Wendy wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow. “What about my truck?”
“You can pick it up in the morning,” her mother said, digging into her purse for her keys.
Wendy nodded. “Okay.”
Mrs. Darling walked away at a brisk pace, and Wendy followed. As they passed through the sliding glass doors, two people in suits walked in.
As the doors slid shut, Wendy thought about Peter lying in bed and that smile playing across his lips.
CHAPTER 3
Closed Doors
On the drive home, Wendy sat in the back seat behind her mother. She curled up and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window, keeping her back to the woods. In an effort to keep her mind from wandering, she closed her eyes and repeated the lyrics to her favorite song over and over again in her head.
Tires rolling over gravel let her know they were home. Wendy sat up and pushed the door open, careful not to bump into the side of her father’s car.
“I have to head back and finish my shift,” her mom said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Okay.” Wendy hesitated. Something like curiosity, or maybe just guilt, kept her in the car. “Mom, are you okay?”
Mrs. Darling sighed. Wendy tried to catch her mother’s eye in the rearview mirror, but she continued to stare at the steering wheel. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Wendy couldn’t tell who she was trying to convince.
Her mom drove away before Wendy could pull out her keys. Her father had forgotten to turn on the porch light again. She fumbled for a moment before she could get the front door unlocked.
The living room was dark except for the strip of light visible under the door of her father’s study. She walked over, pressed her ear to the doorjamb, and listened. Everything was silent except for the sound of her father’s deep, heavy snores.
Good. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with getting questioned by him. For now, anyway.
Wendy’s mind and body buzzed with anxious energy. She needed to distract herself with something, to put her restless hands to work, so she straightened up the kitchen. She emptied the dishwasher, which she had filled the night before. She broke down the small pile of beer cases and stacked them with the rest of the recycling. At the sink, she scrubbed at her hands again, the skin red and cracked from the compulsive habit.
The busywork kept her distracted for the most part until she sat down to write a grocery list. She stared at the small notepad, the tip of the blue pen poised, but she couldn’t concentrate on what she needed to buy for groceries that week, one of the many chores she took up around the house. Now that she was sitting still, her mind raced. She contemplated turning on the TV to drown out her thoughts, but she didn’t want to see the faces of Benjamin Lane and Ashley Ford staring back at her.
And she didn’t want to wake up her dad.
Wendy closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. Her temples throbbed. She was not looking forward to him finding out about what happened tonight. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what had happened herself, so how was she supposed to explain it to anyone else? The only things she knew for sure were that something had landed on the hood of her car and she found a boy lying in the middle of the road. And his name was Peter.
But that still didn’t mean he was her Peter.
Wendy gave her head a small shake.
She needed to focus.
Groceries. She could make baked ziti. It was quick and easy to pack up for her mom and dad.
Wendy looked down at the notepad, about to write down marinara, but stopped short. She sucked in a sharp breath. Goosebumps raced down her arms.
She’d done it again.
The notepad was covered in blue ink. Scratchy lines etched out the gnarled tree. The trunk was thick, jagged. The roots twisted and curled at its base. The drawing had gone off the paper, leaving branches that hooked at sharp angles across the wooden table.
“Shit.” Wendy grabbed cleaner from under the sink and a handful of paper towels. She scrubbed vigorously at the table, but even though the blue ink vanished, she’d pressed the pen so hard that it’d left gashes in the soft wood. She cursed again and scrubbed harder.
Still, the ghostly outlines of the branches remained. Wendy yanked open the drawer where they kept the nice linens for holidays and pulled out the set of green placemats. She arranged them on the table to cover up the lines.
Wendy dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. What was happening to her? Was she totally losing it? She needed to get a grip on reality. The boy she’d found was not Peter Pan. The missing kids had nothing to do with her or her brothers. She was exhausted and just needed a good night’s rest.