Erica Spindler - Fortune

Silence answered her. Skye lay back against the pillows, drawing the sheet up to her chin. She had probably been awakened by a sound from the road just beyond the lot, or by a dream she had already forgotten. Sure. It had happened before.

Skye twisted to glance up at the window above her head. She had left it open to let in the nonexistent breeze; she saw that the nearly starless sky still wore the deep black of midnight. From outside came the sound of crickets and cicadas, but little else. It was late, so late that even the rowdiest of the roustabouts had gone to bed.

She lay back against her pillow once more. Go to sleep, Skye. It was nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Even as she did, her head filled with thoughts: of Chance, of her mother’s jumpiness of late, and of what the end of summer would bring.

She rolled onto her side, then onto her back again, focusing on thoughts of Chance. She had been careful not to pester him. She would stop by to say hi, but she wouldn’t hang around offering advice and stuff. If he was busy, she left him alone. And she never tagged after him, though she had wanted to.

Little by little, things had changed between them. He didn’t get that annoyed look on his face anymore when he saw her; he had stopped telling her to scram. He even smiled at her, once in a while.

Not that she thought he really liked her or anything, but she didn’t seem to bug him anymore. She supposed he had just gotten used to her; maybe in the same way the other troupers seemed to have gotten used to him.

Secretly, she hoped he had decided she wasn’t a know-it-all, spoiled brat. Secretly, she hoped he did, at least, kind of like her. That, she had decided, would be about the coolest thing that had ever happened to her.

Skye sat up and turned on the bedside light. She retrieved her sketch tablet from the floor and flipped through the pages, stopping at the drawing of him she had done a week ago. Her favorite thing to do was sit and draw while he worked a game booth. She drew all sorts of things, but a lot of the time she drew him; this was the drawing of him she liked most.

In it, he looked out at the horizon, at nothing, yet the seriousness of his expression suggested he saw something, something important. She touched the drawing lightly, careful not to smudge the pencil. She traced her finger along the line of his strong jaw, then across his high cheekbone.

He liked her art. He thought she was good. Really good. He had told her so. And he hadn’t laughed when she told him she was going to be an artist someday, that she was going to be famous.

Skye’s cheeks burned as she remembered telling him that. Afterward, she had wished with all her heart that she could take the words back, but he had been really cool about it. He had told her to keep believing in herself. He had said that someday her belief in herself might be all she had to hang on to.

Skye drew her eyebrows together, recalling his expression. He had looked so determined. And so alone. Swallowing hard, she glanced back at the drawing of him and tilted her head to the side as she studied it. What was he looking at? she wondered. When he stared off in the distance that way, what did he see?

She would never know. Like her mother, Chance had secrets.

Chill bumps raced up her arms. Suddenly, the trailer was too quiet, the night too black. Suddenly, Skye was afraid. She moved her gaze around the room. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, fuller, as if they hid someone. Or something.

Something cold. Evil. Something that watched her.

With a squeak of terror, Skye threw aside her sketch pad, scrambled out of bed and out of the room. Her mother had taken the foldout that night. She would let Skye curl up with her; she would protect her from the dark things.

But her mother wasn’t there.

Skye stared at the empty couch, heart pounding. “Mom,” she whispered. Then louder, “Mom!”

Her voice resounded in the empty trailer. Her mother was gone.

She was alone.

The sound that had awakened her, Skye realized. The sound of their front door snapping shut. The sound of her mother leaving.

Her mother leaving . Skye thought of all the times they had picked up in the middle of the night and moved on. She thought of the things they had left behind each time—furniture, her toys, their food, no matter how full the refrigerator or pantry.

Maybe this time her mother had decided to leave without her. Maybe this time she had decided that it would be Skye she left behind.

Skye couldn’t breathe. She curved her arms around her middle, fighting hysteria. What did she do now? What did—

Her mother always took their clothes. Always . Heart in her throat, Skye raced back to the bedroom. She yanked open the narrow wardrobe, then each of the drawers in the built-in chest, riffling through the contents—her mother’s underwear, her favorite blouse, the housecoat she had worn so much the fabric was nearly transparent in places. Nothing was missing.

Nothing except her mother.

Skye wandered back to the open couch. She sank onto its edge. As she did, paper crackled. Frowning, she stood and dug under the rumpled bedding and pulled out a section of newspaper.

She flipped on the light to get a better look. It was the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, two days old. She stared at the newspaper, something tugging at her memory. That’s right. Her mother had picked up the paper at the Laundromat the other day. Skye remembered her taking a section of the paper with her when they’d left.

Skye screwed up her face in thought. After that, her mother had begun acting weird. Jumpy and distracted. Short-tempered.

She quickly scanned the page’s headlines: Reagan Sets Foreign Policy; Train Derails Outside City, Four Killed, Dozens Hurt; Jewelry Designer To Host Benefit; Mob Boss Set…To…Testify.

Mob boss . Skye’s legs began to shake, and she sank to the edge of the bed, rereading that last headline again, then the article accompanying it. The article detailed the start of the grand-jury investigation into allegations made against the head of the East Coast’s most notorious crime family.

She had been right. Her mother was on the run from the mob.

Maybe what she had heard hadn’t been the sound of her mother leaving, but the sound of her being taken away.

Taken away.

With a cry of terror, Skye jumped to her feet and ran to the bedroom to dress. She would get Chance. He would know what to do; he would be able to help her. She pulled on her denim cutoffs and a T-shirt, folded the piece of newspaper and stuffed it into her pocket, then raced out into the night.

Skye made it to the trailer he shared with the other guys, and not wanting to wake anyone but Chance, went around to the back side, to the window nearest his bunk.

She grasped the razor-thin ledge and stood on tiptoe. “Chance,” she whispered. “Wake up. It’s me. Skye.”

From inside she heard a rustle of bedclothes and a moan. She waited a couple moments, then tried again. “Chance, wake up. It’s Skye. Wake up, please.”

A minute later his face appeared at the open window. He looked as if he was still asleep. “Kid?” He passed a hand across his face and yawned. “What are you doing out this time of night?”

“I need your help.” She hugged herself hard. “I don’t know what to do!”

“What are you talking about?” He eased up the screen, stuck his head farther out and looked around. “It’s awfully late. Does your mom know you’re ou—”

“She’s gone!” Skye cried. “I woke up…I don’t know why, except I thought I heard a sound. But it was really quiet…and all of a sudden I had this feeling and…and I was really scared.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “So I went to curl up with her, and she was…her bed was…” Skye burst into tears.