bolt to the kitchen door, unlocking it with trembling fingers to throw it open. I don’t care who’s out there, or who was in here.…

  Yes I do.

  I fill my lungs with air, gulping and gasping like a person who’s been held underwater. Instantly feeling clearer, I look side to side, not even sure what or who I’m looking for, a million thoughts at war in my head.

  Did someone break in? Did Mom leave the stove on all day? Was Dad here? Or was it someone else? Did I bump the knob by accident? Did I really lock the door? What did I hear when I thought it was Mom?

  But the questions are all just background noise to the words my brain is screaming.

  I almost died. I almost died. I almost freaking died … for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.

  The side yard is empty except for the trash cans, neatly closed and lined up the way Mom likes them. The way Mom likes everything—orderly. She’s obsessive about neatness. And safety. And timeliness. And she checks the stove about ten times a day, including before bed and before leaving the house, even if nobody has cooked on it.

  It’s her thing.

  So who messed with the stove? The whole place could have exploded with one stray spark!

  I’m thinking more clearly now, breathing steadier with a heart rate approaching … No, not normal yet. But I venture back inside and stand very still to try to re-create what on earth happened in here.

  I can’t. There is absolutely no answer. No one was in here.

  But I heard footsteps. Didn’t I? I was so sleepy.… Of course I was! I was inhaling poison and knocking on death’s front door.

  With a whimper of fear, I open the cabinet under the cooktop, not even sure what I’m looking for, but immediately I see an electrical cord hanging there, pulled from its plug in the wall. I vaguely recall Dad talking about that when he installed the new gas cooktop for Mom. Something about an igniter? Something that makes sure there’s a flame and we don’t breathe gas.

  How did that get unplugged? And how did the burner knob get turned on?

  After fixing the plug, I drop into the chair. The exhaust fan is loud enough to drown out that thought, and I’m certain the smell of gas is dissipating. But I have to clear out this house and I have to …

  Tell Mom.

  In the distance, I hear the soft ding of my phone, still upstairs, alerting me to a text. Mom in high worry mode, no doubt. And with good reason. I jog back upstairs to assure her I’m still alive—and for once, I’m not kidding. The phone’s on my bed next to my laptop. I unlock the screen to see an unknown number.

  Another new friend? Another invitation to hang out with someone I barely know? I tap the message and read.

  Lares et penates, Quinte? Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

  What? The last phrase clicks into place instantly—I will either find a way or make a way. Every Latin student learns that in the first semester of phrases.

  But what does this mean? Who sent it? And lares et penates? I got nothing there. Still shaking, I seize my Latin textbook and manage to get to the glossary in the back, praying the translation is there. I might know this, but I can’t think. I can’t …

  The lares and penates are the Roman gods of the household. My eyes sting as I read the short paragraph. “Gods who looked after the safety and well-being of the home.” Slowly, I lower the textbook because I just can’t stand what this is telling me. Whoever texted knew what just happened.

  Then my eyes fall on the last sentence: “The penates are the gods of the storeroom with the duty of keeping the house free of danger.”

  I grab the phone and back away, blindly smashing the button that turns the device off completely, if only to prevent the horror of another text. I turn to the door, certain I’m going to meet the eyes of a killer. No one’s there … just the closed door to my brother’s room. My brother who died in a storeroom.

  A bolt of horror jerks me and I run out of the room and down the stairs, my whole body vibrating. The place still smells and Mom will be home soon. And she will freak with a capital F.

  What’s worse? This … stalker, or Mom discovering I almost died? Knowing the answer, I open the kitchen windows, still seeing the words on my text. He called me Quinte.

  Fifth.

  The house phone rings, making me jump a foot and yelp like a fright
ened cat. Instantly, the fear rolls over me again. No one calls our house phone, ever. We use cell phones for everything; the only reason we have a landline is in case cell service is down and we need to call 911 to tell them where we are.

  The shrill ringing doesn’t stop. What if it’s another Latin message? What if whoever was in the house is now calling to tell me … caveat.

  Beware.

  I grab the receiver with one thought: we can trace a landline call.

  Bracing myself for the absolute worst mouth-breathing and hair-raising warning, I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Kenzie, there you are.” I almost faint at the sound of my father’s voice.

  Maybe I should tell Dad. Dad could help, right? Dad would take this seriously but not freak out.

  “Yeah, I’m right here,” I say, my head whirring.

  “I called your cell phone about four times.” He sounds more weary than angry.

  “I left it upstairs.” I close my eyes and try to come up with the words to tell him what’s happened. I fail.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your car. I got the estimate.”

  I can tell from his voice it’s bad news. But worse than I almost died at the hands of a crazed Latin-speaking killer? “Is it bad?” I ask weakly.

  “Very. But, Kenzie, I’m more concerned about the situation with your brakes. Don’t you read your dashboard?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Then why didn’t you see the warning light that said you were out of brake fluid?”

  I close my eyes, picturing the dash. “There was no light.”

  “There had to be,” he insists.

  “Dad.” I know my own dashboard. “I never saw a warning light. What happened?”

  “Can’t tell now. The accident screwed up the car enough that we can’t see how your brake line cracked or ruptured, but you leaked enough fluid to have a failure.”

  I blow out a breath. “I didn’t see a warning light, Dad. How did it happen? How does that line crack?”

  “You hit something, usually, or natural wear. That car has a hundred and forty-some thousand miles on it.”

  “I know that.” I press my hand to my temple, a completely different kind of headache throbbing now that the gas is clear. Something is buzzing in there, nagging at me. I have to know. “Could it have happened any other way, Dad?”

  He snorts. “Short of someone cutting the fluid line? No.”

  Oh, God. I grab a kitchen chair for support.

  “You need to get those brakes checked regularly, young lady.”

  “Okay.”

  “You do not want another accident.”

  But I almost just had one.

  “Is your mother there?”

  “Not yet. She had to stay late.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Hoyt had a deposition today.” It doesn’t really surprise me that he’s up on Mom’s schedule. “Listen to me,” he says gruffly. “Under no circumstances do you share this with your mother about the brake line.”

  “I know she’d go ballistic, Dad, but—”

  “No, Kenzie. Don’t do that to her. She’ll just worry herself sick.”

  He really cares about her. This is not news, but it never fails to twist my heart and give me an extrabrutal kick of guilt and sadness. If it weren’t for Conner’s death, they’d still be together.

  “She can’t handle that this week,” he adds.

  “What’s this week?”

  He sighs. “Just don’t tell her. And I’ll cover the cost of the bodywork on the car. We’ll work it out later.”

  Without another word, he hangs up. I realize that I’m still holding my cell phone, so I push the top button to bring it back to life, instantly getting a vibration of a new text. No, not again.

  But this one’s from Olivia Thayne, hottie number one.

  Party at Keystone Quarry tonight. You in?

  I tap back to the text list to brave another read of the Latin message, but … Damn it. There is no such message. Did I imagine that? A result of partial gas poisoning or something?

  My gaze falls to the date in the corner of the phone, giving me a start. How could I have forgotten what was coming up and why Dad would be worried about Mom? The two-year anniversary of Conner’s accident is next week.

  The accident that happened because he was doing me a favor.

  The sound of Mom’s car door pulls me back to the moment, and I know exactly what I’m going to do tonight. Not the football game. Not the quarry party. Nope, it’s burgers, fries, a movie, and companionable silence with my mom. I owe her at least that.

  CHAPTER VII

  Mom’s already asked me to spend Saturday with her, which will mean a trip to Sam’s Club, also known as my personal hell in a big-box superstore. I don’t want to fight with her, especially since we made it through the night without an argument. Yes, she did a low-level flip-out over my bandaged hand. You could get MRSA! How qualified is that nurse?

  But after she undid the bandage and examined the bruise, she came down from the crazy ledge and managed to relax a little. We both did, thankfully. Of course, I didn’t tell her about the gas incident. Or the car.

  By the time I went to bed, I’d convinced myself of the obvious—someone accidentally knocked out the igniter plug when putting a frying pan away and I had bumped the stove dial with my backpack when I took it off. The noise I heard? The old house settling. The text? Obviously, the gas leak had played with my head, because when I looked at my phone, the text was gone. Texts don’t delete themselves.

  But I can’t take a day of shopping with Mom. Molly comes to the rescue with an invitation to spend the day and night at her house. Which Mom won’t like, but I’m ready with all the reasons why I should. I eat Cheerios and wait for her to come in.

  She does, moving slowly, looking far, far older than forty-four years, making little effort to fight her graying hair and softening jowls. That just makes me feel guilty again. Two years ago, when our house was vibrant and our family whole and Conner Summerall reigned as the golden boy in our home and outside of it, Mom reflected his light as a happy, pretty, healthy woman. That woman died the day she buried her sixteen-year-old son.

  “Sam’s today?” she asks, an attempt at brightness that I always think is faked for my benefit.

  “I’m going over to Molly’s.”

  She starts to frown.

  “And tonight,” I add, just so we get that out there first and fast, “I’m sleeping over.”

  She draws back, ready to put a stop to that. “Can’t she stay here?”

  That was always her solution. I could have sleepovers, if she was there to monitor the potential hazards. God, I want to be normal. I want to go to parties and football games and on dates. And for the first time—thanks to the list—some of that actually awaits in my future. I have to shake her fears.

  “She can’t,” I say. “I have to go over there.”

  She goes through the motions of making a cup of coffee, something about her expression indicating she’s actually thinking about saying yes. I hold on to that hope.

  “You’ll miss Dad. He’s coming over for dinner.”

  Hey, that’s almost a yes. “Well, okay. That way you won’t be alone.” Because deep down in my gut, I don’t want her to be alone in the house. And I know Dad will of course sleep on the sofa in the family room, because he’ll have a drink and Mom won’t let him drive. In fact, if I’m not here, maybe he’ll sleep where he belongs … in his room with Mom.

  “What time would you be going?” she asks.

  “A little bit later. You don’t have to wait for me. Molly can pick me up or I’ll ride my bike.”

  She gives me a quick look. “Wear your helmet.”

  Yes! But I keep my cool and smile with a thumbs-up, so glad I stayed home with her last night.

  Sumo vestri proeliis. Choose your battles, baby. And I won this one.

  An hour later, I’m on my bike riding to Molly’s house, wind in my hair (totally i
gnoring the helmet command—such a rebel), my backpack holding only clothes for the night and not a single book. This is huge for a dweeb who studies all weekend, and I can barely wipe the smile off my face.

  Because, hey, dweebie life changed yesterday. Guys hit on me, the entire school knows me, my social networks are overflowing with new friends, and even Mom seems to have gotten the memo that Kenzie Summerall has moved up the popularity ladder. And I’m taking Molly with me.

  Jazzed by that, I pedal harder, dying to share everything with her.

  The last shreds of a decent autumn have washed the world in amber tones under a rare blue sky. I wind around the curves and over the hills, humming a tune in my head.

  I’m not looking at the brick houses or almost-bare trees, though, and there isn’t enough traffic on these streets for me to worry about cars. Instead, my mind drifts to Levi Sterling and pretty much stays there as I bike past Cedar Hills Middle School, my alma mater and the halfway point between my house and Molly’s.

  I cut through the teachers’ lot and past an outdoor basketball court, where a bunch of younger boys are shooting hoops. On the other side of the gym, I pull out to cross Baldrick Road, bracing my foot to hit the crosswalk button at the light even though there are no cars on this quiet Saturday morning in the rolling neighborhood of Cedar Hills.

  This light takes forever because it’s in front of a school, I know that. So, what am I waiting for?

  I look left and right—not a car in either direction. So I force my foot down on the pedal and pull off the curb, my eyes on that still-red Don’t Walk sign I’m disobeying. I hear an engine, glance left, and catch the front end of a dark vehicle coming out of the school lot.

  Praying the vehicle doesn’t turn right, I press harder, the pedal suddenly so hard to push it feels like I’m riding through mud, but I reach the middle of the southbound lane. I can’t get back to the curb now. There are three lanes left to cross and that engine revs louder, making me look over my shoulder just as a truck pulls onto the road, heading directly for me.

  I freeze for a second, whirring through my options. I can’t back up; if I go forward he could hit me, so please … stop.