While You Were Gone Read Online Free Page A

city, and
I’m
the one being ridiculous?”
    “Eve.” Dad’s voice is low. Mom and I both ignore him.
    “There are traditions,” she says, “and standards you don’t appreciate—”
    “I have deadlines you don’t appreciate.”
    “We’re all busy.”
    “The Art Guild jury is the same day as the gala. I’ll be up to my eyeballs in preparations.”
    She crosses her arms. “What will people think if you’re not there?”
    “I don’t care what people think.”
    “Enough!” Dad slams his knife down on the table. The candle flame dances. “You’re going to the gala and that’s that.”
    “What about my art?”
    “Your art,” Mom says. “That’s all you ever think about. Do you ever stop to consider what’s best for our family?”
    Dad takes a deep breath. “Girls, there’s enough drama going on out there, we don’t need more of it in here. Eve, I don’t care if you go with Chad or Charlie or some schmo off the street. You’ll be at the gala and you’ll be on your best behavior.”
    Mom rests her hands in her lap and raises an eyebrow.
    He picks up his knife and fork. “
And
we’ll figure out how to make the timing work for the jury exhibit.”
    Mom purses her lips and takes a drink from her glass. “Well, maybe not a schmo off the street.”
    My pulse pounds in my head. I’m about to argue my case again, but Dad’s ringing phone interrupts. He stands and turns his back to the table. “Yeah?” He puts a hand on his hip. “Are you sure?” Runs his hand through his hair. “I want a thorough search. Keep me posted.” When he turns again and looks at me, his face is grave.

I peer through the windshield, my fingers digging into the seat as memories play out like a movie in my head. I’m eleven years old. It’s night and we’re driving home on the 101. I’m in the backseat, my stomach full of spaghetti and soda, and I’m watching streetlights tick past. Each one flashes a sliver of light across the dashboard, the seats, my legs. The car zooms around the big curve at Pima, pressing me into my seat belt. I can just make out the dark edge of the McDowell Mountains. I touch one finger to the window and block out a star. The road straightens and the streetlights blur. There’s a jolt. A bang. A squeal. Then the wall and a heaving crush of metal.
    The last time I was in a car with my parents, we crashed.
    They died.
    Dad catches me looking at him in the rearview mirror. I can’t take my eyes off him.
    A car cuts us off. He pounds the horn. I brace myself against Mom’s headrest and double-check that my seat belt’s clicked.
    “Parker, please.” Mom’s hand grips the dash, but her voice stays calm. “Take it easy.”
    “Guy almost clipped us.”
    “We aren’t in a hurry.”
    He catches a break in the traffic and speeds us over to the far lane, where things are moving. I look out the side window and try to breathe.
    “Slow down,” Mom says. “I think he’s getting carsick.”
    Dad looks at me again and the car slows. A little. “What were you doing at the mall?” he asks.
    “Parker.”
    “We have a right to know.”
    Mom points at the dash. Dad shakes his head. “Fine. We’ll talk later.”
    Traffic backs up, then stops altogether. Up ahead, barricades merge all the lanes down to one. “What’s going on?” I ask.
    “Checkpoint,” Dad says.
    “For what?”
    Mom gives me a look. Dad doesn’t answer. We creep along, letting some cars in, keeping others out, until finally it’s our turn. Soldiers with semiautomatics slung over their shoulders guard the road. One carries a long-handled mirror. Another holds the leash of a mean-looking dog. A third leans into Dad’s window while the other two walk slowly around the car.
    “Identification.”
    Dad hands over his ID. The soldier swipes it through a scanner. “Parker Ogden?”
    “Yes.”
    The guard leans in. “Rebecca Ogden?”
    Mom nods.
    “Need a verbal reply, ma’am.”
    “Yes.” Mom’s voice cracks.
    Then it’s