They All Fall Down (6 page)

I’d already decided not to tell her about the Hottie List. My parents didn’t grow up in Vienna and don’t know anything about this particular high school tradition, and frankly, there’s no reason to tell. She’d just find something to worry about.
Oh, Kenzie, what if all that publicity brings some pedophile after you?

I fall back onto my bed and feel my body drifting into the softness of an afternoon nap, but in the distance, I think I hear the door again. Did she go out? Leave something in the car? I wait for what feels like an eternity, but the exhaustion of the day seems to be pressing down on me.

Images of Levi Sterling and Josh Collier collide in my head, all dark and light like the embodiments of evil and good. My brain’s playing tricks on me, giving them animal faces.

Hac urget lupus, hac canis
.

The Latin words float through my head and I have to dig a little harder than usual for the literal translation. But it comes to me:
On this side a wolf presses, on that a dog
. I know that means trouble on either side, but isn’t a dog a bit safer than a wolf? Levi is definitely the wolf. But he’s also the one that makes me a little … a lot weak inside.

I let out a yawn so giant it cracks my jaw and makes my whole body shudder, slipping me even deeper into nothingness. I’m so unbelievably tired. I have to sleep. I have to …

Next to me, my phone rings, close enough to my ear to jar me awake. Wow, this being-popular business is exhausting. I turn my head, which feels like the most I can possibly do, and read the screen.

Mom
.

Mom is calling. Wait? What? How can that be? She probably locked herself out while taking out the trash or something.
That’s so like her, the overlocker. I reach for the phone, vaguely aware that my afternoon nap left me with a headache and … the scent of rotten eggs. Gross. What is that smell?

I grab the phone. “Hi.”

“Honey, I’m so sorry to be this late.”

I blink myself awake, which is no mean feat. “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hoyt had a deposition and made me stay until the client left. I know you’ve been home alone for, what, an hour? Everything okay?”

“Didn’t I just …” My voice trails off as every hair on my arms and neck rises slowly. “You’re not … home yet?”

“Where are you, Kenzie?” she asks sharply.

“In my room.” I roll over on the bed, aware that my heart is jackhammering my ribs. “I fell asleep.”

After I heard you come home
.

“Are you sick? Do you have a fever?”

I never,
never
cop to anything that makes her worry, but … didn’t I hear someone downstairs?

I know I locked the door. I remember putting my bag down, turning the latch, dropping the mail … or did I? My brain is like a blanket of sleepy fog.

“Kenzie? Are you all right?” Her voice rises in a familiar note of grade one panic. Not anywhere near her potential of DEFCON 5 (saved for left turns, no matter how far away the oncoming car is), but she is now alarmed.

Of course, that just means she is now breathing.

“I’m fine, Mom, just sleepy.” But I’m staring at my open door, half expecting an ax murderer to jump into the room. I know I heard something.

I squeeze my eyes shut, as adept at stopping my own fears as I am at sidestepping hers. I must have totally imagined that noise.

“Did you sleep last night? You didn’t tell me you had a bad night. Anything going on at school?”

Oh, here we go. “It’s a nap, Mom, not a coma.”

I hear her sigh at my sarcasm. “I’ll be home in less than half an hour.”

“ ’Kay.” Then I remember the football game. “Oh, Mom, did you have any plans for tonight?”

“Just burgers and fries, honey. I thought we could watch a movie.”

My eyes shutter heavily. She’s lonely, I know, and when Dad doesn’t come over, I’m all she’s got. Whose fault is that? Mine. “Oh, okay.”

“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

T
hrowing 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 frightened 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?”