Runaway Read Online Free Page A

Annie movie. The way it bushes out around her face makes her head look three times too big for her shoulders.
    She walks toward us soundlessly, like a forest nymph, wearing a sleeveless white shirt and jean shorts. I can see the tiny purple veins in her arms.
    “Kat,” Mr. Coolidge says, “this is Dakota Brown. Dakota, this is Katharine Hall.”
    I try to keep from staring at her frizzy orange hair. I can just imagine the kind of teasing she’d get in the schools I’ve gone to. “Hey,” I say in her general direction.
    She smiles, showing a row of tiny white teeth.
    “Kat,” Mr. Coolidge says, “I need to do Wes’s mowing. Will you show Dakota around?”
    She nods. When she starts toward the house, she says something in a soft voice. I’m not sure, but I think she said, “I’ll show you your bed.”
    I follow her to the house. The lawn is bumpy and tufted, with half-gnawed dog bones here and there. Something smells good, like flowers or rain. Or maybe country. What would I know?
    She keeps glancing back at me, as if making sure I’m coming. “You’re even prettier than they said you were.”
    “What?” I’d like to know who said I was pretty. Or who said I wasn’t as pretty as I am. Not that I think I’m ugly. I just don’t think I’m especially pretty—dark complexion, black hair, brown eyes some say are black. I could pass for Native American, and sometimes I tell people that’s what I am.
    Kat holds the screen door open so I can go in. “This is the living room.”
    I scan the room filled with stuffed furniture—a couch with a blanket over the back, an easy chair, a short couch—and a small TV. It would all be pretty ordinary, except for the animals. They’re everywhere. Cat curtains, horse wallpaper, two dog portraits on the wall. Across the living room is a dining area with a big table and mismatched chairs, some with dog cushions, others with cat cushions.
    I break out in a sweat, but I think it’s because of the room temp, and not my raging panic. “Kat, is it always this hot in here?”
    “Just in summer,” she answers.
    I can’t tell if she’s being funny on purpose or not. A quick look around shows long windows wide open. “Don’t you have air-conditioning?”
    She doesn’t answer. “This way.” Kat points to a big kitchen off the hallway. There’s a wooden butcher block in the center and counters on three sides. “You don’t have to ask when you want something to drink or eat.”
    “That’s good,” I say, my eyes searching for the computer. I spot it sitting on a small desk between the kitchen and the dining area. I’m dying to get online and write Neil, but I don’t want Orphan Annie watching over my shoulder.
    “Up here!” Kat’s halfway up a narrow stairway that leads to the second floor. “Bedrooms are up here. Mom and Dad’s is down the hall.”
    Mom and Dad’s?
    If this kid weren’t so fragile and shy, I’d warn her about counting chickens that may never hatch. She’s setting herself up for a fall, calling the Coolidges Mom and Dad before things are official. Adoption is a tricky business.
    I follow her into a medium-size room with two single beds and one dresser. I’ve had worse rooms. Once I shared a room this size with three other girls, who were known as “the crier,” “the screamer,” and “the snorer.” I was “the runner.”
    The only thing wrong with this picture is the pictures. Cat posters on the walls, cat curtains, cat trinkets on the dresser.
    “You really like cats, huh?” Both beds sport identical cat bedspreads.
    “I love cats,” she admits. “Do you know Catman?”
    “Hank’s cousin, right? Nope.”
    “Catman knows everything there is to know about cats,” Kat explains.
    “You don’t say.” I’m barely listening to her as I size up the windows in this room. No locks. Two stories, but one big, climbable tree outside the far window. Easy exit.
    “Yeah,” Kat continues. “Whenever I have a question about cats, I