Then I find it—the postcard tacked to the wall. On the front is a photo of some diner, nothing special. Pulling it down, I flip it over and read: Glad things are going well at your new school. If you have an emergency, this is where you can reach me. There’s a phone number, but no address. The card is signed, Dad.

Asshole.

But now I have a plan.

Once I check to make sure I didn’t leave anything plugged in or turned on, I grab his guitar and iPod for safekeeping, get back on my bike, and race home. This time the trip takes me less than half an hour, though I’m sweaty and panting when I run into the house. After putting Shane’s stuff in my closet, I head straight for my computer, fingers crossed that the reverse lookup will work. A few seconds later, I have an address. I input that into Google maps, which tells me it’s fifty miles away. I switch to street view and zoom in, until I can tell it’s a crappy motel. Well, Shane did tell me his dad usually just crashes at truck stops when he’s not driving. So I guess he has a room here.

I dial the number on my cell and a male voice answers on the fourth ring, sounding groggy. “Hello?”

He’s there. Shocked, I put down the phone. I could call back, beg for his help, but it’s too easy to turn somebody down and hang up. In an instant, I make up my mind, grab the old note I left my aunt, and write a new one. Because I’m not trying to worry her, I’m specific, leaving both the name of the place, the address, and the phone number. Then I wrap up by promising to be back as soon as possible. It’s past noon already, so it might be midnight by the time I get home. She’ll be furious, as I’ve never gone for such a long ride before, but I don’t care.

I can’t breathe until I talk to Henry Cavendish.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It’s cold as hell out here.

That’s actually a plus because I’m not as sweaty as I would ordinarily be when I ride into the motel parking lot, five and a half hours later. The place is L-shaped with the office situated at the center, upstairs and downstairs running on either side. At some point, it was probably blue, but most of the paint has peeled away, leaving gray concrete blocks. The drive is gravel, making it precarious for me to ride farther, so I get down and walk my bike.

It’s almost six, and it’s starting to get dark. Overhead, I can’t even glimpse the stars through the heavy cloud cover. The day has been gray, so the night probably will be as well. I rub my hands together while I consider my next move. I don’t have Cavendish’s room number, but it seems like I read a book where the room number is the last three digits of the phone number. I check that, and there is a 243 upstairs. I’ll risk it.

I lock my bike to the pole supporting the seedy MOTOR LODGE sign, then I head up the external stairs. My knees feel like jelly, but I push on. I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to riding so far, not because I’m nervous about confronting Shane’s dad. I don’t care if this seems like too much to other people; I’ll do anything to help Shane, anything at all.

Steeling myself, I bang on the door. At first I think he’s gone out because there’s no response, then I hear movement, shuffling toward me. He’s a tall, gaunt man with thinning gray hair and glasses, and he looks nothing like the handsome, hopeful young man in the picture with Jude. I’m not sure what I expected, but he doesn’t look like a degenerate asshole. Mostly he looks tired, squinting at me in the twilight. Behind him, there’s a TV playing, the sound muted, and the pictures cast flickering shadows in the dark room.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I have to be sure, before I go into this. “Are you Henry Cavendish?”

His expression becomes wary. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Sage Czinski. I go to school with your son.”

He actually takes a step back, like he’s about to slam the door in my face, and the old rage ignites. I stick my foot over the jamb, keeping him from a full retreat. “You’ve done enough running for one lifetime. He already told me what a worthless asshole you were, but I’m hoping he was wrong. See, Shane’s in trouble, and he needs your help.”

“Shane prefers that I don’t interfere—”

“Bullshit. He ended up in Ingram, defending me. And he needs you to be there for him for once in his life. He’ll have a court date and he needs an attorney. How long do you plan to pretend he’s not your responsibility? He’s your son.”

“You’ve said enough. You need to go.”

“So you’re going to act like this isn’t happening? Let him rot.” I shake my head, so disgusted that I don’t even have the words.

I want to scream; I want to punch him. I’d love to kick him as hard as I can, right in the nuts, and it’s a hot, glorious feeling. I haven’t let myself get angry in so long because I was afraid of what would happen, what I might do. But I’m standing here, furious as hell, and if rage was deadly, Cavendish would be dying at my feet. But it’s not; it’s just an emotion like any other, and I can be mad when the situation calls for it. I can feel this and not lose my shit; I’m damaged but not a monster. I didn’t murder my mother; I was just a terrified kid.

To prove it, I take a step back. “You really are worthless.”

Then I wheel and run down the steps. After dark, this place is spooky as hell, so I hurry through the gravel parking lot to the crappy restaurant that’s attached to the motel. I have enough money for a side salad and some fries, so I eat those while inwardly bolstering myself for the long ride back. I feel like such an idiot. Deep down, I hoped my begging for Shane would mean something, but his dad really has cut him loose.

Thanks for taking care of your mother, son. Good luck with life.

The waitress has been watching me for five minutes, looking like she might call somebody, so I pull it together and head into the bathroom to wash my face. I slip out the back when she’s not looking and get my bike. At least it’s still where I left it. No surprise, it’s not worth much to anyone but me.

It’s scary dark. I put on my reflective tape, hoping I’m not about to become a life lesson. Since I got myself into this mess, there’s nothing for me to do but go home. Shortly after I set out, my cell phone rings. A glance tells me it’s Aunt Gabby, and I don’t want to listen to a lecture while I’m trying to keep from being run over by semis, so I let it go to voice mail. Then I text her, I’m fine. Home late.

Hopefully that will keep her from losing her mind. After this, she’ll probably send me back to the group home, something I’ve tried so hard to avoid by being the best possible kid in the whole world. But now I just don’t care anymore.

My bike wobbles as cars zoom past me. I hope that nobody stops. And they don’t. People don’t care as much as they used to, or maybe they’re scared. I might be a lunatic or a lure, so when they pause to rescue a girl alone at night, six armed men will burst out of the bushes and mug them. Whatever. I wouldn’t get in a car unless they sedated me anyway. My principles feel like all I’ve got left.

Four hours later, I’ve never been in so much pain. My thighs burn, my arms ache, my back, too. Hell, even my ass hurts. It’s close to midnight now. I’ve got twelve messages and twenty texts from Aunt Gabby. I answer periodically so she knows I’m not dead in a ditch. That’s all I can manage at the moment, as the drainage area beside the road is starting to look inviting.

Eventually, I pass a green sign that tells me I’m ten miles from town. That’s an hour if I can pick up the pace. I’ll be home by 1:00 a.m. Jesus. I’m so cold I can’t feel my fingers anymore; it’s like they’re frozen to the handlebars. Seems like it’s almost chilly enough to snow, but lucky me, I get rain instead. The clouds open up as I pedal on, leaving me soaked and shivering.