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Blowing out a breath, I muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” to the dead line as I yanked open the driver’s side door and jumped behind the wheel.
I tossed my phone into the passenger seat and started the engine, but as I pulled away from the curb, I swore I saw the girl from last night walking down the sidewalk. Her red-brown curls bounced behind her, and she wore the same black top and striped-bottom jumper she’d been in last night with her feet still bare.
I slammed on the brakes and did a double take. Except no one was there. Only a shadow from the swaying branches of a tree moved along the sidewalk where I’d thought I’d seen her.
“Jesus, maybe Iwasdrugged,” I said, shaking my head before pulling onto the street and heading home.
9
FOSTER
Iarrived home twelve minutes after leaving Archer House, and I’d barely killed the truck engine before the front door came flying open.
Out dashed my sister, Breydan. She was eleven, and the tomboy of the family. With her pale blond hair in a high ponytail, she wore her soccer uniform, cleats, and knee-high socks with a hefty gym bag slung over her shoulder.
Behind her came a scowling Amy, her light hair shoulder-length and flat ironed; she hooked a dainty purse strap over one shoulder so she could carry a Stanley in one hand and her cell phone in the other.
I’d just climbed from my truck and shut the door when four-year-old Little appeared from inside, darting past Amy and Brey so she could streak toward me, yelling, “Foster! You’re home!”
“Hey, hey,” I greeted with a big smile as I jogged around the hood to meet her on the sidewalk. Sweeping her up into my arms, I cuddled my face into hers and laughed when she screamed in delight from being tickled by the scruff on my jaw.
Cupping my cheeks in her hands, she pulled my attention to her eyes, however, and grew serious. “You weren’t here for breakfast.”
“I know.” Pressing my forehead to hers, I waggled my brows to be silly. “I stayed with a friend last night.”
“Weren’t you wearing thatyesterday?” Amy asked in disgust as she sauntered by, heading toward my mom’s Subaru while Brey reached the passenger side of my truck and swung open the back door so she could toss her bag inside.
“Yep. And I haven’t taken a shower yet today either,” I called after the fifteen-year-old with widening eyes, just to gross her out more. “Want to take a big whiff?”
“Eww.” She wrinkled her nose and climbed into the Outback, slamming the door.
Chuckling, I turned as my mom rushed from the house, carrying Little’s backpack and her own purse. “Thank you so much for doing this again, Foster,” she gushed as she bustled toward me. “I’m sorry we had to drag you from whatever you were doing.”
“It’s all good. I apologize for running late,” I countered, tipping my face down for a kiss on my cheek when she reached me.
Her dry lips touched my skin only briefly before she straightened and eyed me with concern. “Everything okay?”
My mother. I swear, I had no idea how the woman had been able to birth six children, and she always somehow knew when something was bothering every single one of us.
Shaking my head to reassure her, I answered, “Yeah. I guess some girl from Haverick was in a car accident last night and some of my crew knew her, so they’re pretty shaken up.”
“Oh no. That poor child.” Mom touched my cheek briefly. “Did you know her too?”
With another shake of my head, I answered, “I—not really. I’d heard of her, but we’d never actually met.”
“I’ll have to make some cookies for her family. But for now…” She glanced at Amy who was impatiently waiting in the car. “I guess we better go.”
Except when she reached for her youngest, saying, “Come on, Little. Time to help Mama and Amy hunt for the perfect dress,” the four-year-old latched her arms around my neck and shook her head.
“I wanna go with Foster.”
Mom sent me a weary glance, telling me she didn’t want to argue with the child, so I set a hand on Little’s back and answered, “That’s fine. She can come with us.”
“Thanks.” Mom exhaled in relief as she handed Little’s bag over. “I’ve got snacks and juice and a coloring book in there for her.”
“Thanks.” Glancing past her toward the house, I asked, “What about Reed?”
“He wanted to stay home and finish his book,” Brey answered impatiently from the front passenger seat of my truck before she slammed the door, telling me it was time to go.
