Page 22 of By the Book

Voices.

Two voices.

Furtive voices.

The voices of people who knew they were doing something they weren’t supposed to, and who were trying—and, in this case, failing—to keep quiet.

“Is that the mayor?” I whispered.

Bobby shook his head. He listened a moment longer and then said, “Get in the car.”

“What? No!”

For a moment, despair fought with fear in his face. This was the same guy who kept all his good sneakers in display boxes to make sure they stayed exactly how he liked them. But after a moment, he managed to say, “Stay behind me.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, I could do.

We started toward the side of the house, which took longer than you’d think, since the place was massive. It was hard to tell because of the wind and the crash of the surf against the cliffs, but I thought the voices were growing louder. Occasionally, when the wind dropped, I thought I heard something else—metallic sounds, ticking and scraping and clinking. Maybe, I thought, we’d overlooked one of Millie and Keme’s favorite explanations for all things mysterious and inexplicable: robots.

Bobby risked a look around the side of the house. He made an unhappy noise when I followed suit, and he even went so far as to grab a handful of my hoodie—probably because he was thinking about throwing me off the cliff and starting over with a nice, sensible, sane boyfriend. (Who wasn’t a writer.)

On this side of the house, a deck offered a view of the ocean. Huge windows opened this side of the house to take advantage of the view, along with a pair of French doors that led inside. Two figures dressed in black were at the doors. One of them—the bigger of the two—was fiddling with the lock. That explained the metallic sounds I’d heard. The other—the smaller of the two—stood next to him.

“Rake the pick, Jonny. You have to rake the pick.”

“Iamraking the pick. Stop telling me to rake the pick.”

My heart dropped.

My stomach dropped.

My bowels dropped.

I couldn’t run away. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even whisper. All I could do was think, Dear God, no, as I crouched next to my deputy boyfriend and listened to my parents squabble over how to commit burglary.

Bobby’s groan was so deep that I didn’t even really hear it—I felt it, this deep, despairing sound in his body.

It launched me into action. I gave up on secrecy and sneakery and quiet. I straightened next to Bobby, shook his hand off myhoodie (to be fair, he’d loosened his grip, probably because of the stroke-inducing rage he was experiencing), and stormed around the side of the house.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked.

My dad jerked halfway to his feet. My mom jumped.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I snapped. A classic from childhood came floating back: “Are you out of your minds?”

“Dashiell,” my dad said with a breathy not-laugh.

My mom pressed a hand to her chest. “You startled us.”

“Startled you? Istartledyou? No, Mom. I caught you BREAKING INTO THE MAYOR’S HOUSE!”

(Millie taught me well.)

“Keep your voice down,” my dad said with a glance at the house in question. “Unless you want to get busted.”

“You’ve already been busted,” I said. “This is me busting you. Bobby, arrest them.”

Next to me, Bobby exhaled through his nose. Then, in a surprisingly calm voice, he said, “Hello, Mrs. Lockley. Hello, Mr. Dane.”

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