I watched her walk down the driveway. Then I sprinted to my car. I parked a little ways from the bus stop and watched her board the bus. So far, nothing unusual.
I followed the bus. When it wheezed to a stop in front of the high school, a flood of teenagers poured out. Emily was among them.
But as the crowd streamed toward the double doors, she peeled away.
She lingered near the bus stop sign.
What are you doing?
I got my answer quickly.
An old pickup truck pulled up to the curb. It was rusted around the wheel wells, with a dented tailgate. Emily flung open the passenger door and climbed in.
My pulse pounded in my ears. My first instinct was to call the police. I even reached for my phone… but she had smiled when she saw the truck. She got in willingly.
The truck drove off. I followed.
Maybe I was overreacting, but even if she wasn’t in danger, she was still skipping school — and I needed to understand why.
They headed toward the edge of town, where strip malls thin out into quiet green spaces. Eventually, they pulled into a gravel lot near the lake.
“If I’m about to catch you skipping school to be with a boyfriend you haven’t told me about…” I muttered as I parked behind them.