Tyger, Tyger by Jennifer Skogen

Author:Jennifer Skogen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: EPIC Press
Published: 2015-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

When Sam and Trev broke into the Opal, it was well past three in the morning. Since most theaters didn’t have showings much later than midnight (and this was a tiny, one-screen movie theater in a tiny, one-theater town), Sam wasn’t worried that they were going to interrupt someone’s movie-going experience.

Did it really count as a break-in if you didn’t actually break anything? Sam wondered about that distinction as she pulled her lock-picking tools from a coat pocket and went to work. The metal pick flashed as she moved it deftly into the lock.

The nearest streetlight was at the end of the block, so it was nice and dark near the Opal’s big front door. Sam saw a few ghosts wandering around the street, but they were just drifting aimlessly like plastic bags caught in the wind. She and Trev could deal with them and Claire’s ghost later—after they found the journal.

Sam had been telling Claire the truth on the phone: most ghosts were harmless. It was just those few who might rip your throat out that you had to watch out for. Sam thought about the odds of Claire’s little sister being able to see ghosts, and it was pretty miraculous. Was there something in the water in Grey Hills? Or maybe there really was just something special about the town itself.

It had produced Eli, hadn’t it?

The shadows that concealed Sam were like a fabric pulled too tightly around her shoulders. It felt as though one wrong movement would burst a seam, and the darkness would unravel. If anyone spotted them—just one policeman driving past or one pedestrian out for a late-night stroll—they would lose their chance to find the journal.

On most days Sam and Trev were fairly innocuous looking: Trev possibly more so than Sam. Today, however, with their bloody clothes and wild hair, Sam was pretty sure a cop would think she and her brother were on drugs or had just committed a violent crime.

Or both.

Picking a lock was like riding a bike. That was what one of the YouTube videos she had watched had said. Sam didn’t even understand what that was supposed to mean. Was it that you never forgot how to do it? Was it that you should wear a helmet? That you could fall off and skin your fucking knees?

Sam thought picking a lock was like trying to make scrambled eggs without breaking the shell.

Sliding her pick and a hairpin into the lock, Sam felt for the tumbler pins. This lock was old, maybe as old as the door itself, which could either be good or bad. Sometimes the pins started to stick and that made it tricky to get them all in the right position. Old locks, however, were often simple. She held her breath, listening for the first click of a pin sliding into place.

“Is it working?” whispered Trev.

“Quiet,” hissed Sam. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the inside of the lock. When she was able to concentrate, her pick felt like an extension of her finger.

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