FIRE & FLOOD Extras

Chapter Three

That blue box was meant for me, and my dad stole it. Even if Cody did plant it in my room, which I'm starting to doubt he did, my dad had no right to take it away. What am I — five?

I sit in the living area with my mom and dad, staring at the book in my hands. I'm not reading —I'm masterminding a complicated escape plan for my device. So far, I don't have much in the escape department, but I've come up with plenty that could be classified as complicated.

The only thing I hear — and it's driving me crazy — is the sound of my mom and dad turning the pages of their own books. God forbid we buy a TV for this house. Wouldn't want anyone to have a link to life beyond the Holloway household. I swear, the second Cody got sick, my parents lost all sense of reality.

But right now none of that matters. The real reason I'm irritated with my parents is because I want them in bed. Asleep. Where they can't watch me slink around the house looking for my device. And I am going to slink like nobody's business.

I glance at the clock. It's ten at night, and my parents look like they could run a marathon. I stare at them as they stare at their books and will them to become tired. After five minutes of mental warfare, I give up. But just then my dad yawns. Victory is mine!

"Think I'm going to hit the hay," he says.

"I'm right behind you," my mom answers, not even looking up. She doesn't move.

Hoping she'll be swayed by numbers, I stretch my arms over my head and announce, "I'm exhausted. I think I might turn in, too."

That does the trick. She runs her finger down the page. It's her telltale sign that she's finding a stopping point. She reaches for the busted-up bookmark I gave her for Mother's Day when I was, like, nine, and slides it into place.

"You going to bed, too?" I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. I suddenly wonder if my parents were doing the same thing I was — pretending to read.

"Yep" is all she says. Then we begin a Mexican standoff: me waiting for her to get up and her waiting for . . . what?

"Okay," I say, caving. "Guess I'm going to go now." I stand up and walk toward my room, throwing the book I wasn't reading onto the couch. Right before I leave, I glance back. She's watching me go, so I throw a little wave. Mom waves back, but her smile is long gone.

Something is definitely up.

That or my family is auditioning for The Shining.

I stop by Cody's door on the way to my room. I want to keep walking, to pretend for once that he's okay and everything is back the way it used to be. But I can't. So I pad into his room on tiptoes and lean over his bed. Now I'm the one being a creeper.

Once I'm certain my brother is still breathing, I go into my room and collapse onto the bed. One hour. That's how long I'm waiting before I search every corner of this blasted house. Then the contents of that mysterious blue box will be mine.

Four hours later, I wake up.

So much for Operation Sly.

I push myself up from the bed, rubbing my face and berating myself for falling asleep. I'm, like, the biggest weakling on planet Earth. Sliding my shoes off so I make as little noise as possible, I make a mental list of where to check first: the coat closet, the hallway bathroom, maybe the kitchen. The kitchen. I wonder if there's any cherry cheesecake left in the fridge. No. Find device. Then cheesecake.

I'm about to open my door, but something stops me.

It's smoke. A lot of it. And it's coming from outside my window.